EnEmE: Fall Of Man (6 page)

We all looked at each other solemnly and nodded.

“Alvarez and Bradley, there’s a tree line running along the drainage ditch to the west. I need the two of you to use it for cover and make your way to the coliseum and bring any survivors back here,” Hauer ordered. “Freeman, Kiebler and I will follow the tunnel until it exits into the Hospital Parking facility and try to take the building.”

“I…I think I’d prefer to go with Jace,” Kiebler said hesitantly.

“Yeah, why do we need to go into the hospital?” I asked. “Won’t the coliseum hold plenty of people? Can’t we all just go there?”

Hauer thought for a moment and looked at us both sternly.

“The coliseum does hold plenty of people, but there won’t be any access to medical supplies and equipment that we need in the hospital, and there’s no telling how long food and water would hold out there,” said Hauer. “And, Kiebler, I need you with the hospital team. You’re the only member of the group with any medical knowledge and Freeman and I are the most experienced in taking hostile targets.”

Hauer turned his head and looked directly at me.

“Bradley, I need your police experience to help with crowd control, so I need you to go with Alvarez. Bring back any survivors to stage an offence in case my team doesn’t make it.” He barked, “And I don’t take kindly to having my orders questioned in front of my men!”

Kiebler and I exchanged a glance, as the seriousness of Hauer’s words sank in for both of us.

“S...Sorry. I should have known,” I managed to muster.

“Don’t worry; we’ve all had a long day.” Hauer said.

Moments later Hauer’s team moved down the tunnel while Alvarez and I headed back out toward heat, smoke and daylight. I looked back to steal what could perhaps be my last glance of the other team and saw Kiebler doing the same toward me. Then they disappeared into the darkness and Alvarez and I stepped out into the sound of deafening explosions.

Alvarez and I re-entered the blinding light of the outside world and stepped right into a scene rivaling the biblical visions of hell. Waves of oppressive heat caused us to sweat, feeling like another moment of exposure would begin to scorch our skin. Dead host soldiers were strewn about in pieces all over the asphalt parking lot and once busy side road that ran by Albright’s store, now a blackened, flaming crater.

At least a dozen injured and dying were crawling from the wreckage in different states of grotesque deformity. Soldiers, many with odd numbers of limbs thanks to the explosion, moaned and reached for the sky. Aside from the movements of the injured and the flames rising from the carnage, everything else was eerily still.

An armored host soldier crawled toward us on the ground just a few feet away, dragging a trail of bloody veins and sinews where his legs used to be. The soldier reached out at us, clawing the air and uttering a ghastly growl. Alvarez calmly stepped forward, pressed the muzzle of his automatic rifle to the soldier’s head and plugged him through the head with a single bullet, leaving a thick red spray on the pavement.

“Let’s go,” was all that Alvarez said, becoming more serious than I’d seen him in the short while since we had met.

In one fluid motion, Alvarez pulled a grenade from his belt, popped the latch mechanism with his hand, and tossed the grenade into a gathering of injured host soldiers.

We both turned and headed toward the tree line as the grenade erupted, leaving flaming bits of armor pattering across the ground behind us.

The tree line was roughly 10 yards in from the ditch at the side of the road. We hiked quickly, using the trees as cover, for about half a mile before we heard a rumbling engine coming out way. Alvarez ducked under some brush while I crouched behind a large dead tree trunk, its surface soft with moss and wood rot. Moments later a large armored tank, an Abrams M1, barrelled by at full speed, loaded with host soldiers on the lookout for any humans offering resistance. Alvarez and I exchanged a glance. We both knew that the two of us had no chance against its firepower. All we could do was hope that they didn’t think that the drainage ditches would be a desirable hiding place for any surviving humans as they headed toward our friends.

When we felt that the tank had gotten a safe distance away we jumped up and moved double-time through the thick brush that followed the road. After another mile and a half, our convenient cover ran out. The tree line came to an abrupt end at a solid wooden fence, which separated a residential development from the wild brush that had given us cover.

Alvarez took the first, tentative peek out of our hiding spot, his weapon at the ready. He took a step out, cautiously looking back and forth as he stepped into the street.

Nothing happened.

We exchanged glances, looking up into the sky and back at each other. No words were exchanged, but the seriousness on his face said it all. Shit was crazy. Large rust colored objects were hovering in the air, with very large one not very far from our target, the California Memorial Coliseum. Flying saucers.

He waved me ahead to follow him and we sprinted across the road. Ahead, in the distance, we could see our objective. The massive California Memorial Coliseum was hazy in the distance, large enough to be visible, but still a 5-6 mile trek in what was now hostile territory. All was eerily silent, except the sound of our boots on the pavement. We dashed into the well-manicured lawn of some suburban Californian, looking for a safe place for cover. We crouched against the wall of one of the modest brick houses.

Alvarez looked ahead for any sign of insurgents while I kept an eye out behind us. When he saw that the coast was clear, he would wave me ahead. We would criss-cross each other running for cover behind buildings, taking turns looking forward and behind. We did this several times, ducking behind sheds, under porches, and around corners of buildings.

As we crouched beside one house, preparing to make another dash to the next hiding spot, the brick wall above Alvarez’s head exploded, pelting us with grit and dust.

Alvarez ducked and rolled into the yard just in time to avoid the next energy burst that turned the section of wall where he had been standing into powder.  Alvarez rolled while simultaneously levelling his gun and opening return fire in the direction of the shots.

Voices shouted orders that I couldn’t quite make out over the ringing in my ears. A platoon of host soldiers aimed an array of energy and regular projectile weapons at us and opened fire. I was lucky enough to stumble out of a shrub just before it was vaporized. Opening return fire with the Stechkin APS I’d grabbed from Captain Albright’s armory, I was able to bound across the street and rejoin Alvarez in the other side, unscathed.

Bricks exploded and bullets flew from all directions behind us as we desperately ran for cover between buildings. We ran so hard my lungs began to burn, my breathing so fast and shallow I thought I would suffocate; I lagged behind the military man, who was in much better shape. I stopped for a moment to lean on a building.

“No, we can’t stop here!” screamed Alvarez, as he turned and reached for my shoulder.

That’s when a fine red mist erupted from Alvarez’s right side and a look of pain and surprise crossed his face. A bullet had gone clean through his right side, evidenced by the large hole ripped in his uniform and the growing red stain at his side.

“Fuck!” I screamed, as I realized that my weakness may have just cost my companion dearly.

Behind Alvarez, who was now in shock, I saw the squad of host soldiers rounding the corner of the house we were leaning against. I quickly grabbed a grenade from the Alvarez’s belt and, mimicking his actions earlier, tossed it at the group before they could take aim at us.

Holding Alvarez over my shoulder, we half-ran, half hobbled across another quiet street as another brick wall exploded behind us, this time accompanied by pained groans of the host soldiers pursuing us.

We quickly made our way through several backyards and around several fences. Alvarez could no longer jump the fences, so we scurried down the driveway of another house and around a corner into the back yard, looking for cover. The home had a cement stairwell that sank deep into the ground, leading to a cellar door.

I took the calculated risk that the stairwell would give us cover and protection, worth the sacrifice of being able to see what was going on in all directions.

I set Alvarez down at the bottom of the stairs. He winced in pain, his hands reacting subconsciously, trying to protect his wound from some unseen danger.

“It’s gonna be all right, buddy,” I said. “This is nothin’ for a tough guy like you, right?”

“Got that right.” Alvarez responded through clenched teeth.

I crept back up the stairs a few steps toward the surface, just enough to peek out.

Nothing.

I crept back down the stairs and sat next to Alvarez.

“All clear. We just need to sit tight.” I grinned reassuringly to Alvarez.

On a whim I reached out and tested the handle on the cellar door. It was unlocked! I couldn’t believe our luck. I hefted Alvarez over my shoulder again and we slowly, tentatively entered the darkened basement.

Aside from a few paint cans and a pin pong table, there was little to see in the whitewashed room. With my pistol drawn we cautiously made our way up the stairs that led into the kitchen. I set Alvarez down next to an island between an open room and a beautiful and silent dining room. I quickly inspected that floor and the upstairs. The bedrooms were clear, so I quickly went back downstairs after grabbing a first aid kit from the bathroom. I tossed the kit to Alvarez, who quickly began rifling though it for supplies that he could use to practice his field medical training on himself.

Tucked behind the island away from the sight of the large dining room windows, Alvarez winced as he completed stitching the front side of his wound, where the bullet had passed through. I reached out and pulled the handle on the immaculate stainless steel, double wide refrigerator that towered before us. Light from the windows reflected off of it, shining like a beacon to a sailor in a storm.

“Madre de Dios!” Alvarez exclaimed, dropping the bandages that he held in his hand, astonished at what was inside.

A fully stocked fridge. If we could want it, it was there. A wide variety of fresh meats and produce. Some very expensive, high quality cheeses and pates. Wine, grape juice (the good kind, made from real grapes), even a six-pack of Heineken.

We looked at each other and started giggling like school boys.

We each downed at least a pound of cold cuts and a beer.

Happy to have food in our stomachs for the first time since the world went crazy, we were a little giddy.

As I finished the last section of a delicious, seedless orange, I looked over at a slatted door in the corner of the kitchen, then back at Alvarez who then looked at the door and looked at me.

“A pantry!” we both said simultaneously.

We cautiously looked out over the surface of the island, toward the dining room windows, and when we were sure the coast was clear, we excitedly crawled over to the pantry door.

I reached out and pulled it quickly. The metal door rails squeaked and the door slid aside.

“That’s our food, you crazy alien sons a bitches!” a voice screamed.

I saw a large black frying pan flying through the air. It missed my face by less than an inch, thanks to Alvarez’s quick reflexes; he had grabbed the collar of my shirt and pulled me backward just in time to save my face from a collision with the pan.

A very dark, rotund middle-aged black man was attached to the handle of the pan, his arm following the swing more as if the pan swung him than the other way around. Alvarez levelled his gun as the short, pear-shaped man began to rear back with the frying pan again, this time with both hands firmly on the handle. I stretched forward and grabbed the man's arm at the height of its arc, he struggled and stepped forward, placed his leg between mine. We tumbled to the floor and I found myself wrestling the pan from his grip and throwing it away. The man looked up at me with a defeated expression. Wisps of white hair that had started to crop up in his goatee, matching the ones on his temples.,

“We’re not here to hurt you!” I screamed at the man after I disarmed him. “We’re not part of the group that’s been rounding up people.”

“Oh, and I’m just supposed to believe that from a guy that suits up like a commando and beats old men to the ground. In MY OWN HOUSE!” The man replied, raising his voice for emphasis at the end.

“No, no, we…didn’t mean for this to happen...we’re on the run, heading to the Coliseum to find survivors.” I replied. “I’m sorry…my name is Jace…this is Alvarez. We’re here to help.”

“Help, my ass. You wanna help, get up offa me.” The man retorted. “You wanna help, help an old man up.”

I couldn’t help but grin to myself as I helped the man up. His waddle reminded me very much of a black Danny DeVito as he got to his feet.

“How did you know that aliens were behind this?” I asked, then paused. “Sorry, sir, what’s your name?”

“Whatta ya mean, ‘How did I know?’ Ain’t it always aliens? Ain’t you ever seen
Invasion of the Body Snatchers
?” The man raised an eyebrow, looking sternly at us.

Alvarez and I looked at each other and stifled a small chuckle before I turned back to the man in front of us.

“Ha, ha, ha. You think that’s funny, there’s something wrong in your head.” said the man. “You wanna introduction? My name is Earl, yeah, like the TV show, ha ha ha; I suppose you think that’s funny too.”

“I’m sorry, Earl, we didn’t mean to upset you,” I said.

Then something dawned on me.

“You said ‘our.’ ‘Our food.’ Who’s ‘our’?” I asked.

Earl only looked past me at Alvarez, who I realized was still staring into the pantry, pointing his rifle. I turned and peered into the pantry. It was much larger inside than it looked on the outside. It was a huge walk-in pantry that filled the space behind the kitchen wall. Inside huddled a group of at least twelve survivors.