The Resistance, page 2
If nothing else, the tunnels were deep enough to protect them from the saturation bombing happening up above. Royce reached a rusty iron gate leading to the abandoned subway line. The gate was usually locked, but it was ajar at the moment due to other Resistance members having fled this same way in haste. He kicked the gate open the rest of the way with his foot and carried his wife inside.
Gasping for breath, he reached the abandoned subway platform, which the Resistance had long since transformed into an emergency base of operations. By now it had an almost homey feel to it. Tarnished lamps cast a dim glow, highlighting rickety chairs, shaky card tables, threadbare couches, tattered carpets, and cast-off pieces of furniture. Whatever office equipment had found its way down here was older than most of the Resistance members themselves. At the far end of the platform, tucked into an alcove, was a small kitchen equipped with battered pots and pans and utensils, along with a derelict stove that deigned to function from time to time if you kicked it hard enough. Down a side corridor was a tiny bathroom with a bare bulb and—luxury of luxuries—running water.
Royce placed Aubrey down on one of the threadbare couches and knelt beside her. Her eyes were open. She winced in pain as she cradled her arm but managed the shadow of a smile. “Earth or Bust,” she murmured.
Royce smiled back. “Right, Earth or Bust. Looks like bust at the moment, but we’ll get through this, just like we always do.” He noticed other Resistance members glancing their way and speaking in guarded voices. The concern was evident in their eyes. They all knew Royce and Aubrey were leaders of the Resistance, and here they were, injured and helpless, even as the world above them was reduced to rubble.
More and more Resistance members continued to straggle in from various directions—the tunnels, like any good warren, had multiple entrances. Many of them looked shell-shocked and bloody. “Can someone please find a doctor?” Royce called out, and several people ran for help, grateful to have something, anything, to do. Good. Multiple doctors could only be a good thing at this point.
“These stupid tags are going to get us all killed,” Aubrey whispered.
“Not if we stay hidden down here where their satbots can’t track us. We’ll just…lay low for awhile.”
“While Rome burns.”
“What choice do we have?”
“Your face is all bloody.”
“Is it?” Royce put a hand to his face and it came away red. “I don’t feel a thing. Must’ve been those splinters of concrete.”
“Royce, this is getting ugly fast. I didn’t expect it to get this bad this quickly.”
“Me either. But maybe it’s—“ he looked around and lowered his voice even further—“maybe it’s inevitable. You can’t push an oppressor off your land, let alone your planet, without shedding some blood. Yours and theirs.”
“Cheery thought.” Aubrey closed her eyes and sighed. “I hope our friends are okay.”
“I’m sure they’re fine,” Royce replied, but it was just something you said in moments like these. He had seldom been less sure of anything in his life.
Chapter 3
General McMillan was eighty-four years old and feeling every bit of it. It annoyed him no end having to hobble around like an old man, because inside he still felt fit and chipper, like the soldier he had once been. But there was no defeating time, however much one might try.
That said, he could still bellow like nobody’s business. “You there! What are you standing around for? Shoot, for godsakes! Can’t you see we’re under attack? Get those missiles up in the air NOW!”
The soldiers hurried to comply, and within seconds missiles were whizzing into the air, first from one anti-satbot unit and then from another. They had hastily pulled a dozen units out of hiding from their hangars and set them up around the base—or what passed for a base these days. It was actually just a stretch of cracked concrete at the extreme northern edge of Newark Liberty International Airport.
The airport still functioned after a fashion, a shell of its former self, its runways neglected, its terminals decrepit, its staffing haphazard. Long gone were the days of TSA checkpoints and security pat-downs. Now you could just wander around the airport at will, and if you happened to come across a pilot with a beat-up Cessna, you could ask him or her for a lift and get one on the spot, assuming you could afford the hefty price.
McMillan’s Army, as everyone in the Resistance called it, consisted primarily of retired generals and grizzled veterans from days of old. They had set up shop here, as close to Resistance headquarters as possible. Now, as McMillan and his men stared up at the sky, they saw popcorn puffs of smoke as the missiles hit their intended targets. Good!
But the General knew what was coming next. There were far more satbots up there than anti-satbot units down here. “Keep on firing boys! Every satbot we take out is one less satbot that can fire over there!” he bellowed, pointing towards downtown Newark.
Seconds later, the first bolt struck the base, followed by dozens more. Concrete erupted into geysers of rock. A control tower crumbled in the distance. A small plane taxiing down a runway morphed into a fireball. One of the anti-satbot units took a direct hit, instantly killing all three of the veterans manning it.
“Don’t let that stop ya, boys!” McMillan hollered. “We got their attention now! Keep on firing! Awww shit.”
In the distance he saw a squadron of spybots coming their way, looking like a swarm of oversized hornets. Tagged as he was, he knew they would target him first.
He drew his gun and prepared to fire. “We got company, boys!” he shouted, and then they were on him. He fired once, fired again, fired a third time, and smiled as one of the bots went down. Then one of them shot a laser straight at him. Maybe as a younger man he could have ducked or dodged it, but there was no ducking or dodging now. It cut his arm clean off, and his gun hand right along with it.
“Nuts,” he said, looking down at his missing arm. He didn’t feel a thing, which struck him as odd. Clumsily, he tried to remove his belt with one arm, intending to wrap it around the stump of the other, but before he had gotten very far, another spybot fired on him, and this one hit him smack in the chest.
He toppled over, a hole burned straight through him, and this one he felt rather acutely. He imagined this was how a heart attack must feel—like one of those impossibly heavy ovates sitting atop your chest.
He’d never had a heart attack before. Hell, some people said he’d never had a heart. But here he was, bleeding from it, so what did they know?
“Nuts,” he said again. “Keep on firin’, boys,” he mumbled, and then his world went black.
Chapter 4
Kaley was practicing with a group of wolf pack trainees when Aubrey’s message arrived. She didn’t waste any time thinking about what it might mean, she just yelled for everyone to take cover. Seconds later, the “bolts from the blue” began stabbing down at them.
It was like the warehouse attack all over again—destruction and mayhem on a grand scale—except this time around, bombs started dropping too. She had no idea if the bombs were coming from one of the city-ships or from the satbots themselves, but it hardly mattered.
She spotted Twyla and Shasta, her two most trusted lieutenants, crouched behind a concrete barricade. The three of them had chosen this location for their practice sessions specifically because it offered safe hiding places and escape routes in case of attack. Now, as the bolts and bombs began to fall closer, Kaley realized it was time to get out, safe hiding places or not.
“Head for the tunnels!” she shouted. She set the example by getting up from her crouch and making a mad dash for the nearest subway entrance, about a hundred yards away. The rest of her wolf pack followed suit, or started to, before several stopped in their tracks and pointed upwards.
Kaley looked up—and there they were—spybots, circling lazily above them. “Keep moving!” she cried. Frustrated, she reversed course, desperate to get her trainees moving again, but at that very moment beams shot out from the bots—not just tagging needles or ice beams, but actual laser beams—and cut one of the trainees clean in half. Kaley watched in horror as she fell. Three more, rooted in place as if they had been turned to stone, were mown down before Kaley could so much as call out another warning.
Half a dozen trainees startled into action, diving for cover as the bots targeted them next. Kaley saw them struggle back up to their feet—and then they were all running wildly for the tunnels. Lasers cut any stragglers down from behind, but the rest kept running until they had reached the tunnel entrance.
The bombs were falling in earnest by now. The earth shook with each impact as the survivors staggered into the tunnels. Kaley peeked out from the entrance and saw the parking lot heave up like a giant wave of concrete coming straight at them. It was all she could do to duck to the side of the entrance, pulling any trainees in her immediate vicinity along with her, as a barrage of debris came hurtling into the tunnel.
Choking, blinded, she tried to blink away the dust and see what was what. She could barely make out Twyla and Shasta and a half dozen others taking shelter as best they could on the other side of the entrance. Still coughing and sputtering, she motioned them forward. All they could do now was burrow deeper into the tunnels and pray for their fallen comrades who had been left behind. To go back out there right now would be tantamount to suicide.
*****
By the time they reached the abandoned subway platform, it was teeming with Resistance fighters who had taken refuge from the wholesale destruction up above.
“Kaley!” Aubrey called out with relief as they limped into view. “Thank God you made it!”
“Barely,” Kaley muttered. “And not all of us, I’m afraid.”
She helped one of the injured trainees over to an improvised triage area, then headed over to where Royce and Aubrey were crouched over a patient. The two of them were doing what little they could to ease the suffering of a burn victim, applying cool cloths and handing out liberal amounts of pain relievers. Aubrey’s arm was in an improvised cast, and Royce’s face was covered with bloody scratches. From up above, she could hear the bombs falling with distressing regularity.
“Any word on Josh and Elena?” she asked, already dreading the answer.
Aubrey shook her head. “Neither is responding. We’ve tried reaching them multiple times.”
“Not good. Josh is always quick to pick up, unless he can’t.” Kaley looked around the subway platform. A good half of it resembled a triage unit by now. Muffled cries of pain were coming from the burned or otherwise injured. Her eyes found Twyla and Shasta, huddled together on one of the couches, hugging each other tightly. She walked over and put a comforting hand on each of their shoulders.
“I need you to keep an eye on the trainees while I’m gone,” she said gently. “I’ve gotta go find Josh and Elena. Let me know if anyone else turns up.” By anyone else she meant any of the other trainees who were still missing, but she doubted it, given what she had just witnessed. That said, miracles happened all the time in battle, things no one could explain.
Both Twyla and Shasta had haunted looks in their eyes, but they nodded their acknowledgment and got up to help one of the injured trainees.
Kaley started to head towards the tunnel entrance before Aubrey called her back. “Take someone with you,” she urged. “Someone who’s not tagged.”
Kaley shook her head. “It’s better if I go alone. I don’t want to put anyone else in danger. But I can’t let my big brother…” She didn’t finish the sentence, just walked away before Aubrey could say another word.
Chapter 5
When Josh came to, he found himself out in the open air and yet still inside his living room—or half of his living room, anyway. The other half seemed to have gone missing. Shredded floor joists stuck out like giant broken toothpicks from the side of the building that wasn’t there anymore. The outer wall had simply been blown away, so instead of a window, he had a one-hundred-eighty-degree view of the devastation that was once Newark. From what he could tell, half the city was burning and the other half reduced to rubble. That he was alive at all seemed nothing short of a miracle—but even miracles had their limits, because he couldn’t move an inch.
It wasn’t just the trank dart: it was the girder on his leg. A leg that appeared to be rather badly broken.
Hmm. Were those flames rising up the sides of his half-building? That didn’t bode well. Nor did the creaking and groaning coming from down below. It appeared his half-building was in imminent danger of collapse.
The trank drugs must still be on board, because he felt much calmer than he should have, given the situation. A hot, smoky breeze blew in his face, smelling of burnt plastic and barbecued meat. He tried moving his fingers and found they responded sluggishly, as if they were on a time delay from his brain. Still, it was better than nothing—but he was a long way from being able to do anything about that girder on his leg.
He realized he was probably going to die, and he didn’t like that thought one bit, because Elena was still out there somewhere and needed his help. But there wasn’t much he could do about it at the moment, was there? The flames were licking higher, as if someone had installed a wall-to-wall fireplace where his missing wall had once stood. The creaks and groans were getting louder, too, and he wondered which would get him first—the flames or the flooring. He found himself rooting for the flooring.
That was when his phone buzzed. He couldn’t see it, and he certainly couldn’t reach it, but he could hear it. Who could be calling him at such an hour? Probably a cold call from someone selling life insurance. Ah well, too late for that now.
The phone stopped buzzing then started up again. Man, these cold callers! They could be so persistent.
He heard the phone PING repeatedly and realized someone was trying to track him. He should really try calling out or something. Summoning his strength, he tried to shout, “Over here!” but all that came out was a wheeze that sounded like an old man on his death bed. Man, he must really be in bad shape.
“Josh? Elena?”
He heard a woman’s voice calling from down below and far away.
Kaley.
He tried shouting again, but nothing much came out.
The creaks and groans were getting louder now—or was that Kaley coming up the stairs? Either that or the building was about to crumble, he couldn’t tell which. What he could tell was that the flames were giving the floorboards a run for their money. He realized he was sweating and it wasn’t from fear, it was from the heat. It looked like the flames were going to win out.
“Josh?”
Kaley was close now.
His phone was still pinging, and he tried again to add his voice to the mix, knowing it was life or death at this point. “Over here,” he called out weakly.
His little sister really shouldn’t be up here at all. This was a terrible idea on her part. What was she thinking? He was really going to give her what-for once they got out of this.
“Josh! Oh thank God, Josh, there you are! Oh Jesus.”
Her reaction to seeing the girder. Or the broken leg. Either way, not good.
“Where’s Elena?” she asked, looking around wildly.
“Gone,” he said weakly. “Taken.”
Suddenly her hands were on him, caressing his face, then she was standing in front of him, trying to lift the girder off his leg. He felt like he was having a delirium dream, what with the flames rising higher and the girder barely budging and his sister screaming in frustration.
“It’s okay,” he tried to say. “Just let me go.”
Which she did. Just like that.
Despite his inner monologue, that was not at all what he had been expecting. Kaley never gave up. He must really be a lost cause for her to throw in the towel like that. She didn’t even say goodbye!
Which was when she came back, of course, this time with what looked like an improvised crowbar—a broken-off wooden beam of some sort. She wedged some other piece of flotsam or jetsam under the beam and used it to lift the girder off his leg. “Pull your leg out, you idiot!” she screamed at him. “Pull it out!”
Problem was, he couldn’t move his leg at all. But if he put his whole heart and soul into it, he could just barely manage to inch his whole body backwards across the floor, about as slowly as a sloth trying to cross a highway. He’d seen that in a video somewhere and laughed at the thought.
Kaley was grimacing and holding the girder up with her improvised lever, so it was up to him to do the rest, he supposed. Boy, some people! So demanding! Slowly, he managed to extract his broken leg from beneath the girder, then he watched as the girder came crashing back down. That couldn’t be good for the floorboards, could it? His little sister really should learn to be more careful.
“Jesus, Josh, you’re heavy.” Kaley was trying to lift him up. “Can’t you help me at all?
“Tranked,” he managed to wheeze out, but he did his best to walk in a spaghetti-leg sort of way on just one leg—the other leg being completely out of the question. Kaley had her arm around him now and was heaving him forward one slow step at a time towards the apartment’s entrance. Step, step, step—step, step, step—step, step, step—and then they were there.
Speaking of steps, those were going to be fun. Three flights’ worth, at the other end of the hallway.
At least the flames were less intense over here in the intact half of the building, and that was something. That was a whole lot of something, actually. They might just make it out of this alive, assuming the building didn’t cave in first.
They proceeded down the long hallway and towards the stairs. He kept all of his weight off his broken leg and tried to hobble forward as best he could. The tranks must be wearing off because he seemed to be moving a bit better now. Oh, and the pain in his broken leg was really beginning to jangle now, which he took as a good sign, because, well, why not?
