The Year of the Locust, page 63
Instantly I grabbed two spears out of the pack, threw one to him, and slotted the other under my barrel. I lifted my head, saw red tracers fly past, sighted through the scope, and locked on to a hugely muscled Orc. He was missing the fingers of one hand, firing a pump-action twelve-gauge with the other.
I held the crosshairs square on a point just below his left earlobe, took a guess at the angle, altered my crouch, and pressed the button.
The spear exploded out of the bracket. A silver streak, it flew out of the cover of the engine, skimmed the top of several flatbeds, and hit the Orc under his earlobe next to the jawbone. He dropped the shotgun, wheeled—face half shattered, grotesque—but didn’t go down. Panting, he reached for his weapon and staggered on, coming closer, about to fire again when another spear hit him just under the other ear. His head jerked violently and he dropped the pump-action. He was dead before he hit the ground.
“Hit,” Martin Luther yelled, ducking back under cover, reaching for a spear to reload. “Sharper angle,” he said. “You gotta hit at close to sixty-two degrees. The magic sixty-two! It’s the only way through the armor, it’s their vulnerability—the skin is thinner to allow movement of the head and the bone isn’t strong enough to protect them. One thing fucking evolution really screwed up there, thank God…”
He reloaded, let a blast of gunfire pass, raised his head, and lined up a female Orc. “A bullet can do it but we’ve learned—the size and spread of the spearhead is way more effective,” he said, settling on his knees, sighting carefully. “The lower velocity helps—modern ammo is so powerful the bullet can go straight through. A big exit wound looks great, but you need something that smashes the motherboard. Only works at short range, unfortunately—”
He fired as several Orc bullets ricocheted off the locomotive. I ignored them, watching, focused and intent. The spear buried itself in the Orc’s neck, her eyes immediately filled with blood, and I didn’t need the red-speckled foam at her mouth to tell me she was a dead woman standing. In the moment before she crumpled, I tried to slow everything down: concentrating on the exact angle of entry of the spearhead, committing it to memory.
The woman fell in a heap on the trash and I grabbed another spear, loaded it, and looked up. The Orcs were coming in a more organized wave now, clambering over their own dead in a dozen places. It reminded me of the accounts I had read of Russian convicts being hurled into the murderous line of contact during the First Ukraine War and using their dead comrades as stepping stones.
I fired again and watched the spear bury itself in the neck of a young warrior, naked from the waist up, his pale skin glistening with sweat. He staggered, went to his knees, and I thought I must have got the angle right. But no…
He managed to rise and reach for his rifle. He was like a virus—he wasn’t alive but he certainly wasn’t dead either. As he leveled his weapon at me I loaded another spear. With the first one still protruding from his neck, he looked through his sight as I took aim at the other side of his face. His finger reached for the trigger while I adjusted my stance and altered the angle of the spear, trying to judge the magic sixty-two. I pressed the button just as he fired—
I threw myself aside, landing beside the engine’s steel wheels, avoiding his raking fire, and looked up. My second spear was flying straight and true. The Orc saw it and raised his hand to protect the vulnerable entry point. The spear hit, flying straight through his palm, pinning his hand to his jaw and continuing uninterrupted.
His eyes filled with blood and I knew. “Hit,” I yelled. The magic sixty-two—and I reached for another two spears. As I did so, I saw Tokyo, curious at my success, staring at me from the other side of the engine; it was no easy task to get the angle right—especially not for a scientist, even if he had grown up in Florida.
I had no time to think about it; as I tossed one of the spears to MartinLuther, I saw how many Orcs were still attacking and how few spears we had left. We were going to be overwhelmed. “We have to withdraw,” I yelled at MartinLuther, slotting in another spear.
“We’re dead if we do.”
“We’re dead if we don’t.”
“We stand or fall here.” He raised his head from cover and fired again.
“It’s not the Suck,” I said grimly, starting to aim. “It’s Rorke’s fucking Drift.”
“Hit,” he yelled, reaching for another spear. “Who the fuck was Rorke?”
I aimed, pressed the button, and waited a moment. “Hit,” I called. “A hundred and fifty British redcoats faced four thousand Zulu warriors at a mission station on the Buffalo River.”
We both reloaded as the smoke in front of us was pierced by more flying arrows. “What happened?” he asked.
“The battle went all night. By dawn the redcoats had fired twenty thousand bullets and had only nine hundred left. The acts of bravery were legendary.”
Martin and I both shouted “hit” together and reloaded. I saw that we only had four spears left. “Eleven Victoria Crosses were awarded,” I said. “It was the most ever won by a single regiment in one action. At seven a.m. the Zulus gave up and withdrew—”
“So, what the fuck are you bitching about?” MartinLuther said. “Shows it can be done.”
We both lifted our heads from the cover of the engine, more bullets ricocheted near me, and I fired. “Hit,” I yelled, and waited for MartinLuther to do the same. He was silent and I turned.
He was slumped against the engine, thrown backward, bleeding from a wound in his chest: a slug had penetrated his flak jacket, and it was only by virtue of that partial protection that he was still alive. Nevertheless, he still seemed to be badly wounded.
“Maybe you were right,” he said, trying to smile, breathing in gasps. “We should have pulled back.”
I shook my head, wanting to dress the wound but unable to ignore the advancing Orcs.
“You’ve got… no chance alone,” he said. “Go under the engine, get to the other column.”
“No way,” I said. “I’ll drag you.” I loaded another spear, took aim at the closest Orc, adjusted the angle, fired, and watched his eyes fill with blood as he went down. I didn’t bother yelling “hit,” there was no time. I turned back.
“You can’t drag me,” Martin said. “And I can’t get there alone.” He was stricken with pain, trying to remove the flak jacket. “They’re gonna overrun us. Get out.”
I shook my head and reloaded. “Just go!” he repeated, insistent. “Do one thing… take Ella… Make sure you love her, okay?”
The dog looked at me; I swear to God, she shook her head.
I started to raise myself to aim and fire but a blast of incoming forced me back down. The Orcs were getting closer. “This isn’t Rorke’s whatever,” Martin said. “The redcoats aren’t gonna win. Not today.”
I ignored him, waiting for a pause in the wall of fire.
“Please—just take her. Go,” he said.
I was lifting my head again to shoot when Tokyo shouted from the other side of the train: “Pull back. Withdraw!”
“You heard him!” Martin said. “Get the fuck outta here.” He began to unshoulder the backpack holding Ella, ready to give it to me.
I pushed his hands aside and grabbed his arms to try to drag him when there was a deafening explosion, amplified in the confined space, rattling the walls and sending a wave of garbage flying through the air.
I poked my head out of cover and saw the two nearest Orcs, one missing a leg now, cartwheel out of the nearest dumpster, hit the wall with a deadly crunch, and fall to the ground.
“Grenade?” I said to MartinLuther. “Who’s firing grenades?”
He didn’t have time to reply—another explosion, and then another, and into a syncopation of sonic booms that took out the dumpsters—and their occupants.
“It’s coming from behind the Orcs,” I yelled, looking out at the smoke-and-debris-filled cavern, the rapid explosions reducing visibility to a fraction.
Despite the pain, Martin laughed, triumphant. “Grenades? It’s her,” he said. “Gotta be.”
“Who?” I said, turning to him.
“Tokyo’s sister,” he replied. “They’re the only platoon with an automatic grenade launcher.”
The number of explosions diminished and I looked again at the shattered flatbeds. Orcs were lying dead all over them and then, illuminated by burning bags of garbage, emerging through drifting clouds of smoke, a woman in perhaps her late twenties walked toward us.
Dressed in camouflage pants, combat boots, and a ripped T-shirt, with a bandolier of heavy ammunition strung across her chest, she was fair haired and clear eyed, the grime and sweat of combat almost obscuring her high cheekbones and a forehead bisected by a long scar that had creased her skull.
As she walked toward Tokyo, the rest of her platoon appeared, two of them carrying a battered MK47 Striker automatic grenade launcher and its ammo. It was little wonder the Orcs had been decimated; the Striker was deadly, capable of firing close on two hundred and fifty grenades a minute.
I turned away and crouched next to MartinLuther, about to expose the wound and start battlefield triage. I glanced up and saw the woman and Tokyo embrace.
“Thanks,” Tokyo said, holding her tightly. “Another few minutes…” His voice trailed off. I realized how frightened he had been, and how young he was.
I turned back to Martin, grabbed his black T-shirt, ripped it from navel to neck, and exposed a gaping hole in his chest. Several shattered ribs were clearly visible. If it hadn’t been for the flak jacket…
“We came as soon as Cupcake called,” I heard the woman say. “How many of you down?”
“Four,” Tokyo said. “None serious—”
“It’s damn serious here!” I shouted. “Medics now.”
The medic grabbed his backpack and ran toward us. The woman turned her eyes on me. As we looked at one another, I had the strangest feeling, as if we knew each other.
CHAPTER 28
The moment passed almost immediately. Aware that MartinLuther was wounded, Tokyo and the woman scrambled over the coupling between the engine and the first flatbed and crouched at my side.
“QuikClot,” I yelled to the medic. He opened his backpack, pulled out a package, and, to save time, threw it the length of the engine. It wasn’t the greatest throw but the woman managed to stretch and half jump to take the catch.
She ripped it open and—our hands working together—we started to clean and pack the wound. A foot away, Tokyo was bending over MartinLuther’s legs, using a spearhead to cut open the big guy’s jeans. I hadn’t even noticed—he had also taken a bullet in the calf.
Tokyo tore a strip off the black T-shirt to use as a tourniquet and began expertly tightening it with the spear. His sister opened another pack of bandage and brushed my hands away. “I think I’m more experienced at this than you,” she said, her tone allowing for no opposition.
It was delicate work, maneuvering around shattered bone, and I was sure she was right; I wondered if she had trained as a doctor. “It’s not as bad as it looks,” she said to MartinLuther, ignoring his gasps for breath.
Deftly, she continued to stem the bleeding and dress the wound while—unnoticed—I watched her work: she was fearless, obviously accustomed to command, and highly accomplished, a leader to her core.
Impressed, I dismissed her brusque manner, and when the medic arrived and took over, I smiled and handed her a flask of water. She looked directly at me. “I heard we had a visitor,” she said.
I nodded and met her gaze.
“Cupcake said you came from an island in the Indian Ocean,” she continued. “Palm trees, golden sand, mangoes?” She gestured to the garbage-filled flatbeds and the dead bodies. “What do you think—good decision?”
She smiled and—once again—I had that sense of something like déjà vu; I realized what it was—she reminded me of somebody.
She passed the flask to her brother and held out her hand. “My call sign’s Dior.”
“Like the clothes?” I asked.
“Yeah,” she said, indicating her ripped T-shirt and bandolier. “We call it ‘combat chic.’ I’m working on a new AK-47 for the fall collection.”
“Danny Greenberg,” I said, shaking hands.
“Danny’s a scientist,” Tokyo added. “But I think there’s more to him than that.”
“Really?” Dior asked.
“No,” I said, anxious to move on. “Martin said you were siblings.”
“That’s right,” she replied.
I looked from one to the other. “Who’s the oldest?”
“Me,” Dior answered.
“By ten minutes,” Tokyo countered.
“Twins?” I said, surprised. “Not identical, of course.”
“Thank God!” they exclaimed together.
As I smiled, I saw—over their shoulder—the medic rise from MartinLuther’s side and pull off his plastic gloves. Dior and Tokyo turned to look. “The bullet’s still in there,” the medic said. “His ribs and the flak jacket stopped it. Another inch and it would have hit his heart. I’ll organize a team to stretcher him to Bergdorf’s…”
He started barking out orders and MartinLuther—pale from loss of blood, his chest and leg heavily bandaged—raised his hand in quiet salute to me. “Thanks, man,” he said.
I shrugged, but Dior and Tokyo stared at us. “For what?” Dior said.
“I took the round,” MartinLuther explained, indicating his chest. “I told him to leave but he wouldn’t.”
Dior and Tokyo were silent, reappraising me. MartinLuther tried to give me a smile. “You should ask them,” he said, pointing at Tokyo and Dior.
“Ask ’em what?” I replied.
“About Maryland,” he said. “They were born there.”
“We weren’t,” Dior said, correcting him. “We were born here in the city. It was our family that was from Maryland.”
“Whereabouts?” I asked.
They shrugged. “Some suburb,” Dior replied. “Mom fled on Devil’s Night. A terrible journey, of course—she was pregnant and alone except for a teenage friend—but somehow she fought her way through. We weren’t born yet but she saved us.”
“Remarkable,” I said. “Alone? Your father was killed?” I indicated several of the dead Orcs.
“Oh no,” Tokyo said. “Dad had died a short time earlier.”
“Lost at sea,” Dior added.
Suddenly I was barely able to breathe, like I had a hole in my chest. A woman from Maryland… pregnant with twins… a dead father taken by the ocean—the world was shifting on its axis. I tried to find solid ground but my mind was a maelstrom of emotions and possibilities, so I stood motionless, rooted in the future but lost in the past.
Time seemed to pass so slowly that the seconds felt like minutes. Thankfully, Dior and Tokyo had stepped away and were organizing both platoons to move out. I looked at their backs and was no less lost: even if it was true and the twins were the children I had only ever seen on an ultrasound, how could I explain when we were at the end of the world, on the run in a ruined subway in New York City, that I had come from the past? That a stranger, barely ten years older than themselves and fighting beside them, was the father they had never known?
I was trying to find a way forward, to ask a question that would not characterize me as unhinged, when I realized that the twins had finished their work and were staring at me.
“You look pale,” Dior said. “You okay?”
“Just exhausted,” I replied. “And thinking about people dying too young.” Then it hit me—the way forward, I mean. “You said lost at sea—your father was a sailor?”
“Probably,” Tokyo said.
“You don’t know for sure?” I asked.
“No,” Dior replied, laughing. “You see, Mom always glamorized him. According to her, he was a spy. He was on a submarine that sank.”
Tokyo laughed with her and I smiled wanly, doing my best to join in, but as I looked at my son and daughter and thought of what an incredible job Rebecca had done to save their lives and raise them, I was forced to turn away. The emotion was too much.
Unwilling to even try to speak, I bent down to Ella, made sure she was comfortable, and got ready to hoist the pack onto my shoulders. It gave me enough time to find my voice and pose the next question, the one I barely had the courage to ask.
“And what about your mother? Is she dead, too?”
CHAPTER 29
“Mom?” Tokyo grinned. “If you knew her, you wouldn’t ask. ‘Tough’ is the word most people use. She’s a few klicks away, at Bergdorf’s, probably driving her team crazy as usual.”
Alive? I took a breath. I’d gotten my answer, but I didn’t say anything, I couldn’t—I just busied myself with putting the pack holding Ella on my back, managing to buy some time to control the turmoil running through me.
I stared into the tunnel, as if I were checking the way forward, but in reality registered nothing of my surroundings. After a long moment, and a little more composed, I turned back to the twins. “Who or what is Bergdorf’s?” I asked.
“An old department store on Fifth,” Dior explained. “The basements are huge, safe, too—they doubled as a nuclear fallout shelter a long time ago. Eventually they became our hospital and Mom has run it for years.”
With Rebecca’s experience in the ER, of course she had. I remembered her coming home from MedStar—her whole body sagging from exhaustion—and dragging herself up to bed.
And who, I wondered, would be waiting for her there now? “Did your mom remarry?” I asked the twins quietly.
“Skipper!” a voice shouted, his voice echoing across the tunnel walls, and neither Tokyo or Dior heard me. It was the medic, pointing at four teams of stretcher-bearers with the wounded already loaded. “Let’s get ’em to Bergdorf’s. I’m ready.”
I was glad he was. I wasn’t so sure whether I myself—or the children and Rebecca, for that matter—was prepared for what was coming.
