Kane Gilmour - Ragnarok

“Yeah, I hear you. I’m-oh shit, here they come again.”

Knight pulled back from the scope and saw several more shapes blitzing from the ball of light down the street. Bishop opened up fire on them again, strafing across the street. Knight began taking targets as they came for Bishop, one after the next. The creatures were falling this time-he’d figured out the effective range ahead of their paths to fire now-but too many of them were getting past Bishop’s arc of fire, leaving Knight to pick them off. One bumped against Bishop, throwing his aim off, his stream of. 50 caliber bullets passing harmlessly into the air. Knight could see more of the creatures advancing on Bishop. He fired again, taking down another creature and toggled his microphone, “Bishop, time to bug out man.”

Bishop dropped to the ground just as one of the creatures was about to hit him. Instead, it leapt over him and its momentum kept it going down the street. Knight let that one pass, even though he knew it would loop back on Bishop from behind. He focused on the next wave coming out of the glowing sphere.

Then an idea came to him. As he tracked another streaking form moving close to a line of abandoned vehicles, Knight chose a car three car-lengths in front of the speeding creature and unleashed the devastation of his sniper rifle on the fuel tank of a black Audi. The tank ruptured, sending fuel onto the ground, and Knight quickly fired a second round at the pavement, the spark of its impact igniting the fuel and the speeding creature. The explosion of the remaining fuel in the car made a deep bass thump and the car flipped over backward.

Bishop was on the move, leaping over the hoods of vehicles, then firing in a sweep, and then leaping again. Knight repeated the move, rupturing fuel tanks two more times before the creatures swept over to the boardwalk beside the river, well away from the cars.

“OK, tangos are intelligent, too, Bishop.”

Suddenly the staccato explosions of Bishop’s weapon stopped. Knight pulled his eye away from the scope and glanced up. He saw Bishop drop the big weapon, run up the hood of a Buick, and leap into the air toward the next abandoned car on the road, throwing a grenade behind him from the apex of his leap. Bishop landed on the roof of the bright red Ford in front of him, crunching in the thin metal, as the creature trailing him reached the Buick and the grenade as it landed. Knight targeted another creature chasing Bishop just as the explosion from the grenade sent up a huge cloud of smoke and debris, obscuring his shot.

“Damn.”

Bishop made for the river’s edge, as he had said he would do. Knight adjusted his stance, leaning further out over the parapet. He targeted the last creature chasing Bishop and fired. Then he pulled back from the scope to see yet another wave of speeding lines making waves in the air like heat haze, down on the street. Then one of the creatures mounted the roof of the cab Bishop had previously used for cover and turned its head up to the sky and howled.

The sound was hideous.

The noise was deafening and terrible, a deep bass rumble like a horn filled with every terror in the world. It vibrated through Knight’s body, rattling his bones. He dropped the sniper rifle and it fell to the next lower section of the tower. Goose bumps broke out across every part of his skin, sweat beaded and dripped as though he were clutched by fever, and a terror-filled scream that would shame him forever had anyone heard it ripped from his lungs.

Shin Dae-jung had never been so scared in his life.

Chicago, IL

3 November, 0100 Hrs

Well, this is embarrassing.

King thought he was going to die. Clutching the pants of a dead man with one hand, and the eject lever between the dead pilot’s knees in the other, King held on for dear life as the rockets on the underside of the ejection seat slammed him out of the crashing plane and across the sky laterally at close to 100 mph. He had just enough time to see that the thrust from the rockets on the seat were going to slam him, the pilot and the seat into the side of a building with darkened glass windows and five vertical stripes of dark tan concrete. Even in the brightly lit night scene, and at a point of view from which he had never seen it, he recognized it as the Park Hyatt building.

Then his next thought as the chair blasted across the sky was to try to crawl lower down the pilot’s legs toward the blasting rockets-so he wouldn’t end up between his impromptu getaway vehicle and the oncoming wall of stone and glass.

His brain didn’t have time to complete the next thought.

I hope I don’t get roasted The rockets died. The chute section in the headrest exploded outward with a pop, slamming into King’s shins and flipping him over the footrest of the seat toward where the rockets were propelling the craft just a second before. His body arced out and away from the seat and he lost his hold on the ejection lever. He clung for all he was worth to the dead pilot’s flight suit and twisted hard, scrambling in mid air to get his other hand back on the pilot before the impact.

When it came, it rattled him, but the impact was far less than he had expected. Two men, one chair. The normal propulsion of the seat might have pitched them through the glass and out the other side of the building, but because of the weight, the propellant had quit and their velocity had died down before the crash. The window around them shattered into tiny safety glass crumbles that rained down to the street. The chair lodged itself just inside the building, but King was dangling from the pilot’s ankles and swinging from the bottom of the chair, on the outside of the building, with the wind tearing into him and lightning strikes from the several-story glowing orb below him crashing into the surrounding structure.

Well. This isn’t too bad. If I can just…

King felt the chair shift and start to slide, and then it was in freefall-above King. He didn’t have time to wonder whether the parachute, which had already deployed but had yet to have time or airflow to inflate, would open in the plummet to the Water Tower park several hundred feet below him. He knew it wasn’t far to the ground and it would be a close thing. He scrambled up the pilot’s legs, now trying to get on top of the pilot before the seat separated from the pilot’s corpse.

Tom Duncan stood on the street craning his head up. He stared up at the spectacle of King’s amazing ejection and wondered if it would somehow be possible for the man to survive. He had approached the edge of the glowing, lightning-spitting ball, to see if he could gain some readings from it for Aleman, when King’s F-16 had come ripping into the sky overhead. Lightning struck the plane and then it faltered. Duncan could see it would crash. A second or so after praying that King would eject, he zoomed in with the camera lens on his helmet’s heads-up display to see King making his way into the pilot’s seat.

Then everything had gone crazy. Lightning began shooting from the glowing orb even more than it had been, striking the buildings all around the Water Tower park. The canopy on the jet burst off, and King, riding on the pilot’s ejection seat with the pilot, was fired sideways through the air and straight at the side of a building. Duncan’s heart was climbing up his throat like a mountaineer moving up a chimney of rock as he watched in fear for his friend.

Then a more immediate concern. The broken, crashing 20-million dollar jet was spinning and falling right for Duncan’s position. With the crackling dome wall of energy that now reached close to 80 feet high directly behind him, Duncan could only move ahead along Michigan Avenue or dodge to the side in either direction, but the plane was spinning erratically as it came down out of the sky at him and he wasn’t sure which way to move. Time slowed as he heard shrieks from the nearby onlookers, where the military and police had set up a cordon down by the Walgreen’s store on Chicago Avenue.