Linda Andrews - The Meltdown

“Because that would be too easy.” He opened the door on the closest truck. Keys dangled from the ignition. He tried the engine. Nothing. Shifting it in neutral, he braced one hand on the door opening and the other on the dash. Muscle burned as he pushed. One inch. Two. Rain slipped into his eyes. Wasn’t the street supposed to be flat?

Hands slapped metal and the truck lurched forward. Falcon shoved on the tailgate.

Guess the man was good for something. He steered it straight, passed the entrance until they reached the first car in the log-jam. Yanking hard, he guided it into place and let it coast to a stop.

Falcon shook the rain from his crew cut. “One down and only twenty or so to go.”

From the gas station, a generator started with a deep throated growl.

“Ha!” Brainiac’s shout drowned out the motor. He bounced out of the room and kicked at the rain. “We’ve got three thousand left.”

Well, shit. The squid would never let them hear the end of it.

“That’s great.” He yanked open the door of the next vehicle. Hopefully the Buick would be easier to move than the truck.

“Now how do we put it back in the tanker?” Falcon took up his position behind the maroon trunk.

Brainiac scratched his head then grinned. “We’re going to pump it.”

Before shifting into neutral, he tried the engine. Dead. The bad guys must have drained them first. Fuckers. He changed gears, climbed out and set a hand on the frame and another on the wheel. “That will take forever.”

It took forever to fill up his truck and that was merely twenty-six gallons. They’d be here all night and into tomorrow to get three thousand out. At his nod, they both pushed the sedan. It slowly eased forward.

“Not if you use the right pump.” Brainiac pointed to the equipment store on the opposite side of the street. “I’ll need a pump that’s—”

“We’re a little busy at the moment.”

“Hey, I can give you a little gas to get them moving.”

Falcon hung his head. “I hate squid.”

“You said it.” Papa guided the car to a stop along the median. Damn, now he felt old and stupid. Wiping the rain from his eyes, he stared at the ex-sailor. “What do you want us to get?”

“A submersible pump.” Brainiac cupped his hands around his mouth. “And make sure it’s in good working condition and no frayed cords. One stray spark and we all go boom.”

Falcon leaned against the Buick. “Rocks, paper, scissors?”

“I’ll go.” He squeezed between the bumpers of two sedans and stepped onto the median. At least, he knew what a submersible pump looked like. Cassia bushes scratched at his jeans as he squeezed through to the other street. He set his hand on the blue Toyota. Soon, you’ll be mine.

“Help!” A woman shouted above the rain. “Someone help me!”

Mavis stared at the clump of dirt on the Humvee’s carpet. Black rock in brown soil. Another round pinged the vehicle, freeing emotion from the yoke of logic. Sunnie! Her lungs sawed for breath. Lacing her fingers, she clasped them so tightly her hands shook. Please God. Please. Please, please, let her be alright.

More gunshots merged with the rumble of distant thunder. Was the gunfight over? Could she get up? Could she check on her niece? She tried to straighten but a weight along her spine kept her folded like a table stowed under the seat. Bits of brain matter swung on the strands of her hair and oozed in bloody rivulets down the door.

“Keep down.” General Lister’s warm breath swirled through her hair, filling her cramped space with the smell of stale coffee. “Dawson I need a report. ASAP.”

A cramp stitched her side, sewing up the muscles coiled to spring her from the Humvee. Indistinct voices murmured near her left ear. Forcing her hands apart, she fumbled along her shoulder until she brushed cool plastic. Numb fingers pinched the sticky plastic communicator before she worked it into her ear.

“They’re falling back.” David’s voice parted the static crackling inside her skull. “Shall we pursue, General?”

No! She couldn’t risk losing him, too. Slapping her hand across her mouth, she trapped the words.

“Search and destroy, Sergeant-Major. Put a bullet in every last mother fucker’s head.” Lister’s bark echoed around the SUV. “This is an approved exfil route and I won’t have the MFs preying on the innocent.”

“Roger that, Operation Eliminate Dumb Asses all ready in progress and nearing it’s end. Thank you sir for permission to continue.” David huffed.

Moans and cries interrupted the static being transmitted. Calls for help came from inside her head and outside the Humvee. So many voices. So much pain. Her mouth dried. Was one of them Sunnie? Had she been killed in the shooting? She yanked out the earpiece and threw it to the floor.

“I want a fucking perimeter set up ten minutes ago!” Lister shouted. Leather creaked as he sat up and the weight lifted from her back. “And someone better start yakking.”

She sprang onto the seat. Where was the walkie? Her fingers crawled like spiders over the seat. She’d had it before the firefight started. Her gaze darted from floor to bench to console to floor. Post-modernism blood spatter decorated the interior. Where could the walkie have gone?

“We have casualties, Sir.”

Casualties. She blinked. This was her fault. She’d plotted this egress route and through the Emergency Alert System told the whole world where to find them. She’d told the bad guys where to ambush them and kill her niece. The knowledge settled in her gut with the weight of a quantum singularity. Get a grip. Get a grip . Her thoughts distorted and twisted. She clutched her head and squeezed. Think. She needed to think.

“How many?” Lister stared at her from under bushy gray eyebrows. His lap contained the cup of a Marine’s skull.

The first victim of the ambush, but not the last, not the only one.

Death was part of the trip. She knew this would happen, had calculated the effects of human predation. She bit her lip to keep from screaming. Why couldn’t she have gone the rest of her life without seeing this again? The scene shifted to distant lands with more sand, turbaned men with covered faces, hot metal, spilled blood and fresh gunpowder. She focused on the scars on her wrists—souvenirs of ropes and shackles. Get a grip. Her presence of mind had saved her from the blinding darkness, the utter aloneness and the indignity of institutionalized hate.

It would save her again.

Save them all. She held her breath until her lungs burned and black crowded her vision. In the hypoxia, her thoughts queued up in order, forming a plan.

Plans were good.

First, she needed to check on Sunnie. Which meant she needed the walkie. She seriously doubted the general would let her out of the vehicle until David sounded the all clear. “Walkie?”

Lister’s lips twitched. Slowly, he leaned closer. His fingers crept along the bench toward her thigh. “Glad to have you back, Doc.”

At least he hadn’t reprimanded her for her panic. Hell, the man might have had his own PTSD episode. Smell tended to do that. “I wish I could say it’s good to be back, but that would be a lie.”

“True.” He skimmed her thigh and her leg jiggled. “Might want to shake your ass for me.”

She glanced down. He pinched the hard plastic antennae of the walkie lodged under her thigh. She rolled her weight to the side. “Why didn’t you just say I was sitting on it?”

“And miss the fun?”

“Let me know when I have permission to leave the vehicle.” Snatching the device from his hand, she stabbed the talk button. “Sunnie? Sunnie can you hear me?”