Linda Andrews - The Meltdown

Yak. Yak. Yak. Did women ever shut up? Well this one wouldn’t sabotage his plan. He set the Bible next to her on the bed then clasped her cold hand. “They tell me that you can’t move your legs or arms.”

“No. The bullet…” Her lower lip trembled. “I’m worried.”

“Don’t worry.” He glanced over his shoulder. The medical team was busy up front. The patients in the bunks around them appeared to be sleeping and the ones above couldn’t see him in the narrow space. This could work to his advantage. “It’ll be over soon.”

Smiling, he leaned over her and set his hand over her nose and mouth. Her teeth rasped his palm.

“No biting.” He dug his fingers into her cheeks, felt the slip of molars under his pads.

Her eyes widened in fear and panic. She tried to twist away but couldn’t move. Perfect. She mewled loudly. He glanced around. No one paid them the slightest attention. Her next one was softer. The third barely a sigh.

“You’re going to Hell. You and every woman deserves it.” Slowly, ever so slowly the life drained from her eyes.

He removed his hand, stared at it. Where was the rush of power? The thrill? He wiggled his fingers. This had been particularly unsatisfying. Why would that be?

The violence?

Perhaps. He’d have to test his theory on Goth Lolita.

Pressed against the brick pillar of the gas station, Papa Rose peered into the streaming rain and raised his Glock, aiming it beyond the traffic jam of abandoned cars. The hair on the back of his neck brushed his collar. God, he hated Urban warfare. “So many fucking places to hide.”

“Amen brother.” Legs bent, Falcon crept to the other island. The Sig-Sauer became a lethal extension of his black hands and low storm clouds camouflaged his whip-cord body until his position was identified only by his yellow bandanna.

Damn. Did they teach that spooky shit in Special Ops?

“What do I do?” Brainiac’s high pitched voice whispered through the earpiece. “You want me to take point?”

“Fuck no!” Taking his eyes off the street, Papa glanced at the cab of the tanker. “You drink saltwater lately?” The windows remained clear of little Toby, but the preteen Jillie should be standing right next to the squid.

Falcon darted for the forward pillar. “Where’s the munchkin?”

Heart hammering against his ribs, he followed Falcon’s lead. Rain bounced off the concrete pad and ran in dark rivulets toward the street. Discarded paper and dead leaves swirled in the gutter. “I put him in the cab.”

To keep him safe from the storm.

And now the preschooler would be unprotected.

“Please!” the woman called out again. “Someone help me.”

Falcon’s eyes narrowed. “Brainiac, you and Jillie fall back to the generator room.”

“Understood.”

Jillie’s indecipherable voice drifted through the com, then hinges squeaked.

“We’re in,” Brainiac whispered. “I can see the cab door from my position.”

“Please, it’s my mom! Someone? Anyone?”

Mom. He swallowed the lump in his throat. He reset the age of the voice, dropping it to early teens. Probably not much older than Jillie. The perfect bait.

Falcon hunkered down and raced for the side of a blue SUV.

Holding his breath, Papa Rose darted toward a red Ford pick-up. Wind drove the downpour into his bald scalp and quickly saturated his shirt. The cold needled his ears.

“You do know it’s probably a trap,” Brainiac rasped, his breathing shallow. “Probably how they lured all these people here.”

Was this the kid’s first time in combat? Surely life aboard a submarine couldn’t be that protected. Of course it was. The squid probably earned a purple heart from a splinter he got while mopping the deck.

“Get a hold of your breathing, B, or you’re going to hyperventilate.” Falcon rolled his eyes before slipping between the hood of the SUV and the trunk of a sedan.

“I should be out there. Fighting.”

What kind of idiot wanted combat? Papa Rose scooted between the bumpers of two trucks. The license plate snagged his jeans. Fabric ripped. Damn, did they have to park them so close?

“Stowe your periscope, B.” He stepped into the path between the rows of vehicles.

Falcon crouched by the driver’s side door, two cars ahead. The ex-Green Beret glanced over his shoulder and mouthed Papa Rose’s last statement.

He shrugged. It sound properly Navy-ish. Besides, what did the Navy really do besides paddle their boats? “We’re here to protect you. Your mission is to delay the blossoming of the mushroom clouds.”

“Stay put.” Falcon darted another two cars up then stopped. “No matter what happens to us, you are to maintain your position until it is all clear to proceed. Understand?”

“Aye, Sir.” Brainiac sighed.

He moved forward, keeping two vehicles between his position and Falcon’s. Rain plastered his shirt to his back and trickled down his spine to saturate his underwear. If this was a trick, he’d shoot the bad guys twice for picking a fight in a damn cloud-burst.

“Hello?” A roll of thunder swallowed the girl’s call.

Rain drummed on metal. Fucking storm. How were they supposed to get a fix on the girl?

Falcon set one knee on the ground and turned his head from side to side. After a brief pause at four o’clock, he pointed in the same direction.

What the hell? Did the military implant radar in his head when he got the special hat? Shielding his gun from the elements, he waited.

“Is anyone there?” A rock bounced off the car between them.

Then he heard it. Squishy footfalls heading this way. Damn but he hated it when Falcon was right. Drawing up tight in the wheel well, he waited. Lines of rain. Light fractals intermittently shattering the gloom. Water snaking down his cheeks. Time counted down to the encounter.

“Please. Please.” The mantra followed the beat of steps. Closer now. So close.

Falcon tucked his gun against the small of his back.

Papa Rose traced the curve of the trigger guard. The kid wouldn’t be the threat. If there was one, it would be farther out, watching, waiting. The kid would probably be disposable. It was a hell of a world.

God, please let him off it soon.

Falcon launched off the pavement and collided with a cherry red form.

“Ahh!” she shrieked

Twisting in midair, he landed on his back with the girl on his stomach.

Her legs flailed. Soggy, black-bottom socks slouched down over her pink heels. He must have knocked the wind from her as she didn’t say a word.

Christ Jesus! Twice in one day, they’d attacked children. Papa Rose closed the distance between them, aiming at the ground.

“Shh.” Falcon cupped his hand over the girl’s mouth. “I’ve got you. It’s alright. You’re safe. You’re safe.”

Brown eyes stared up at him. Black ropes of hair rolled off her shoulders. Tiny brown hands tugged at the arms constricting her. Geez, what was she ten, eleven?

“You’re okay.” He kept his Glock out of her range of sight. “We’re soldiers.”

Her body went limp. Heels rested on the ground. Her elbows dropped to her stomach, and her eyes closed.

The magic words. How long until the assholes figured it out and the word conjured up fear instead?

In the valley between cars, Falcon sat up, taking the girl with him. “I’m gonna take my hand off your mouth, but you can’t scream, okay?”

Her hands released his arm to drop in her lap. Rain coursed down her red slicker and slid off her indigo jeans. She turned her face up to look at Falcon.

Poor thing. No doubt, she’s scared witless. He touched her chin, drawing her attention. “No screaming. Got it?”