Steven Konkoly - Event Horizon

He leaped down the stairs, leveling the .308 rifle at the closed door at the top of the handicapped ramp. Nothing. He turned his back on the building, hoping the man had been alone, and slogged through the mud until his peripheral vision detected movement—in both directions. A pickup truck raced out of the Brooks Street underpass, followed by an SUV. The vague shape of vehicles emerged from the east, still mostly obscured by the rain. He’d forgotten about the other underpass. A bullet snapped past him, fired from an unknown location. He sprinted forward, not bothering to search for the hidden shooter. His first priority was to close the distance to the bridge. Another projectile cracked overhead, joined by the sound of revving engines, putting a hold on those plans.

Alex turned to face the pickup truck and kneeled in the mud, switching to his HK416. With the .308 propped upright against his chest, he steadied his firing platform and found the right side of the pickup’s windshield through his rifle’s scope. He fired three bullets, confirming that the windshield spider-webbed, before firing on the trailing SUV. A tight pattern of four rounds shattered the second vehicle’s windshield in place.

Hurtling toward the intersection at forty miles per hour, the SUV slammed into the near stationary pickup, launching the SUV’s front seat passengers through the opaque windshield into the bed of the truck. Bodies tumbled into the intersection, catapulted by the collision. Alex grasped the rifle and ran for the first Jersey barrier, bullets smacking into the mud behind him. A throng of Liberty Boys had emerged from the bushes beyond the wrecked vehicles, firing on the run. He needed to reach the reinforced concrete barrier before the shooting frenzy tapered and they transitioned to more deliberate and inherently accurate tactics.

A thunderous metallic crunch forced Ryan to steal a glance at the intersection. A dark blue late-model SUV careened sideways, its hood bent upward from rear-ending an oversized four-door pickup truck. The SUV’s front windshield was missing, along with the driver and front passenger, who he assumed had joined the tangle of bodies next to the pickup. Three tightly spaced holes and a bright red stain in the driver’s side of the pickup’s windshield explained why the pickup stopped in the middle of the intersection. Thirty feet away, his father lowered his suppressed rifle and ran toward the bridge, looking over his shoulder at several men running toward the intersection from the turnpike.

Ryan tugged Chloe’s hand to force her along. Progress across the exposed intersection had been stop and go since the shooting started. She had dropped to the mud several times during their trek across the exposed intersection, the crack and hiss of near misses short-circuiting her legs. He just needed to get her behind the Jersey barrier and out of immediate danger. Ryan slid his right arm under her left arm and shoved her forward, pushing against her back. Bullets ricocheted off the barrier in front of them as they edged toward the temporary reprieve of the one-foot-thick, steel-reinforced concrete barricade.

She sank to the pavement behind the wall, placing her back against the concrete and burying her face in her knees. Her body twitched uncontrollably, and Ryan couldn’t tell if she was hyperventilating or crying. He pressed his forehead against her pink ball cap and held her tightly, wishing he could soothe her. The maelstrom of incoming fire intensified, showering them with concrete fragments. Chloe flinched at every sound. There was nothing he could do for her right now, other than get her to the other side of the bridge.

He yanked the pistol from his waist and started to lift himself, but froze. This wasn’t a day at the range with his father. The supersonic snaps filling the void above him represented lethal projectiles travelling over three thousand feet per second. Rising above the top of the barricade exposed him to a fickle domain ruled by chance and ever-slimming odds. Ryan had learned all about this world after he announced his intentions to follow in his father’s footsteps and pursue a commission as a marine officer. A weekend camping trip materialized, during which his father unveiled the realities of combat and dispelled the myths. One of those realities pressed down hard, locking him in place. He grimaced, fighting against it.

“Combat is all about odds,” Alex had told him . “Ninety-nine point nine percent of ordnance fired on the battlefield never reaches its intended target. Long odds until you consider the sheer volume of projectiles fired in a battle.”

He tried to stand, but his legs refused. He had to break out of this paralysis. His dad would be devastated to find him cowering behind cover. The thought of his dad in the sights of every gun south of the bridge spurred him into action.

Ryan popped up and scanned right, finding a target aiming a rifle at the bridge from the riverbank. Three rapid trigger presses placed ordnance close enough to break the shooter’s concentration, forcing him to seek concealment in the thick underbrush. His dad hit the pavement next to him, slamming his back against the concrete. Ryan dropped down, not seeing any point in pushing the “long odds.” The intersection swarmed with heavily armed militia. Remembering another Captain Fletcherism, he slid past Chloe to take a new position along the barrier.

“Appearing in the same place twice during a gun fight is bad for your health.”

Shards of concrete stung Alex’s hands as he vaulted the barrier and landed next to Ryan, who had just fired Alex’s pistol at the riverbank. Ryan scooted past Chloe and rose to fire three aimed shots directly into the intersection. A sharp scream from the intersection penetrated the earsplitting chaos.

“They’re all over us!” yelled Ryan.

Alex unclipped the HK416 from his sling and handed it past Chloe to Ryan. Chloe quivered against the obstacle, face buried in her knees and hands covering her ears.

“Spare mags in my cargo pockets! Lay down some fire while I launch our flares!”

Alex scrambled to open the dump bag containing the flares while Ryan rapidly fired two-round salvos at the militia. He felt Ryan’s hands clawing at the rifle magazines in his left cargo pocket before he had unscrewed the top and bottom end caps of the first flare. His son burned through the rest of the magazine in seconds. Incoming gunfire struck the top of the barrier and the side of the bridge, spraying them with painful fragments. They needed to move to the next barrier, but he didn’t dare risk running toward the marines without sending up the flares. He prepared the second flare and turned to face the opposite side of the bridge.

Ryan stopped firing and ducked behind the barrier to reload. “They’re getting too close! I can barely stick my head out!”

“Just buy me a few more seconds!” said Alex, aiming the flare at a seventy-degree angle in the direction of the marines.

He withdrew the safety pin and depressed the trigger, launching the aerial rocket. The flare sailed skyward and disappeared in the rain. He heard a faint pop a few seconds later.

Fuck.

Alex had forgotten that the parachute flare travelled nearly a thousand feet before igniting and drifting back to the ground. He wasn’t sure if it would drift down far enough to be seen through the gray curtain of clouds and precipitation before extinguishing. Firing another flare seemed pointless, but he aimed the next one skyward and fired it with the same grim result. Swallowed by the impenetrable squall.

“What happened to the flares!” yelled Ryan, changing magazines.

“Into the clouds! Stand by to leapfrog to the next barrier. I’ll cover you and Chloe with the .308 from here. You lay down fire for me. Focus on the closest shooters. Three-round salvos. Go!”