Devon Ford - The Fall

“Unknown at this time,” Troy said, suspecting that the North Koreans would have an interest in any attack on the US, “but attacks have also come from the east coast so we don’t know who our enemy is yet, and we have to be prepared that it’s not just one enemy”—he cut the speculation off there—“that may or may not be something which hits our radar soon, but first we have a mission,” he told them, seeing trepidation overtaken by eagerness on more than the nine faces he expected it from.

The three occupants of the truck were exhausted but tried not to let it affect them. They switched drivers often as none of them had slept for almost two days and even then, the excitement had prevented that sleep from being a full recharge. Now they were fleeing, heading inland as fast as they could.

After the initial attacks and the chaos which had spread across Manhattan, things had started to happen which weren’t in their game plan. Leland Puller, in breach of all protocol, had used the burner cell to call the number which had given him the command to begin, but as he expected it was dead. He destroyed the SIM card and broke the phone in half, allowing some if his frustrations to pour out in the small act of destruction. After it was clear that the bombs and fires weren’t anything to do with any plan they had been read in on, they still stayed put believing that it was an OpSec issue; there were other Movement soldiers in play in the city that they didn’t know about. That notion was abandoned as soon as the news reports showed nuclear attacks on both east and west coasts.

Committed to the cause or not, that shit he just wasn’t down with.

He decided it was time to leave, leave everything, but they were trapped in the maelstrom they had helped create. Two of the Movement soldiers stuck to him like glue, both former marines and inexorably drawn back to the command of something—someone—they felt comfortable following. Leland hefted his AR15, strapped in, and set off into the streets with his two marines trying to match his pace. The sight of three armed men skulking along in the shadows raised sufficient suspicion to earn a challenge from a pair of NYPD cops, and the ensuing gun fight was brief but bloody. The heavier caliber of their weapons, combined with the far superior rate of fire and the sheer element of surprise when they opened up left the two cops dead, and they ran before they attracted more attention that required a ballistic response.

Even though the echoes of peak physical fitness still sounded quietly in their heads, neither had maintained themselves to a standard to match Leland’s and he found himself facing the choice to rest them or leave them behind. Kicking in the side door of a small store he rested them for a few hours before they became liabilities. In the pre-dawn he woke them, setting a slower pace on the short distance to the river to find a way across.

It may not have been the decent thing to do, but forcing their way onto an already overloaded NYPD patrol boat and making most of the passenger get off to stay in the chaos of the city was the only way they could guarantee their escape. The uniformed man they disarmed and held at gunpoint whilst he drove them to the far side of the Hudson River cried the entire time it took to cross, and he clearly expected them to kill him as his look of shock was almost funny when they simply walked away. The man turned his boat and gunned it toward Manhattan, hoping that his family and friends were still waiting for him.

As Leland and his two ageing former marines walked away from the pier they all ducked instinctively as the first bombs fell in the very spot they had, until recently, occupied. They exchanged looks of horrified misunderstanding.

“Definitely not us,” Leland said turning away and stepping out into the street directly in the path of an oncoming truck. He raised his rifle and seeing no response from the driver, put a single round into the windshield three feet to the guys right side. The truck slowed and stopped, the door of the cab opened, and a man got out to fall over at the side of the road. Scrambling to his feet, he ran.

“This is us,” he said, lowering his rifle but keeping it in the low ready position. Climbing inside the big cab and squeezing the three of them along the bench seat, they set their collective sights west and stopped for nothing.

Now, miles clear of the heavily populated areas and thinking themselves lucky that they weren’t caught in the bombing, they were suffering the onset of exhaustion and had to stop.

“What’s the plan then, Gunny?” the passenger on the right asked Leland. He knew little about either of them, but had heard him called Cobb by the other. He looked across at them after killing the engine and rubbed his eyes.

“I’m heading to Pittsburgh,” he told them. “I’ve got people there.”

“And after that?” asked the one who wasn’t Cobb.

“After that, I’m heading for the Kentucky militia,” he told them.

Cobb and Not Cobb looked at each other and then back to Leland.

“Why Kentucky?” Not Cobb asked.

“Boys,” Leland said wistfully, “an Alabama tick ain’t got nothing on them Kentucky boys when they’re holed up in their hollers. ”

Seeing as Cobb and Not Cobb didn’t have a better suggestion, both of them were happy to tag along.

“There,” Cal said, pointing to a sign, “pharmacy.” He glanced behind to see Louise opening and closing her mouth absently. She had drunk all of the drinks they had with them, but still complained of feeling thirsty. Cal had no doubt she could manage herself effectively with medication, but without it and having spent a night and a day on the run she was slipping in and out of cohesion. She wavered between twitchy and anxious, to sluggish and absent. Jake said nothing, but pulled off the main street in response.

Pulling up directly outside the large store, Cal saw that it was the kind of place which sold everything from tools to groceries, and had probably been family-owned for at least a couple of generations before the franchise owning the pharmacy spread out like fungus and swallowed up the small business.

The two men got out of the cab and drew their guns; Cal the Glock and Jake pulling the butt of the Mossberg into his shoulder and tugging it close with the barrel depressed to the ground. The place seemed deserted, although the sounds of cars on the highway nearby were loud with horns blasting as what seemed like the whole of Jersey headed west. There were signs that people had come by, but the place didn’t seem to have been ransacked from the outside. Finding the door open, Jake glanced to Cal to check if he was ready, and shouldered it open slowly to enter at a crouch with his eyes always pointing in the same direction as the barrel of the shotgun. A gentle tinkle of a bell above the door made the cop curse himself for not seeing it in time to prevent their entrance being announced. In spite of Jake’s training, they were instantly blindsided and the sound of another shotgun pumping a shell into the chamber was unmistakable.

“That’s far enough,” said an accented voice from behind a low counter, “drop your weapons, please.”

The manners are an interesting touch , though Cal, especially when being held at gunpoint. Jake took over the negotiations, speaking as he often did like he was reciting the NYPD playbook.

“Okay, sir,” he said, taking his left hand away from the stock of his gun to appear less hostile but keeping his right hand by the trigger grip. “We don’t mean any harm and we don’t want any trouble; we’ve got a young lady in our care who needs medical attention.”