Jeff Jacobson - Sleep Tight

Phil said, “Lee. Let’s go.” Fucking idiot didn’t know to quit when he was ahead. Phil kept hold of Grace, because he knew damn well that this girl was the only thing that could control Tommy, and pulled out his phone with his other hand. Grace whimpered but stood carefully so he wouldn’t tear any more hair out. He dialed Dr. Reischtal.

“We got him. Send in the chopper.”

“He is alive, yes?”

“He’s alive. A little banged up, and probably isn’t in the mood to talk right now, but yeah, he’s alive.”

“And the others?”

Phil glanced back over his shoulder to where a group of four soldiers had the two detectives and the crazy homeless woman in the middle of Clark, hands on their heads. “We got ’em.”

Dr. Reischtal was silent a touch too long and Phil thought that he had hung up. Dr. Reischtal said, “Ah yes. I can see. I can also see that hell is marching up the street, straight at you. You have less than ten minutes before every infected individual left in the city is pouring into that plaza. I want the two detectives and the woman dead. When it is done, I will let the helicopter know you are ready.” He hung up.

Phil called one of the soldiers over. He knew his authority as an alderman with the soldiers carried about as much weight as a flustered nanny, so he started by saying, “Just talked to your boss, Dr. Reischtal. You know who I’m talking about, right?” The soldier nodded. “Good.” Phil pointed at Tommy. “This fuck here, he’s the one responsible for Soldier Field. Dr. Reischtal does not want him harmed. But those fuckers over there, they helped him. Execute them. Dr. Reischtal’s orders.”

The soldier cocked his head and gave Phil a look like he’d just stepped in dog shit and was trying to be polite about it. He walked over to inform the soldiers guarding the three. They pushed the two detectives and the homeless woman around one of the military trucks and disappeared.

Phil still couldn’t wipe his grin away. Everything was falling into place. First off, they now had a guaranteed safe passage out of the city, but they also had someone to blame everything on, and on top of everything else, he might get to watch soldiers blast the living shit out of a couple of detectives who had always been a pain in the ass.

A deep throbbing sound reached him and he looked up. A gigantic Sikorsky CH-53K Super Stallion appeared over the buildings to the east, the rotors slapping the air with a relentless, inhuman beat. The two Apaches slowed and hovered at a higher altitude, giving the larger helicopter all the room it needed as it settled into the plaza.

“Go, go!” Phil yelled into the storm of dust and vibration. The soldiers dragged Tommy across Clark, Lee took Kimmy under his arm, hustling her off the stage past the subway stairs, and Phil pulled Grace along by a fistful of hair. Once they passed the tree planters, they crouched along the sandbag wall and waited for a signal.

As the chopper landed, none of them heard the almost liquid pops under the street. White wisps began to curl out of the holes in the manhole covers and the grates of the storm drains along Washington across Clark. Thick gray smoke wafted out of the subway steps at the northeastern corner of Clark and Washington. More rats fled up the subway steps and cringed in the sudden light, then bolted into the shadows of Clark or Washington.

Sam didn’t get on his knees like they wanted.

So they knocked his feet out from under him. He landed heavily on his side, tried to take a breath and something gave, so deep inside he felt it in his back. He doubled over, hacking red globules across the sidewalk.

Ed spoke slowly and relentlessly, taking his time getting on his knees. “Chicago PD, Detective Jones and Johnson, we’re here under orders, you have our badges, we’re just like you guys, radio it in, check it out, we’re supposed to be here.”

The lead soldier, an older merc with tired eyes, ignored Ed and repeated, “On your fucking knees. Head against the wall. Now.”

Qween helped Sam onto his knees. The three pressed their foreheads against the rough-hewn rock of City Hall.

“Hands behind your head.”

Ed wouldn’t stop talking. “Just check with your superiors, we’re on your side, you don’t have to do this right away, give it a minute, just give it a minute.”

The leader gave a call, a grunted “Hup,” and the three soldiers stared at him for a moment. He glared back. They glanced at their weapons and readied them as quietly as possible. If they didn’t like executing three civilians, too damn bad. The folks that signed the paychecks didn’t give a shit if the soldiers liked their jobs or not. The three soldiers didn’t dwell on it too much. This was the job.

Sam knew they were dead once they had been lined up and had prepared himself. He also knew that he was leaking blood, as if someone had popped open an old oil can, and now it was now taking its sweet time dribbling out of him. He’d been wearing his seat belt, but hitting that fucking Stryker had been like hitting one of the concrete slabs they’d erected around the Chicago Board of Trade after 9/11. He knew that unless he got to a hospital in the next five minutes, nobody was going to be able to plug the hole before he was empty.

A bullet in the head from the soldiers didn’t concern him much. But the thought of bullets in his friends’ heads did. So before the leader could get the second command out, Sam rose and spun, using the inertia of his twisting body for leverage as he unfurled his arm, reaching out with Qween’s straight razor. The blade slashed up through the leader’s face, catching him on the chin and slicing both lips in half, severing the entire right side of the nose, splitting the cheek and carving through the right eye.

At the same instant, Ed fought to get off his knees, twisting and trying desperately to pull his feet under him so he could lunge at the last soldier in the line. The two soldiers in the middle sensed this and turned to cut him down when the street rumbled. Sam thought the sudden vibration was coming from inside his own head, and ignored it. He got control of the leader’s assault rifle, and fired. His aim was off and instead of killing both of the middle soldiers outright, the bullets tore through their legs, shattering bones and knees.

They went down, writhing and howling, where they met Qween. She couldn’t quite rise to her feet yet, and went after them on her hands and knees. She got her hip on one of their shattered knees, and starting kicking out with her other leg, driving her heel into the shredded muscles and blood and jabbing the closest one in the chest with her elbow.

Sam ripped the rifle away from the leader, who couldn’t resist and raised his hands to his face. He had to touch himself, see the damage. Blood ran down the fresh canyon like an ancient river. Sam did him a favor and shot him in the head.

Ed fought to rise, reaching out, clutching at empty space.

The last soldier had just enough time to pivot, raise his rifle, and fire. Three bullets stitched through Sam’s chest. The third spiraled through the left ventricle, killing him instantly.

Then Ed was on the soldier, catching hold of the assault rifle, twisting it against the soldier’s arms, jamming the barrel up into the soft flesh between the V of the jawbone, and pushed on the trigger finger. He emptied the clip. Nearly thirty rounds exploded up through the soldier’s skull, obliterating the brain, transforming it into a fine red mist that hung in the air like steam over a hot dog stand.

Ed brought his foot down on the next soldier’s head, driving his heel through the man’s temple. He ripped that assault rifle away and unloaded it into the man in a blind tsunami of rage.