S. Davis - 900 Miles

Glancing out through the front window, I quickly realized we were coming back up on the giant Mega-Horde of the dead we’d flown over on the way to Gordon’s base. Absently twisting my wedding ring around my finger, I thought about our fate should something happen to the chopper while flying over that deadly mass. Even at a distance, the horde was massive, slowly crawling across the earth with the same relentless force of lava down a volcano—annihilating what was left of the land.

Trying to shake the thought, I glanced over to see Kyle sorting through the navigation, when my eyes were drawn to a radio switch. It appeared to work through a set of speakers as well as the headsets, hung in place above the seats.

“Think we’ll be able to get through to them?” I heard Rodgers ask.

“I certainly friggin’ hope so,” I answered as I swung my shoulders toward the dials.

Pulling the headset over my ears, I hit the switch. Flipping through various MHz channels on what Kyle told me was a Very High Frequency (VHF) Aviation band I looked at Jarvis. “Avalon can pick this up, right? I mean this type of a radio signal?”

Pulling a second headset over his ears, while nodding, he replied, “Yes, boys, Avalon has a doozy of a communications array. I just hope someone’s listening.”

Jarvis was telling me which channel to tune into when we hit an air pocket that made the helicopter drop suddenly. I felt it in my stomach, and threw my hands up on the flashing dashboard to steady myself. Jarvis and Rodgers almost lost their balance but managed to stay upright.

I noticed Kyle had a half-smile spreading across his face that said, overreact much?

Feeling a tad foolish, I pulled my arms back, shook my head, and asked Jarvis. “You want to do the honors?”

Nodding, his eyes narrowed as he steadied the microphone into place, while I hit the talk button on the radio. Swallowing hard, he closed his eyes completely, took a deep breath in, and finally opened his mouth to speak.

Using a code that we’d established when we first started heading outside the walls, he said “King’s Landing, King’s Landing, this is Iron Eagle. Please reply… Over.”

After he had repeated it several times, we sat there in anticipation, hanging on every millisecond of static. I could feel my palms sweating as I thought about Tyler. We had to get through. I needed to know he was all right.

“Come on!” I inadvertently voiced as I reached up and hit the roof of the cabin.

Standing next to Jarvis, Rodgers chimed in with his usual rose-colored commentary. “We’re probably too far away. Either that or somebody is taking a piss break.”

Ignoring him, Jarvis repeated his call to our friends. Lowering my head, I started to believe we might actually be out of range when we heard a distant echo in the earphones.

“Asshole” …chhhhhh… “get back here” …chhhhhh… “son-of-a-bitch Kyle” …chhhhhh.

“Do you hear that?” Kyle asked, looking at us wide-eyed. “That sounds like Mia!”

Meeting his expression with what I’m sure was a reflection of his surprise, I said “Yeah, I do, and she sounds pissed!”

Jarvis raised his voice, as if it would help the transmission. “King’s Landing, King’s Landing, is that you? Do you hear us? Over.”

Now a male voice replied, “Yes… chhhh. We can hear you. Can you hear us? Over.” Recognizing it immediately, we all knew Richards, Jarvis’s second-in-command.

That anxiety-driven feeling of a cinderblock crushing my chest inadvertently began to ease up. We had gotten through. Unclenching my fists, I couldn’t help but feel a seed of hope growing deep down in my core.

I should have known better.

Jarvis’s face went dead serious as he held his hands up to the headset. “Your voice is filled with static, but we can make out most of what you’re saying. For right now, what is most important is that you listen.”

Jarvis went on to quickly explain the circumstances by which we found ourselves flying in an Army helicopter. He spoke of Gordon, and the mad plan he had to take back Avalon.

When he was finished, Richard spoke up. Even through the static-filled response, we could hear the concern in his voice. He asked four simple words: “What do you need?”

“That’s a good chap. First, don’t worry about any of us. We’ll get back there in a few hours. Kyle tells us we’re around fifty miles south of Lexington, Kentucky, putting us roughly two hundred miles away.”

I glanced at Jarvis, then out at the sky, sharing his optimism.

“Second, I need you to get the defenses locked down. Everybody is on full alert, and make sure Project BOHICA is ready to go.”

Kyle and I exchanged a brief, yet distressed glance. We had often discussed the hope that BOHICA would never need to be used.

As the most drastic of Kyle’s countermeasures, it was designed for the most extreme of events—if we ever got trapped in the bunker and had to be ready to fight off some group of assholes who had forcefully entered our little sanctuary. Months earlier, Kyle had gotten hold of some sort of nerve gas contained in twenty-five small yellow gas grenades, which he referred to as “drop you like a fly” gas. We all pulled together and helped him rig a system that would set them all off around the inside halls of the bunker at the same time. The common sleeping quarters—or what we called the bunkroom—and the cafeteria in Avalon were, for all intents and purposes, the only safe places that the gas was supposed to not be able to get into.

The idea was for whatever survivors we had left to bunker down in those areas while we waited for the halls to fill up with the enemy forces. Then we’d… well, we’d make sure that there wasn’t an enemy force to deal with by releasing the gas inside the bunker. According to Kyle, it wouldn’t kill them (at least he thought), but it would give the bastards a hell of a nice headache when they’d finally wake up.

When I asked Kyle what BOHICA meant, he simply smiled and told me it was a military acronym for “Bend Over! Here It Comes Again.” It literally refers to the acceptance of forced sodomy. However, the term is typically used to describe unavoidable, unpleasant situations that have inconvenienced one before, and are about to yet again.

Kinda like some assholes trying to take over Avalon. Only this time, we wouldn’t be the assholes.

Jarvis continued, “Third, I want you to—”

Rodgers interrupted from behind us with a sudden realization. “Hey, this big bastard is still back here, and he’s starting to stir. What do you want to do with him?”

“Shit!” I called out, slightly surprised. We’d escaped in such a hurry that we’d totally forgotten about the Hulk passed out back there.

Jarvis twisted around, pulling the handgun from his waistband, and tossed it toward Rodgers. “Keep this on him for right now. I’ll come back to help you tie him up in a minute.”

Jarvis trusted Rodgers. We all did. There was no reason for us not to. That was our biggest mistake.

Rodgers caught the weapon and stepped over the giant, holding the gun above him. The conversation over the radio faded out of my mind. I’m not sure why I kept watching Rodgers. Maybe it was the slight smile that sprang across his face as he held the firearm confidently in his grasp. Maybe it was the look of madness that for just a moment all but seemed to disappear in his eyes. Either way, almost immediately, something in the back of my head told me that everything was about to go wrong.

It did.

I watched in utter shock as Rodgers reached down, grabbed the giant’s arm and pulled him up. Unable to speak, I managed to reach up, punching Jarvis in the arm, directing his attention to the two men in the rear of the cabin. He spun around just in time to witness Rodgers lifting the gun up in the direction of the cockpit, directly toward Jarvis’s surprised face.