Peter Clines - Ex-Patriots

“Sweet.”

They all turned their attention back to the helicopter as it settled on the pavement. Behind them, Matt pulled out his pistol. He took it in both hands and lined up his shot.

* * *

The Black Hawk cut its engines. The noise level dropped as the long rotors slowed their relentless slashing at the air.

St. George dropped to the ground on the far side of the lot. Two soldiers on board trained their rifles on him and two more looked out the far door. Their weapons were huge things with dictionary-sized boxes mounted on them.

The man in the suit wrestled with his harness. Then he fought with it. One of the soldiers reached over and flicked something. The straps dropped away and the man almost fell out of his seat. He caught himself and made it look as if he was climbing down.

The two soldiers facing St. George tensed and he saw one of the gun barrels shift off to his left. “U.S. Army,” said Stealth. She was a few steps behind him. “Their weapons appear to be M240Bs with a modified ammunition case and larger heat shields.”

“Yeah,” said St. George. He cleared his throat. “I though they looked different.”

“It is classified as an infantry medium machine gun,” she said. “It is unusual for an entire squad to be armed with it because of its weight. Each one weighs over thirty pounds with ammunition.”

“They don’t seem to be having any trouble with them.”

“Hello,” shouted the man in the suit. He stood on the pavement by the Black Hawk. The soldiers had moved forward, still sheltered by the helicopter’s armor but still flanking the man. “I’m John. It’s good to see you.”

“You too,” called back St. George.

“Mind if I come a little closer?”

“Not at all.”

“What if we meet halfway?”

St. George gave a nod. “That’d be fine.”

He could feel Stealth’s glare on him. “You do not need to agree to his every request,” she said.

“Take it easy,” he said, taking a few steps forward.

The gunshot rang out and echoed between the buildings.

One of the soldiers lunged at the man named John and carried him to the ground. The other one dropped to his knee and focused his oversized weapon at St. George. Two more soldiers had appeared, weapons aimed at the heroes. They shouted short, clipped orders back and forth through the helicopter’s open doors.

“What did you guys do out there?” Barry asked over the earpiece. “Is someone shooting?”

St. George looked back at Melrose. Makana and one of the other guards were wrestling a skinny man to the ground. The hero knew what had happened. “Screw up,” he said. “Big screw up.”

“How are they responding?” said Stealth. She swept her cloak back to expose her holsters but didn’t draw yet.

“They’re saying something about…they’re deploying Captain Freedom,” Barry told them. “That’s not military code for a big-ass bomb or something, is it?”

Fucking bitch. I cannot believe this. She’s going to do it again.

It’s supposed to be a man’s Army. That was what I got beaten into me growing up. Be a man, Kurt. Nine more years and you’re the Army’s problem. You better cry now because there’ll be no crying then. They’ll make a man out of you, yes they will.

And what’s up with the rest of the squad cheering her on? Stupid bitch’ll start to think she belongs here. She’s only doing six-forty. All of us can do six-forty at this point. We’re all fucking Olympic supermen.

She’s just like all those dumb cunts in school I had to put up with for years. They all thought they belonged. They thought they were special. Giggling at me in the back of class. Yelling for their friends. Crying to the teachers. Kurt Taylor’s staring at me again. Kurt, don’t do that. Kurt, stop it. They wouldn’t know a real man if one came up and punched them in their stupid Barbie faces.

Finally get out of high school and the U.S. Army’s waiting for me just like the old man said. I get in and what do I find? Tons of bitches who all think they’re as good as me. Better than me. My fucking platoon sergeant is some dyke bitch. Jesus, Mary, and fucking Joseph.

Wally Monroe slaps my arm. “Taylor, dude,” he says to me. He points at Sergeant Kennedy, on her back with her tits in the air, pumping away. Gus is spotting her. “I think the sarge’s going to beat your record.”

“Yeah, great,” I say. I think about adding “Who the fuck cares?” but he’s a smart guy for a grunt. He figures it out.

So I sign up for Project Krypton thinking this’ll take care of everything. No more questions who’s supposed to be top dog A-number-one around here. It’ll separate the men from the boys and leave the girls in the dirt. They can wise up and go back to popping out more little soldiers for the U. S. of A like God wanted.

And what the fuck do I find? A month after surgery three-quarters of the program’s washed out and there’s still three bitches here. And they’re doing better than me. They’ve got the fucking dyke balls to keep trying to make me look bad. Always faster. Always stronger.

My arm’s still sore. Got our last shots this morning. I hate needles. Hate ‘em. There are air guns now that don’t use needles, but they’re still shots. Doc Sorensen says from here on in it’s up to us. No more shots, just a few tests every other day. Our bodies will keep up or not.

The money’s on not for most of us. There’s only thirty-eight soldiers left. Orders came down and Shelly pulled us all together into one company. Sorensen said he expects the dropouts are done. There should be enough of us left to make a solid platoon or two.

One of the bitches is already looking sick. Or maybe she’s just on the rag. Stick a cork in it, sister, this is a man’s Army. If you can’t hack it go back to blowing jocks under the bleachers for a dollar.

They all applaud and Gus and Monroe each throw another plate on either side of the bar. Seven-hundred ninety pounds. If the bitch does ten reps she’ll tie my record. Monroe shoots me a smile. They’re all cheering for her again.

I was the first one to break seven-fifty. Me. I’m the strongest, you fuckers.

While I’m waiting my turn I grab a pair of free weights. I’m curling one-fifty with no problem these days. Never guess it looking at any of us, especially the chicks. Sorensen says it has to do with muscle density and fast-twitch fiber or something. I’ve gained fifty-eight pounds of muscle, but I’ve only gone up one shirt size.

I’m getting antsy just hanging around the base, too. Should be thankful, though. Signed up thinking I’d get to go kill towelheads in Iraq or Affuckistan or somewhere. Then they sent me out here to Arizona and I found out how much I hate the fucking desert. I’m sunburned half the time, sweating all the time. Iraq or Affuckistan or Ari-fucking-zona, they all suck. Maybe I’ll fake sick and see if I can get reassigned.

I do twenty reps while the bitch ties my record. She sits up for a moment, shoots me a wink, and gives Gus a look and a nod. “No way,” he grins.

“Do it,” she says. She’s sweating and grinning like a bitch in heat. “Two more.”

The squad hollers. Sergeant Kennedy’s going to do nine-forty. She’s going to beat me. Fucking bitch cunt whore.

Gus and Monroe are scrounging up two more seventy-five pound plates across the gym when Ryan Polk comes in. He’s working as one of Colonel Shelly’s staff when he’s not here with the rest of us. Let him make corporal. “News from the outside,” he says as he pulls off his jacket. “It’s getting worse.”

Nobody has to ask what. About four weeks ago, in mid-March, we started hearing news stories about an epidemic. First couple cases were in Los Angeles, but then we heard about outbreaks in Vegas and New York and Boston. There was a news story about someone getting sick in London and then Colonel Shelly clamped down on all of it. That told us how bad it was. One of the MPs told me they clamp down on big bad news so no one does anything stupid and runs home or something.