Unknown - The_Growing_589064

The cousins’ gazes meet; each gives a grim nod, and in concerted effort, struggle to free their injured comrade before they’re all blown to bits. Manny is finally able to slip his shoulder—the injured one, but there can be no help for it—under the wrecked console, and with a loud grunt, pushes upward with all of his strength. The twisted metal squeals its intense displeasure, but, grudgingly, it gives, lifting by the slightest of fractions. “NOW!!”

His grip as secure as he can make it, Tacoma uses the large muscles in his back, shoulders and legs to pull the screaming airman from the mangled compartment. It’s not a textbook extraction, but it gets the job done. Manny’s shoulder gives out just as Tacoma manages to pull the airman’s legs completely free of the wreckage.

Handing Donaldson quickly off to the three men standing behind him, he then reaches down, grabs Manny by his collar, and bodily tosses him away from the mangled APC.

A split-second later, the truck goes up in a blooming ball of smoke and fire. Tacoma finds himself lifted, almost tenderly, from his feet, and driven backward by the force of the explosion. Curiously, there is no pain whatsoever.

Maybe I already walk the Spirit Path, he thinks as he watches the ground race beneath him with almost clinical detachment. His landing, upon his back, is equally painless, as if he’s fallen into a cloud, and he is able to watch, with that same detachment, as flames eagerly lick up his pant legs. He feels…giddy almost…like a boy with a wonderful secret that no one else knows.

The pain comes back suddenly like air entering a vacuum. Waves of agony spike through his body and he reacts instantly, instinctively tossing the men who are manhandling him away like flies.

“Cut it out, damnit!” Manny bellows, holding him down with his one good arm. “You’re on fucking fire, Tacoma! Now lay still or I’ll put you out! I swear I will!”

Some of that gets through, and Tacoma lets his muscles deliberately relax. He can smell burning clothes and singed flesh that he assumes belongs to him. His stomach rolls once, then is steady.

Manny’s face swims back into his vision, sweat-covered, and with eyes the size of full moons. “That’s better. Shit, cuz, I thought you crapped out on us for sure! Don’t be goin’ all Crazy Horse on me again, ok?”

Groaning, Tacoma pushes himself up to a sitting position and surveys the damage, starting with his own body. His fatigues have been burned almost totally away, but the skin beneath, though reddened, seems little the worse for wear. Blisters are already starting to from on the palms of both hands and on his right cheek, just below his eye, which waters constantly and feels as if it’s leaking battery acid.

Blinking rapidly, he looks across the grounds at the smoking remains of the APC. The injured, five in all including Donaldson, lay among the wreckage like broken dolls on a garbage heap. Pale-faced young men and women tend the injured as best they can while casting furtive and pleading looks in the direction of Manny and Tacoma—the leaders of the mission. Manny looks back, contemplating, and Tacoma uses this second of inattention to drag himself to his feet by main strength. Manny turns back in time to see his cousin wobble as if standing at the epicenter of a mild earthquake.

Just about to administer a good old fashioned ass chewing, he ducks as a bullet passes close enough to crease what little there is of his hair.

Tacoma totters, but manages to keep his balance. Ignoring the agony that is his body, he breaks into a shambling run, yelling for his men to take cover even as he helps two corpsmen lift Donaldson and hurry him around to the back of the one remaining APC. He can sense the confusion; smell the fear in those around him—young men and women all. Taking a deep breath, he wills the pain to the back of his mind, making it unimportant, making it gone.

Lifting his head the smallest of fractions, he peers through the window of the APC. As if materialized from thin air, a squad of thirty androids—he can tell this by the sunlight winking from the leader’s collar—stands forty yards distant. All are heavily armed and peering at them through emotionless dolls’ eyes. “Manny!”

“Yeah?”

Tacoma glances over at his cousin, then looks again, more carefully this time. Manny’s head is cocked and his shoulder hangs strangely. “What—?”

“It’s not broken. I don’t think.” He flushes faintly. “I had to use it to lift the shit outta the way so you could pull Donaldson out. I’m fine.”

“Like hell you are.” Tacoma reaches up, but Manny hisses and pulls away.

“It’s just dislocated, alright? We’ve got more important things to worry about right now.”

Tacoma looks as if he’s given in, but just as Manny relaxes, his cousin, quick as lightening, runs his fingers over the collarbone, determines it’s not broken, grabs his arm and levers it in a smooth, strong motion. A loud pop heralds the return of the joint to its socket and Manny sees a whole galaxy’s worth of stars. His world greys out for a second, but comes back quickly as a heavy gun is pushed hard against his chest. “Now you’ve got two hands to shoot,” Tacoma grunts, grabbing his own weapon with hands that sting like a swarm of hornets. “Anyone who can hold a gun, grab one!” he orders. “Keep under cover until I give the word.”

Easing the door open, he grabs the minicomp that lies on the dashboard, silently thanking his sister for pressing it into his hand before he left that morning. She knew. Somehow, she knew. This doesn’t surprise him, however. It is simply her way. It’s why the whole family looks at her sometimes as something more than human. He knows the truth of the matter, and suspects that his father does as well.

Laying his gun down on the seat, he gingerly palms the comp open and studies the layout. Standard. The power button is a bold red. Whispering a prayer to Wakan Thanka, he depresses the button.

“Here we go,” he mutters. “Fire! Now!!”

The first line of droids go down like tenpins, dropping where they stand.

“Bless you, Kirsten! Keep firing!!!”

The second and third rows drop silently.

“Shit, cuz!” Manny shouts, laughing. “Like shooting fish in a barrel!” Whooping, he continues pressing the trigger, mowing down the remaining androids as if they were practice targets on a shooting range.

“Cease fire!” Tacoma shouts when the last droid is down. “Load up the wounded and be quick about it! We need to go, now!”

Tacoma turns to help the others with Donaldson, but is stopped by a soft oath from his cousin. Turning back, he watches as thirty more androids appear, stepping over their fallen comrades as they begin their approach.

“Shit! Everybody keep loading those wounded! Now! Hurry!” Grabbing the minicomp, Tacoma presses the button again.

The androids continue their advance, completely unaffected.

“What the fuck?” Manny demands. “You sure you’re doin’ it right, cuz?”

“Of course I’m doing it right!”

“Maybe you broke it.”

“I didn’t—fuck.” Repeated pressing of the power button has no effect and he throws it back into the truck in frustration.

“Maybe they’re human?”

To test the theory, Tacoma fires off several rounds, hitting the leader in the chest and belly with several rounds.

“Or maybe not,” Manny exhales as the droid remains on his feet and continues forward. “Ok. What now? And where the fuck are they coming from?”

“Pull the locker out of the back seat, thanhanshi. Let’s give them some metal to munch on.”

“You got it, cuz.”

The heavy footlocker comes to the ground with a thud, and Manny quickly snaps it open. It’s filled to the brim with fragmentation grenades. He pulls several out and hands two to his cousin.