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The Day Before Tomorrow: Part 3
Posted By: Azrael<sherwood.tondorf@gmail.com>
Date: 30 January 2009, 3:46 am
Read/Post Comments
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The Day Before Tomorrow
A prequel to the "Minutemen" Series
Part Three
Charles River
City of Boston
United North American Protectorate
October 10, 2552
Afternoon
"So I'm railing this chick from behind, right?"
Tim McManus and Rachel Lynch warily looked over their shoulders from the front of a tiny motorboat. Behind the water craft, Harvard University burned. The three survivors had gone through collapsing buildings, the assumed deaths of all their friends, and failed miserably in their mission to save other survivors on the campus.
The path ahead appeared no better.
The rickety craft they were trapped on sputtered and puttered along at an agonizingly slow pace, weaving past partially submerged chunks of high-rise office buildings, floating sections of obliterated trees, and bobbing corpses. Until Ron Parsons had spoken, the group had sat in soppy silence for upwards of fifteen minutes. Tim's brown eyes narrowed in a look that asked just what Ron was on about.
"We're going at it for, like, forty minutes. Intense stuff."
Rachel tilted her perfectly proportioned face in utter disturbed confusion.
Parsons looked at his two companions like they had grown extra heads. "Come on, at the forty minute mark you start to get bored unless you're changing it up."
McManus turned his attention to the approaching river bank and the smoking, demolished city of Boston ahead. "I'm not entirely sure why we're sharing this, Ron."
Parsons threw his hands up. "You know what? Fine. Let's just sit here in silence while I putter across the River Styx and we can just stew in our thoughts about Boston being destroyed and our friends being dead and Earth being invaded by the goddamn Covenant…which, if you do the short math, means we're going to die, by the way."
The antique gas-powered outboard motor took over the conversation as Ron proceeded to pout in the back of the boat. "Don't know why I'm driving this friggin' thing anyway," he muttered to himself.
"All right," Lynch sighed, turning her body toward Parsons but staring up at the sky. "So what happened next?"
The blonde-haired, slightly lanky Bostonian brightened. "So I decide I'm going to just go for it and put it in her ass." Ron ignored the disapproving looks his boorish tale was receiving and kept on. "So she gives me the fish eye, right? She asks, 'The hell do you think you're doing?' I say, 'I was gonna put it in your ass.' She gets all high and mighty and says, 'Well that's a bit presumptuous,' and I go, 'Presumptuous?' Damn, that's a big word for a nine-year-old."
Tim knew that he should not laugh, but it bubbled up from a dark place in his gut and blew out his mouth in a shameful guffaw. He clamped a hand over his mouth and was relieved to see that Rachel had a dirty sense of humor, too. "That's fucked up, Ron." McManus chastised.
"Yeah, but it's a decent pick-up line."
Tim and Rachel finally gave in, bursting out laughing and nearly doubling over. It felt good to laugh, and to Tim it seemed as if he had not laughed in years. Parsons adjusted course to avoid a submerged car in the shallows and faked a wistful sigh.
As Rachel wiped away a mirthful tear and sniffed for a second, McManus turned around and wagged a finger toward the boat's pilot, who was wearing a satisfied, wily smile.
"No more jokes," the Harvard Junior said in a low, angry voice, though the broad grin on his face betrayed him. Ron nodded back.
"Yes, sir," Parsons mocked Tim. "Not even my best stuff anyway."
The bottom of the crew team's pace craft scraped up against the silty bank and ground to a halt. The relatively happy go lucky mood inside the boat fled the scene as the three survivors jumped out. Ron had his M6C Magnum pistol out already, but it probably would have done better in his holster as he slipped and scrambled up the bank to join Lynch and McManus taking cover behind an overturned bench. Tim had his Battle Rifle slung across his chest but was focused on frowning at the late Walt Merriweather's data pad that he had out and working.
It was hard for Tim to come to grips with the events of less than an hour ago. Officer Merriweather, a veteran of the UNSC, had entrusted him with the powerful military-grade COM system as a dying gift. It was even harder to forget that Walt's last selfless command, made while he was pinned in a burning building saving Tim's life, was to escort desperate Harvard survivors to the safety of a Marine escort. Less than an hour ago, Tim and his friends failed Walt Merriweather completely. That wasn't fair, McManus told himself for the hundredth time. I'm just a kid. I can hardly take care of myself. I didn't even know those people. He should have known I couldn't do it…I should have known I couldn't do it. Jesus. Oh God…
A firm hand gripping the top of Tim's head brought him out of himself and he became aware that he wasn't breathing and his face was turning a bright red. Rachel and Ron were looking at him with trepidation, Ron's hand still on Tim's head and twisting it so he faced them.
"What's your malfunction, smart kid?" Parsons asked.
McManus took a breath. "Nothing," he said, more to himself than anyone else. "Nothing's wrong."
Neither of the two looked convinced, but they chose to ignore it. "So what's the story?" Ron questioned.
McManus shook his head. "There's a whole lot of red between us and the evacuation zone, I assume that's Covenant. Everywhere else that's clear to travel looks treacherous at best. So many buildings went down this thing's having a hard time seeing through the smoke."
Lynch was on the other side the Harvard student, looking over his shoulder. "So many buildings," she whispered in a hushed, awed voice.
McManus peered over the fallen bench into the war zone. "It looks kinda better on the edges of Boston. What's your address?" He poked at his taller, blonde companion. Before Ron could answer, Lynch pushed Tim's data pad down and tried to shove them down with her good arm. Both men glared at their female accomplice.
"What are you—" Tim tried to say, before the surprisingly powerful Boston College student clamped a hand over his mouth. McManus now noticed Parsons was pressed against the dirt, eyes wide, mouth agape. As Tim hugged the ground with them, he saw through the wooden slats of the outdoor furniture what had thrown his friends into a panic.
They were short, almost comically squat, and waddled like babies, babies with hooves and methane rebreather tanks. Tim almost squeaked in surprise, but found that Rachel's hand was still clamped hard on his mouth. It smelled like sweat and the last gasps of an expensive perfume, but McManus did not have time to let his mind wander. Five Grunts were clopping past them, and despite their size they were the scariest things Tim had seen in his life.
Each of the kids stared in absolute awe, their first encounter with the genocidal aliens that had burned their planets one by one. McManus could not believe that these things were the one of the races that were winning battles hand over fist. They clutched weapons in their hands that looked like purple and black remote controls linked in their middle, ending in two glowing green tips that stood out like highlighters under black lights. They jabbered back in forth in a language Tim did not understand, and for a few terrifying seconds that felt like hours, they stood around not ten feet from the petrified humans.
McManus looked over and noticed Parsons ever so slowly bringing his pistol to his side, preparing to fire if he had to. Tim cursed himself for having dropped to the ground so clumsily, pinning his Battle Rifle between his chest and the ground. He did not dare move to adjust it. He wondered if that was the last mistake he would ever make in his life for another few seconds until the Grunts trooped off, satisfied that nothing was amiss on the banks of the Charles River. As they turned their backs to the water completely, the group gave a collective, relieved exhale. Parsons rolled over on his back and stared at the autumn sky for a second.
"We don't need to go to my place," he said. "I just need to get out of this city. There's nothing for me back home."
"Don't you have a gun at your place?" McManus whispered, still afraid to talk at normal volumes. Parsons looked at Tim as if he had spoken in Chinese.
"Covenant are here," Ron hissed, "on the ground. I've got a gun now. We need to get the fuck out of here."
"They're gone," Rachel said, keeping an eye on the scouts' progress. "We should move."
They each rose slowly from their prone positions, never wanting to pry their eyes away from the direction their enemy had gone. McManus willed the Grunts to continue on their patrol as the three kids hustled, low and fast, among the spotted trees until they came to the edge of a six-lane highway known as Soldier's Field Road. Tim scrutinized the intact roofs across the wide space of the road and grunted.
"What?" Ron asked, arriving last and watching the group's back.
"If they're on the ground," Tim explained, taking a knee behind the guardrail, pointing at the ground and then gesturing towards the city, "then they could also have guys on the roofs, snipers and stuff."
"So?"
McManus was now scanning the rooftops with the help of his rifle's scope. "So we've gotta cross that road and there's not a lot of cars! We're in the open, like, forever!"
Ron heaved his shoulders up in a sigh, sliding his pistol into the black thigh holster and securing it tightly. As he adjusted the straps on his backpack, Tim now started looking at Parsons more carefully.
"What?" Tim questioned him, "What are you thinking?"
The tall blonde cafeteria worker tightened the laces of his shoes, turned himself around so he was facing the city, bent down until he nearly touched the ground, and launched himself over the guardrail of the highway. He landed nimbly and took off in a dead sprint for the other side of the road, weaving around cars and vaulting hoods when he had to, and finished up his no-cover run by jumping on the trunk of a small, abandoned sports car and used it to clear the adjacent guardrail to safety. Tim and Rachel's stared in surprise as they peeked over cover, then Lynch's eyes narrowed in consternation.
"I think he did that last part to show off."
"He's a fucking idiot." Tim spat. "But I didn't see anything on the roof so I guess it's clear. Let's stay low and get this over with."
Ninety seconds later they caught up with Parsons, who was lounging with his back against the guardrail, nibbling on the remnants of his beef jerky. Ron looked up at Tim's annoyed expression and offered some of the dried meat. Tim slapped the hand away.
"The fuck is wrong with you?" McManus demanded.
"We had to cross the street," Parsons offered. "I crossed the street."
"You get shot and we don't—we can't—help you get out of here, Ron."
"Never asked you to."
"Are you joking right now?"
"Hey, you came to me, smart kid."
"Will you two just shut up?" Lynch halted the brewing argument, kicking dirt at them and bringing the group's attention to her. "Ron, have some patience. Tim, stop trying to put all this on yourself. Can we get the hell out of here now?"
The familiar, comforting blue light of the data pad glowed in McManus' face as he switched it on again. Tim pointed straight ahead down a street towards a major intersection littered with waves of paper debris and overturned cars. "We go to that intersection and head northeast," he said. "We stick to alleys and make sure we can hide quickly."
"Any other way than that?" Parsons asked, still munching thoughtfully on his snack and sitting on the ground. Tim accepted a bottle of water from Rachel and looked back.
"Why?" He asked, irritated.
Parsons stood up slowly, fatigue creeping into his muscles like doubt. "Because," he pointed out, "Right before you guys crossed the street a whole bunch o' folks tossed themselves off the roof of that apartment building onto the intersection and I imagine it's gross." Off his partners' disgusted expressions, Ron shrugged. "You asked," he said simply, following behind as they detoured toward a nearby alleyway.
As the trio entered Boston city limits, Tim became aware of yet another enemy: the city itself. The Covenant had taken the place that he had called home and had turned it against him. Streets or alleys that would have given him safe passage were blocked. Houses and buildings that could be used for shelter were in danger of collapsing around them or risked being consumed by nearby blazes. The crumbling husks of structures meant that the threesome was not only watching their front and back, but also above and below.
As another pile of bricks fell from seven stories up and landed ten feet in front of him, McManus became more and more angry at the thought that his city was more likely to kill him than the aliens that destroyed it.
The echoing growl coming from the main street ahead of him immediately wiped that thought away.
"Hide!" Tim whispered franticly, pushing and shoving his friends into a small alcove that served as a restaurant's loading dock. Rachel and Ron were about to protest before they heard it again, a series of barked growls, short aggressive roars, and the occasional "wort." McManus dared to sneak another peek around the wall and down the alley, but the sight he saw caused him to lose his breath and duck back to his fellow survivors.
"Are they the big ones?" she whispered, petrified. "Are there Elites out there?"
McManus nodded, eyes wide but with a resigned expression. Ron swore and ran to the doors leading into the restaurant but found them locked. There was no advancing, no retreat. On either side, brick structures towered over them with no chance of climbing out. They were truly trapped, and the sounds of the Covenant were getting louder and clearer. Tim suddenly realized Rachel was grabbing his arm, and her hand was shaking.
"We're going to die," Lynch breathed, her eyes misting. "I don't want to die."
The unwilling leader of the survivors snuck one more quick look around the corner. Tim had seen videos of Elites in news broadcasts, but they had always been piles of corpses from very far away and never lasted for more than a few seconds. Never had they put the hostile alien species up in a comparison of humans, and McManus had been hard pressed to find even an illegal pirated video of real battlefield footage. Therefore he, and the rest of his ragtag group of survivors, had never seen backbone of the Covenant military as they really were.
The videos did not do them justice.
They were massive. They were twice as tall as Tim and broad as an ox; their hooves alone were as big as McManus' head and their armor, when it was not streaked with human blood, gleamed along smooth curves and glinted off sharp edges. The Grunts had scared Tim, but these behemoths petrified him with fear, and they were heading straight for his hiding spot.
The Harvard student knew he and his friends had been lucky by the river, but this time they would surely be found and there was no conceivable place to run. As the squad's Grunts came ever closer, they suddenly stopped and started scanning the area, sniffing loudly and hopping from leg to leg. Parsons had found a sliver of glass from the dock and was using it as a crude mirror to see what was going on.
"What the fuck are they doing?" Ron whispered to Tim. "What the fuck are they doing?"
"Shut up," Rachel hissed, and Tim waved a hand for them both to quiet down. He dared to sneak a glimpse down the street again. The Covenant had now split up from their tight formation and spread out across the entire street, inching forward and looking in all directions for a hidden menace only they could sense. For the life of him, Tim could not figure out what it was, but he knew it was keeping the aliens from finding him and he was not about to complain. McManus withdrew back into the alley to consult with Rachel and Ron, but found the two of them staring at the brick wall they were hiding behind.
"What?" Tim hissed. All he got in reply were the two survivors pointing at the wall, and McManus had to take a step back to discover what they had found.
In large, dripping blue letters, someone had spray painted a message. "Hazard: 40 feet ahead."
Tim squinted at the freshly painted letters. "What the hell is this?" He whispered to himself before the answer became quite obvious. The boom of twin fragmentation grenades shook the street, accompanied in bloody harmony by the roars of Covenant troops in agony. The party ran to the edge of the wall and witnessed a scene of carnage; the entire line of Grunts had been obliterated, shredded by the grenade booby trap, and the Elites were just starting to pick themselves up when the second wave hit them.
From behind Ron, Tim, and Rachel, a whole squad of men sporting urban camouflage and UNSC armor melted out of the scenery, organized in pairs, unleashing withering fire into the invaders down the street. They wielded MA5C Assault Rifles, Battle Rifles, and two did their best with M7 submachine guns. The Elites attempted a tactical retreat, only to run into another soldier who whipped around the corner with a nasty-looking shotgun, pumping round after round into the chests of the towering warriors. Purple blood splattered up and down the street as the ghost soldiers advanced quickly, shouting brief instructions to each other and passing by the awestruck kids as if they were not even there. They sounded tired, but each man's speech was clipped and efficient and they obviously knew what they were doing.
"I count one!"
"Charlie down."
"Clear left."
"Clear right."
"Clear up."
"Oorah! Get some!"
"Reynolds, police those bodies and take everything they're carrying."
"Nice clean-up there, McHale."
"Now that's what I call a close encounter."
"Lame."
"Need a mag."
"Anyone got more frags and line? I'm out."
"Three more blocks to take Copley."
"No way we take Copley. Not like this."
"Ibanez was plus four with one block to go."
"Love this job."
"Oorah."
"I'm serious, who's got frags and line?"
"Jesus McHale, I got your fucking frags and line. Just stop bitching for two—"
"Cap, Master Guns. I spy friendlies in the alley."
The three kids had been so mesmerized by what they had just seen they had not realized the soldiers were talking about them. They only snapped out of their daze when seven men materialized right in front of them, all dressed in light armor and only discernable by their bright, intense eyes. Every one of them was sporting a balaclava, and their breath was misting in the cool approach of evening. Though none of them were talking now, they all grouped around and deferred to a tall, well-built soldier wearing Captain's bars and minding a custom urban camouflaged Battle Rifle slung across his chest and an impressive suppressed M6C strapped to his thigh. He took a step forward, his flashing eyes scanned all of them thoroughly in the span of two seconds.
"Are any of you hurt?" His voice, though muffled from the mask, was all business. The survivors shook their heads silently. The imposing man in charge pointed at Tim's Battle Rifle.
"Where'd you get that?" He was not demanding the answer, but McManus certainly felt compelled to answer quickly and truthfully.
"Assembled the components. It's mine. We got the pistol from a Marine vet when we were rescuing people from a collapsing building. He died."
"Did you fight any Covenant?"
The trio nervously exchanged looks. "No way," Rachel piped up. "We've been slipping around them all day."
Her reply seemed to get a positive reaction from the soldiers. Their posture became a little less rigid, they seemed to relax just a hair more. The leader nodded very slightly. "Good job. They own this city now, any engagements just attract more of them, sustained firefights are a good way to end up dead." He pulled down his balaclava and revealed his face; gray stubble across his face defined a strong jaw, straight nose, and an expression that seemed to always be assessing the situation. "Where are you kids headed?"
Tim took out Merriweather's data pad. "The vet gave us this. Told us the UNSC's ferrying people out from Back Bay and Rowes Wharf to safety."
The mention of the United Nations Space Command seemed like a particularly dirty word to the group in front of McManus. Immediately their eyes narrowed and a chill came over the street. One of the men whispered no-so-discreetly, "Fuck that." In the distance, a group of unseen Wraiths were opening fire.
"The UNSC is no longer in Boston," the head soldier informed the group. The kids looked at him with intense confusion, but he waved his hand as if to dismiss the topic from conversation altogether. "Trying to leave Boston is suicide right now."
"Wait wait wait," Tim said, putting his hands up and shaking his head, "but we saw Pelicans—"
"The Pelicans aren't going to take you. Everyone who reaches that zone is going to be detoured to God knows where until the Covies find them." A dark-skinned soldier to the right of the leader interjected forcefully. "The Pelicans are picking up high-value objects left behind and extracting essential personnel."
"Then who are you?" Ron asked with concern.
"Non-essential personnel." The leader deadpanned. The soldiers all had a brief, grim chuckle at the unintentional dark humor. "I'm Captain Jack O'Shea," the leader finally introduced himself, letting a very quick, small smile show as a welcome. He put a hand on the shoulder of the tall dark-skinned soldier next to him. "This is my XO, Master Gunnery Sergeant Gus Reynolds." Reynolds nodded to the kids.
"I'm Tim," McManus said, trying to put up a front of comfort, "this is Ron and Rachel."
An urgent beep broke up the welcoming party as Reynolds put a hand to his ear. "Ibanez has casualties," he informed O'Shea with a frown. The Captain grunted and put his mask back on, muffling his voice slightly and putting a hand to his ear.
"Ibanez. O'Shea. Go ahead." Tim tried to discern meaning from the Captain's eyes, and from what he saw, he was not pleased with the news. In the middle of the unheard conversation, O'Shea's piercing eyes flitted over to McManus, now aware he was being studied. McManus felt his face go flush with embarrassment, as if he had just been caught checking out a girl bending over to get her books. Getting over the initial shock, Tim realized that it was not a look of accusation leveled at Tim, but instead one of evaluation. If he had felt self-conscious before, it was surely doubled now.
"All right," The Captain said tersely. He turned to Reynolds and Gus tilted his head toward his commanding officer, never taking his eyes off the students. "Ibanez is minus two."
"He was just plus four."
"Copley Square's worse than we thought."
"We'll have to scrap it." Gus exhaled angrily.
"Agreed. We'll go to bravo, see if we can salvage this. Ibanez, strip two and a half of gear and regroup at Newbury. I need two males and one light female. Good. O'Shea out."
Ron, Tim, and Rachel all exchanged glances. Had they just been drafted? The imposing Captain took a step toward the trio and Tim fought the desire to take a step back. To Tim's surprise, Ron Parsons stepped forward and crossed his arms over his chest.
"What's the deal?" Parons asked, chin tilted up and trying for all the world to look like he belonged in the company of these men.
O'Shea's brow furrowed under the balaclava. "I know you've been through a lot, but my men and I need all the help we can get. I don't know if you can handle yourselves in combat, but unfortunately that doesn't matter at this point. My men are dying out there and we need armed forces badly."
Though Tim had already deduced where this conversation was going when Jack started talking, he was still becoming more and more uneasy as O'Shea got to the point. Everyone had entertained fantasies of being a war hero, a leader of men, the bane of the Covenant and born warrior, but the truth was most war heroes were recognized after their "brave sacrifice," and McManus wasn't ready to sacrifice anything right now. Tim was pretty good at shooting, sneaking around, and other facets that were considered excellent urban warfare skills, but he doubted he could do it under fire, and he certainly did not consider himself a peer to these stone and shadow colored ghosts with guns. He looked down at his rifle in shame, afraid to meet O'Shea's eyes.
"Look" Jack said, "we need your help and we're not going to send you somewhere that would be overly dangerous. I can tell you, right now, that leaving this city with your life is next to impossible, and staying put in one place is just as bad. We've prepared for this. If you want to survive, you fight with us."
McManus did not feel inspired by the man's words, though he knew O'Shea believed them with all his heart. Before he could answer, a Hispanic soldier and three other fighters ran into the alley and came to a halt in front of Jack. Tim noticed the red cross on the man's arm as he spoke to the Captain.
"Charlie owns Copley," Ibanez huffed, clearly out of breath, "and they don't feel like sharing."
O'Shea grunted. "Get any intel on their intentions?"
"Yeah, and you're not gonna like it." Ibanez said, taking out a data pad from a pocket in his body armor. The pad winked to life in the medic's hand and displayed a map of the immediate area. Several mean-looking red shapes blinked and pulsed in various rhythms all around Copley, and O'Shea swore loudly. Gus looked over the Captain's shoulder and repeated the obscenity.
"They're digging in." Ibanez stated.
"No shit," Jack replied, adding a low whistle. "This doesn't make sense. Covenant wouldn't commit ground forces of that scale on a location like this. Strategically, I don't get it."
"Does that matter?" Tim piped up, drawing inquisitive looks from the soldiers in front of him. "Whether they're sticking around or stopping by, they'll kill us all the same."
McManus gulped at the resulting silence as the men in front of him glared in looks that told him to shut the hell up. Ibanez tapped O'Shea on the shoulder with the back of his hand and nodded toward the kids.
"Civvies?"
Jack nodded, keeping his eyes on Tim.
"Fuckin' kid's got moxie, I'll give 'im that."
"We'll see," O'Shea said, his mind already moving on to the next step. "Everyone on me!"
Ibanez and the rest of the soldiers gathered around O'Shea and Reynolds. The trio stood, uncommitted, outside the circle of men and gradually stepped forward to join the conversation. Each of the urban-camouflaged warriors had a data pad out that was synced to Jack's; every slim black device flashed with the same images that the Captain's did, and after some tinkering with Merriweather's own data pad, McManus managed to get his synced up as well. Ron gave an appreciative whistle.
"Guess you majored in hacking."
McManus lightly bit his lip in concentration. "I never really settled on a major," he said distractedly.
"Slacker," Ron jabbed. Rachel shushed them angrily.
"Okay," O'Shea announced, tapping in commands and zooming in on a map of Boston, "Bad news first: Covies set up shop in Copley and they're not giving it up any time soon. That means they're buying long-term real estate and we don't have the force to make Boston a bad neighborhood. We scrap big assault plans starting now. Let's move to good news."
Jack tapped his screen again and swept a finger along the smooth surface, flying across the digital city and landing on the east side of the city, where wharves spit out into Boston harbor like knobby fingers. "UNSC is telling stragglers to go to Rowes Wharf area for evac. We know that's bullshit, but survivors don't. We split into two squads. Reynolds takes Ibanez and Alpha, I've got McHale and Bravo. We'll go back where we stashed the two troop 'hogs and we motor to Rowes. Alpha will secure the site and Bravo will take first run of the wounded. Take no lip, load the worst into your hog and start running trips into the waypoint on your pads.
"And word on what to expect at Rowes?"
"High counts of unarmed civilians, probably all those who were too slow or wounded in the first surge to get out." Jack looked up briefly and made sure he made his point. "We double time it to the wharves and get those civilians to safety. It's about saving those people now. Questions?"
"Rules of engagement?" A disembodied voice asked from across the huddle.
"Engage all hostiles on sight, but don't stick around."
"How likely is it the Covenant will hit the evac site?" McHale asked.
"Very likely; so move as quickly as possible and stay out of sight every chance ou can."
"Where do we take them?"
O'Shea flicked his fingers across the data pad once more, pulling up rail schematics for the entire city, terminating at a central point and highlighted in an orange diamond. "UNSC evacuation protocols freeze all rapid transit movement after a certain amount of time. Right now there's makeshift blockades of maglev trains all around South Station terminal. We take the civilians underground, blow the tunnels and seal ourselves in."
Tim felt ridiculous craning his head above the huddle, but he also felt it was necessary. "Uhhh?" He uttered, again feeling the heat of everyone around him, "Seal ourselves in?"
"We'll be able to get out," O'Shea sighed.
"Oh."
"Any other questions?" The Captain asked, expecting none. "Good. Form up and prepare to move. Reynolds, Ibanez, with me."
The soldiers broke the huddle and settled into two groups of eight on each side of the alley. Ibanez tossed a large sack to O'Shea and the Captain began digging around inside. Tim and the kids looked all over the alley, each of them briefly entertaining the notion of just plain running away from these men with guns who wanted to run smack into the heart of the invasion. Jack withdrew two sets of grey body armor from the sack and tossed them to Ron and Tim, who, to their credit, only stumbled a half step when catching the plated protection. Both of them looked at the Captain questioningly.
"People are going to die if we don't help them now," Jack said in his best no-nonsense tone. "They, and I, need your help."
Tim and Ron took a very brief moment, then nodded at the same time, sliding their backpacks off and picking up the armor. O'Shea cleared his throat to get their attention and traded their jackets for more practical urban-camouflaged autumn gear. He handed them throat mics and COM transmitters and gave them a crash course on the devices. McManus tried his best to ignore the blood that came with his, or the plasma scorch marks on his body armor.
After he was done with the men, O'Shea presented Rachel with a set of very light upper body armor, though he had to wait for Ibanez, who was examining the feisty civilian, and was both quite confused and slightly alarmed. He turned to his superior officer and pointed incredulously at Lynch's arm.
"Do you know she just dislocated her shoulder?" The latino medic asked, eyes widening.
Lynch made a half-smile/half-frown, and did her best to shrug. "Few hours and a bunch of miles ago. They put it back in."
Ibanez shook his head admiringly. "The Hell are you made of, girl?"
"Sugar and spice, and a hundred twenty pounds of division one girls pyramid ball." Rachel flashed a smile over Ibanez's laugh and accepted the armor from O'Shea gratefully.
"If it's ok," she said, pointing in the direction of Ron and Tim, "I'd like to stay with them."
"I understand," Jack said, as Rachel tightened the last strap on the armor, "just keep your head down." O'Shea reached in his back pocket and withdrew a dark gray jeep cap, giving it to Lynch who covered the top of her deep red hair with it and skewed the brim just a bit sideways.
Gus Reynolds stepped into McManus' field of vision and looked down at the boy seriously.
"So you built that BR?" He asked.
"Yeah," Tim replied, wondering where this was going.
"Not bad, but you could do better. You mind?" Reynolds held out a heavy hand that looked like it could batter steel. Tim frowned for a second, then relented and presented the Master Gunnery Sergeant with the firearm. Gus lowered his balaclava, expelling steamy breath into the crisp air and began working with the rifle.
"Scope's off, charging handle's loose, magazine release is clumsy," he muttered, turning his giant fists into precision instruments of repair and improvement, "but she should be ok to you now." Reynolds reached into a pouch on his left hip and withdrew a long black suppressor. "Sound and flash suppressor. Sight in on a couple of those bodies and see how she feels."
McManus placed the stock of the rifle firmly against his shoulder and remembered to squeeze, not pull, the trigger. The suppressor did not completely mask the report of the bullet, but in the ambient dull roar of urban warfare, it would be nearly impossible to identify the source. The rounds smacked into an Elite's fallen body downrange, and Reynolds nodded happily and clapped Tim on the shoulder. "Nice work, kid."
Tim smiled along with the larger soldier and nodded, even though he knew he had been aiming for the body farther down the alley. I'll figure it out, Tim told himself, I'll figure it out.
O'Shea now waved Tim and Ron over where another soldier had left his large supply pack. Jack began pulling out several tubes, mechanisms, and ammunition, and after several seconds of wondering what was going on, McManus and Parsons both came to realization that the Captain was assembling an S2 AM sniper rifle. Tim could have sworn he heard a whispered, "hot damn," from Ron Parsons.
"Ron," O'Shea called over, gesturing to the now-assembled high-powered rifle, "do you know what this is?"
"Fuck yes," Ron said, nearly breathless, "that's an S2. Military."
Jack's eyes indicated a warrior smile. "That's right. Do you know how to—"
"I've shot the civilian model hunting at least a dozen times." Parsons boasted. "I was a regular at the Boston shooting range."
O'Shea's head tilted to the side. "If you were good," he asked, "how come recruiters never snatched you for conscription?"
McManus' head whipped around to look at the Captain. "That's true?" He asked. "I thought Ron was bullshitting me."
Parsons wore a self-satisfied grin and shrugged nonchalantly. "You sent hot chicks just out of basic and thought I wouldn't think twice when she saw my shooting and invited me out? If you had really wanted to get me, you shouldn't have sent tens who score headshots."
O'Shea laughed as he hefted the rifle and several boxes of ammunition. "Fair enough," he said, convinced.
As he passed the weapon on to the tall, newly acquired talent, O'Shea locked eyes with Ron and then on to Tim. "Our two teams are going to have to move down this block, and we can't do it blind. I need you on this roof and providing intel and support, and we will pick you up. If we survive today I intend to teach you two how to work together and use these to their full capability. I'm hoping you don't have to use these today, but in case you do, I want you both to understand something. This. Is. Not. A. Game. If you don't kill every Covenant you see, they will find you, they will call in support, and you will be killed. They do not take prisoners and they do not show mercy. Do you understand?"
The two boys nodded, deathly serious. Jack held out a gloved hand.
"The M6, Ron."
Parsons, only too happy to trade, gave Jack the sidearm, which he handed to a thoroughly surprised Rachel.
"I don't shoot," Lynch insisted.
"You do today. Watch their backs when they're up there. They're your responsibility." O'Shea pointed around the alley. "Low and fast around this corner, first door on your left. The stairs are still intact and there's still roof access. Keep out of sight."
"You got it," Tim replied, and the three took off on a jog between the two stacks of guerilla fighters. Upon reaching the end of the alley, McManus heard the shotgun-wielding soldier, McHale, clear his throat. Tim looked back inquisitively.
"Don't fuck up," McHale breathed. Parsons shot him a withering look.
"Don't trip." Ron responded over his shoulder, and he was gone into the street.
The three kids ran in a crouch like they had done all day, their thighs burning with fatigue, backs aching from the unnatural position. Rachel was in the middle of the formation, keeping her good arm on Tim's shoulder as they scurried along the sidewalk to the building's stairs. A chirp sounded in the trio's ears and each of them found it more than a little weird.
"This is O'Shea," The disembodied voice said. "You hear me ok?"
"I think we hear you," Tim said, reaching the door and placing an unsteady hand on the knob.
"Piece of advice: never assume a building is clear. Check and re-check."
McManus took a deep breath and nodded to himself, turning the knob slowly and edging the door open into the foyer of a hastily abandoned townhouse. He entered the open space quickly and knelt down, sweeping the area with his rifle. As soon as he established his position, he was bowled over by Ron, who was running into the room with the bulky rifle. Both men tumbled to the floor, helpless to stop their motion with the heavy armor and gear on their bodies. Parsons was livid.
"What the hell were you doing?" He asked incredulously, arms open wide before he retrieved his gun.
"I was, uh," Tim found himself stammering, "you know, securing the foyer."
"This isn't the fucking holo films, Timmy," the Harvard cook said in disbelief, "we gotta keep moving or we're dead. Jesus." Ron took off, taking the stairs two at a time to catch Rachel.
McManus grit his teeth in frustration and jogged along, mounting the stairs as fast as he could to keep up. Three minutes later they had climbed the stairs and shimmied their way up onto the roof of the building. The setting sun combined with the thick haze of smoke had now thrust Boston into a dark orange dusk that seemed to coat every surface with a thin layer of rust. Even through her layers, Rachel shivered.
"I'm sufficiently creeped out." She muttered. Ron crept along the roof, motioning for the group to get low. Once again the COM chirped a tone in everyone's ear.
"We're in position." O'Shea informed them. "Where are you?"
"Made it to the roof," Tim responded. "What now?"
"North-northeast corner," the Captain informed them. "I need eyes on that street. Hurry up, the longer we stay here, the more danger we're in."
"Gotcha," Tim said, taking his hand off his ear. He stood there for a few seconds, trading looks with Rachel and Ron, until Rachel huffed in frustration.
"North-Northeast corner is over there," she pointed. Ron and Tim mumbled excuses as they crawled toward the corner of the roof.
The two black and gray clad shooters scurried as fast as they could to their position. Tim already had his Battle Rifle high and tight against his chest and pointing out toward unseen threats. Ron looked like he was having difficulty with the bulky high-powered rifle already. McManus slid his backpack across the roof and it collided against the brick and mortar lip softly. The two newfound friends slipped into position, Parsons unfolding the bipod from underneath the S2 AM, Tim digging into his backpack and pressing binoculars to his eyes.
"Are you set?" Tim asked.
"Yeah," Ron muttered, tinkering with the scope, "think so."
As Rachel crawled over to the pair and kept her focus on the roof access, Tim opened a channel to the Captain.
"We're set and standing by," he called in, feeling more at ease with the position he was in.
"Call out everything you see." Jack instructed. McManus could hear the Warthog's engine idling in the background and knew that time was short.
Tim stared several blocks ahead, straining his eyes to take in every detail. He could see six Grunts and an Elite meandering back and forth across the road. In the middle of the street, two of the Covenant foot soldiers were putting together what looked like a purple metal snail shell. He relayed all that information to the Captain. Everyone in the group could hear O'Shea's voice growing tenser when he called back.
"Tim, Ron, I need you to listen to me very carefully." The two shooters nodded, even though Jack was nowhere around. "That purple thing will make a road block that our vehicles can't cross, and we'll lose men trying to offline it. We're out of time and we must take this street. Keep them away from the device and kill every hostile that you can. Got me?"
Ron gulped. Tim felt lightheaded. Both of them croaked, "OK," in response. Parsons settled in behind his rifle, stock nuzzled tight against his shoulder, hat off and right hand glove resting in his lap. Tim turned to Ron, now confused.
"Do I start shooting, too?" He asked. "Or do I tell you what to hit through the binoculars?"
Ron continued to stare through his scope. "I don't care, Timmy," he muttered. "I can see fine. Just…I dunno…do what you want to do."
"Ok," McManus said, more to himself than as a reply. He tossed down the binoculars and did his best to rest the barrel of the Battle Rifle against the lip of the roof for stability. "Purple snail shell, start there. I'll take the one on the left, you got right."
"I got right," Ron repeated.
"Ok," Tim said, desperately trying to calm down his soaring heart rate. "On my mark. Three, two, one, mark."
McManus almost jumped at the crack of the sniper rifle and did his best to keep his three-round burst even close to the target. Both men missed by three feet at least, the only consolation being Tim's errant shot miraculously dropped a Grunt farther up the street. Its partner jumped backwards, dropping its plasma pistol and running toward the Elite in charge of the operation.
"Fuck!" Parsons hissed. "Missed. Good shot, Timmy."
"I fucking missed, too," Tim said, trying to find a new target. "They're moving too fast! I can't get a shot!"
"What's the situation?" O'Shea's concerned voice sounded over the COM.
"Just—just be quiet for a second!" Rachel interjected, turning around and seeing the stress on her friends' faces. "We're in the middle of something!" The COM bleeped off and Lynch now grabbed the binoculars that Tim had dropped. "What do I do?" She asked, the stress of the situation making her frantic. "What do I do!"
"Look at that purple snail thing! Middle of the street!" Tim shouted back as another rifle shot split the air with deafening force. "Tell us if any of them are getting near it! You hit anything, Ron?"
"Will you just calm the fuck down?" Parsons yelled. "I'm doing the best that I can!" Another shot bucked the rifle back into the blonde shooter's shoulder, causing him to move errant strands of hair out of his view. "Yes!" He exclaimed. "Got one! Stay down, ya prick!"
"Guys…" the redheaded Boston College co-ed stammered, "the big one, the Elite's running for the snail shell."
"Oh God dammit," Tim said, snapping his aim back to the center of the street. "Ron?"
"I see him," Parsons said through grit teeth. "Aim for the chest! We gotta drop it!"
The two men began firing as controlled as they could, tracking the Elite's sprint from cover to the device but always missing by inches. Pavement spat up into the air as the armored alien warrior dashed toward its objective. Finally, one of McManus' shots found its target, igniting the Elite's energy shield and causing it to stumble slightly.
"Convoy in thirty seconds!" Jack shouted over the COM. "You can't let them turn that roadblock on!"
"Grunt sneaking on the left! Really close!" Rachel cried out, answered by Tim's Battle Rifle flitting to the left, tracking, and taking down the cannon fodder. In doing so, however, the Battle Rifle's bolt snapped back, indicating he was out of ammunition. McManus frantically thumbed the release and the empty metal box clattered to the ground. The Harvard Junior knew he could not get another fresh mag into the rifle in time to stop the Elite from reaching its destination.
"Ron? Little help!" Tim said, panic creeping into his voice. In a quick glance, the Harvard Junior saw his partner reloading, slamming the magazine home and chambering the next round with dizzying speed. The newly appointed sniper took a deep breath.
"No jaywalking." Parsons muttered as he squeezed the trigger, the discarding SABOT round tearing out of the barrel and slamming full on into the chest of the Elite. The blue-armored Covenant soldier's feet kept going as it fell backwards, hitting hard against the ground. Before the humans above felt too good about themselves, the alien propped itself up with its massive arms, roared at its unseen attackers, and charged with more ferocity than before.
Tim caught a dark smile flash across Ron's face as he spoke again. "What did I just say, douchebag?" Another crisp shot of the S2 and the giant alien's head disappeared in a splatter of metal, concrete, and bone.
"Convoy's coming in hot!" Reynolds voice sounded in everyone's ear. "Road better be clear, recon!"
Two seconds later, the two Warthogs fishtailed onto the attempted roadblock's street, their combined firepower cutting the remaining Grunts to ribbons. Tim and Ron exhaled heavily, their shoulders sagging and wearing expressions like they had just run a 10K. Rachel was jumping up and down, cheering and taunting the fallen Covenant.
The lead Warthog skid to a stop by the roadblock, and the new guerilla soldiers watched from the roof as the men below piled out, fast and low, securing a perimeter around the vehicle. The second Warthog pulled a long fishtail around the perimeter, sweeping the intersection before peeling off toward the snipers' townhouse.
One of the men from the lead convoy attached what looked like a small shipping package to the purple snail shell and ran back to help the others, who were relieving the dead aliens of their weapons. A few seconds later, a small explosion obliterated the Covenant device. Immediately afterwards, the COM chirped to life again.
"Captain, this is Reynolds," Gus' deep voice informed everyone, "street's clear and nav says they've got a good route to the wharf. You're good to extract recon."
"On it, Master Guns. Kids, you're gonna miss the bus if you don't hurry."
"Let's go!" Tim said, jumping up and remembering to grab his backpack at the last second. The two men helped Rachel down the ladder and almost fell down the stairs from the speed of their descent, adrenaline powering their weary muscles to clear creaking wooden steps. McManus risked a look back and caught Rachel's face lit up in the thrill of victory and adventure. Everyone was truly on a high.
As the trio neared the door, the long gray Warthog screeched to a halt, engine still growling for more. Three empty seats in an roofless troop bay beckoned the survivors as they all burst into the open air of Boston's last afternoon. Whatever distance the soldiers had effected around the newcomers was now gone; helping hands and strong arms lifted the grateful students into Captain O'Shea's transport. In the front cab only the back of the Captain's helmet could be seen, but Tim imagined the leader had a look of satisfaction. Rachel and Tim piled in to once side as Ron sat in between two soldiers in their late twenties. They both smacked the tall sniper on the shoulders.
"How'd it feel to kill?" One asked, a devilish smile spreading across his face.
Parsons gave a nonchalant shrug and did his best at a cocksure smile. "I could do this all day," he replied, accepting even rougher gestures of approval from his new comrades.
Tim stared up at the roof of the townhouse and wondered how much time had just passed. Two minutes? Two hours? He had no earthly idea. All he knew was the world was starting to spin and they had not even started to drive yet. Before he could think upon it further, however, McManus stared at a crumpled pack of cigarettes being thrust in his face. He looked over at McHale, the shotgun wielding trooper who looked better suited for hockey than war. McHale thrust his chin up and set his jaw in what must have been smile.
"Solid fuckin' killin'," he stated, "gets a victory smoke."
"No thanks," Tim said, trying to sound appreciative as the Warthog lurched forward down the street, "I don't smoke."
"You will, kid." McHale chuckled, igniting his own with a lighter that read, "Sinn Fein."
"What does that mean?" The brown haired sharpshooter could not help but ask. McHale tucked the lighter away.
"It's Gaelic," the hockey player said back in a gruff voice. "Means, 'ourselves alone.' You'll understand, if ya live long enough."
Everyone's heads started bobbing around as the two vehicles rolled hard down buckled and cracked pavement. Towering buildings sagged and leaned against one another as the new soldiers embarked on a dangerous tour of post-apocalyptic Boston. As the group took in the desolate scene, Rachel patted Tim's leg to get his attention. He turned and looked into sparkling green eyes and a look of sincere gratitude.
"You did good, Timmy," Lynch smiled. "Thanks for getting us out of this."
The world had ended, everyone he knew was probably dead, and he was traveling in a UNSC transport with soldiers he did not know to rescue wounded people in the heart of the Covenant invasion. Despite all that, Tim McManus could not remember when he felt this good.
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