Chapter 16

Chapter 16

A dozen soldiers lay up against the back wall of a theater stage. There is no power; only that of many yellow and green glow sticks that litter the main isle towards the stage. Fen, along with two other soldiers, are attending to the wounded. Fen is currently fixing a splint to the man's leg—that of a broken broom handle and a random piece of wooden board. Kelly and Catherine have still not returned, despite the recent pop of flares. A hand touches Fens shoulder.

"I've been told you're the man in charge here?"

"I am," Fen answers, as he finishes the splint to the man, whom, with a weak smile, lays back on the stage.

"What do you need, uh," Fen stands and turns, brushing his hands off his thighs.

In the near darkness, he can make out the rank of Sergeant. A rank four times higher than himself. Fen clears his throat.

"Sarge."

"Forget the rank, call me Vallée,"

"Vallée, right."

"The two girls out there, they directed my section here. I have eight able bodied dudes that can help with whatever you need." He says, pressing a firm pointer finger at Fens chest.

"And of course, if you need any help, I am here."

The Sergeant looks around at the wounded, stepping past to observe the CP. He has an allure of relief.

"I would indeed like some help, in fact." Fen utters, as he steps into the center stage.

"Hit me,"

"I need to know how many wounded we have, and how many able bodies. As of right now, we have a regroup point at grid location 5193 3495. I've already sent out a few scouts to maneuver the terrain. Looks like they have these flying machines searching the perimeter and the dead. We'll try and carry as many as we can. But. . ."

Fens eyes come alight. He stands, and for the first time he takes a step backwards—pulling himself from the moment.

He takes an inhale. His nostrils flare.

He knows that those in the worst condition will not leave this building. There are just too many. At first, he thought it was possible—the idea that they could leave them here and return later. But now, being here, and observing those who can help, as they attempt to ease the pain of crushed bones and missing limbs—it's futile. These soldiers are in no shape or form to move, let alone survive on what? They just don't have the manpower of facilities to keep pulling them back into consciousness from the unbelievable pain.

Vallée catching the hesitation, tilts his head. Fen nods, and they both exit the main theatre, heading towards the entrance.

Once there, Fen takes a right, walking into an abandoned bathroom.

"Hit me Fen. We do not have much time."

"We don't have the logistics or the able bodieds to carry everyone. And the triangulation we set up, we're going to be hitting a choke point at the entrance to the underground parking garage. The reality is, we take the able bodied, or those that won't slow us down. . . and the others, well. . . we get them when we get them."

The Sergeant wipes his brow of sweat and heaves a heavy sigh. It's here, Fen realizes the Sergeants hand has been mangled—three fingers missing. The wounds cauterized.

"That is the nature of war." Vallée smiles, as he places his mangled hand on Fens shoulder.

"I will get the information that you need, and your plan ready. In the mean time. . . I will get my men to sort those who are staying, and those who are leaving. We will make them as comfortable as we can."

"This sits heavy on my stomach," Fen squeezes his guts, as he looks to the dirtied floor.

"I don't like playing God."

"You're not playing God. Those soldiers are on borrowed time, and they know it. And from what those soldiers in there are telling me Fen, and from my short presence of talking to you, you are doing Great. But you need to remember the reason why you're doing an awesome job. Now. I will push all my information to a Corporal Allen. He will help you and prepare the journey. For now, I'll take two more soldiers. We're going to go set up an observation post. Once the coast has been clear, I'll push them out for security and we can begin collapsing this CP. Keep up the good work. Because I don't give a flying shit about your rank. You're my two in command now. And if you need anything, assistance at all, I got one good hand here." Vallée chuckles, as he smacks Fen on the shoulder, turns, and leaves. The loud bang of the bathroom door swinging shut pulls Fen from the dark corner of his mind—a bit of pride ignites his flame.

I have been doing a good job. But I've also done some shit jobs too. . . So why do I feel so craven, fearful of whats to come?

And in near darkness, the man the who stares back at him in the mirror--looks far from the boy that was up on the Moon, twenty four hours earlier.

* * *

"I need you to be quiet, please," Kelly pleads. Right now, she's laying on a paved road, holding onto the hand of a soldier buried beneath rubble. Dried blood coats his entire mouth and face—he's moaning and groaning, pinned beneath a thousand pounds of rock.

Twenty meters down the road is Catherine. she's setting the perimeter. A green and red glowstick in one hand, her other hand holding her pistol grip tight. Every once in a while, she'll uncover the wrapper of the glowsticks, only to hide it again, flashing the signal twice. Here, any soldiers spotting the coupled glowsticks will send back a signal: One green flash is one able-bodied troop. One red flash, is a wounded troop. The next color Red indicating wounded. Not too far from her position and directly ahead, she can see two groups of glowsticks. Both of whom, from the angle, are unaware of each other's presence despite the proximity. However, From the flashes, Catharine has deduced, fifty meters from their position, inside the partly collapsed office building is 1 x injured soldier and 6 x able bodied soldiers. Catharine looks back, watching as Kelly continues to move debris from their casualty. Slowly but surely, she's freeing the man. From her distance, she can hear the moans of the soldier—followed by Kelly's soft whisper, calming him.

Catharine looks down at her watch. Kelly has been at this casualty for a little over ten minutes. It's about time Catharine and her call it quits on this man. Across the street and over the buildings, she can see the odd flashes of bright light, of which she assumes is that of the enemy surveying the battlefield—further spiking her immediate desire to leave.

Catherine clenches her rifle in her hand, biting her lip. She can taste blood.

We need to move. Fen will start to worry that we've yet to return to the CP.

Catharine takes out the glowsticks and flashes two more times. This time, only one group responds. It appears the other group has left—presumably to the grid location given by their triangulation of flares.

From behind, the shallow sound of boots sliding down a smooth surface. Kelly approaches. She looks pale; easily out of breath. "I can't move him free—" The man starts shrieking, screaming at the realization his savior had abandoned him. Screaming at the realization—while he initially lost hope—he had regained it. Only for it to be pulled from underneath him again.

The man was no longer prepared to die.

Catharine jumps to her feet, waving Kelly down.

"This way, follow me," she whispers. Under the stark moonlight, they take off—trying to create distance before the enemy comes to check out the sound.

Catherine pulls out the glowstick, flashing it twice—directly ahead at the end of the street, in the office building window, five able bodied flashes.

"You see the glowsticks? Third floor, destroyed office building, directly ahead."

"Yeah, got it—" Kelly and Catharine continue to run. Even from their current position, the sound of man howling can still be heard.

It doesn't sit well with them—the idea they may have made their job so much harder than it had to be.

Kelly bites her tongue—the harsh reality and lessoned learned—if she can't save the soldier, she needs to be the one to end its life.

Fucking bastards going to kill us all.

Fifteen meters now from the office floor.

Bright light fills Kelly and Catherine's eyes.

And standing before them, that of a twenty-foot large machine.

"From where?" Kelly screams; dipping right and diving into a mouse hole in the debris of the office building. From beneath the cover—she can hear the scream of Catharine—Kelly turns to the small view of the mouse hole, only to watch as Catharine's torso hits the ground, followed by her bottom half. Kelly covers her mouth, muffling her scream, digging as far back into the mousehole as she can.

Bright light fills the mouse hole—as the machine drops to its knees and reaches inside, flailing away—the metal arms smashing into the concrete debris—Kelly lets out a wail, turns around and opens fire into the enemy's arms and hand. Sparks fly as electromagnetic rounds pierce the robots exterior, shredding and short circuiting the robots core.

Smoke. Kelly attempts to reload as two large metal fingers grip around her free leg. It tugs and tightens; the metal clenching her bones—she wants to scream in pain. She drops her mag, and reaches for another one as the pain climbs through her core.

Snap! Crack! Crunch!

The round slides into her rifle. She cocks it, and unleashes led.

"Motherfucker!"

"Ah!" she grieves through tear stricken eyes, she leans back to the ground, reloads, and pulls the trigger, blindly at her feet.

Snap! Crack! Crunch!

She reloads again and fires. Quickly, the robotic arms releases and pulls back from the mouse hole, dousing her lower left leg in boiling hot oil. The oil eats through the exposed joints in her armour—the smell of burning flesh—and Kelly swallows her panic.

Please. Assess. Assess. SHE'S FUCKING DEAD—IT COULD HAVE BEEN YOU—

I need to survive. I need to focus if I'm to survive.

Outside the mousehole, the man in the debris screams one last time—gunfire erupts—of which she can only assume the collection point they were heading to has been compromised.

THIS WASN'T SUPPOSED TO HAPPEN.

"Please god, please god, please god," Kelly whispers, closing her eyes. The pain in her leg shooting to her head, she can't think—and yet, in instinct, Kelly drops her hand to her medic pouch, unzips it, and digs.

All her medical supplies explode from her bag.

Fuck.

She digs her hand through the debris, feeling through the plastic and bottles for the single thing she needs—meth.

Kelly falls to a self-injection needle. She raises it to her thigh, and stabs with such force—an immediate moan of relief escapes her lips.

I need to look at my leg. I need to look at my leg. Please. Please tell me my leg is okay please.

"3. . . 2. . . 1" Kelly launches her head forward, her eyes locking on her leg. She can see the two indents from where the machine squeezed; her skin black from oil. —the leg looks— Kelly pulls back on her pant leg and vomits. While her head is flying high, her legs is in the shape of an S.

The building around the mouse hole groans. . . she can feel the weight of the building collapsing down on her. A quick assessment of the situation reveals many nooks and crannies that may be a bit too small for her frame. Yet, she needs to move. Her current entrance blocked by the presence of machines.

Kelly looks down at her rifle—she swallows at the thought, she unloads her last magazine. Six bullets left. She could always end it here. Right now.

Tears fall down her blood, dirt filled face.

She doesn't want to be torn apart.

She thinks back to Catharine and how the feeling of being picked up and torn like a piece of meat must have been.

It was so quick. so fast. where did the machine come from?

She looks to her leg. A useless stick of meat at this point. And yet, something deep wants to her to crawl and survive.

Kelly rolls onto her belly and looks around, feeling her surroundings. She has about three inches of space between her and the building above her. She stares at the concrete in front of her.

"Fuck," she whispers, releasing her grasp on her rifle, and extending a free hand to her medical pouch. Quickly, she unzips the pouch, and pulls out three needles each preloaded with clear fluid. Like an adrenaline shot, she stabs her mangled leg as taught. The other two shots she places into the pants pocket of her good leg and zips it closed. I need a white glowstick. My knife. . . and my tourniquets. both. fuck. . . oh that feels good. . .finally relief. . .ah. . .

Kelly halts for a moment, feeling the euphoria of peace enter her mind. Despite Catharine being torn apart in front of her eyes, her mangled leg, and now the journey into the unknown. . . she feels at peace with everything.

She inhales and exhales, her breath steady. She thinks of Jaycee, of Shawn. . .of even Tina and Fen.

And of Catharine. She thinks of her beautiful eyes and hair, overshadowed by her guts that hung from her thin waist.

I can't give up. After all this. . .I can't.

Kelly pulls her quick release straps around her chest rig and a white glowstick. She cracks the glowstick and places it in her mouth. Immediate light. In a matter of minutes, she pulls herself free from all the gear weighing her down. She feels reborn. Her muscles relaxed and refreshed. Most probably from the drugs, but it's enough to keep Kelly motivated as she utilizes her one good leg to push off the ground, while her hands grabs whatever she can.

She moves forward and soldiers on.