Dark Days of the After (Book 2): Dark Days of the Surge Page 3

  Each of the four men were targeting someone. They were all shooting. She closed the door, caught her breath, then waited for Ryker’s signal.

  Boom, boom, boom! These were the sniper’s rifles, not Ryker. And these three shots she just heard? Three lives lost.

  Her weary heart began to pound, first insistently, then violently.

  Every single shot they took was a life taken!

  Her mind returned to the words of Instructor Yoav. “In the end, the coward will live,” he’d said, “but he will exist alone, without the benefit of friends or fellow warriors. Why? Because he was too scared to give everything away in favor of those in need.”

  “My life to save the others,” she whispered.

  This was a mantra of hers when she lost her grandmother and was forced to endure the worst communist atrocities. She could not keep the Chicoms from killing her grandmother, or abusing hers and her mother’s bodies, but she could stop them here and—

  A different sounding shot was fired. She edged the door open a crack, peeked through. She saw one shooter down. The others were now wheeling their rifles around in Ryker’s direction.

  She slipped out of the door and ran as quickly and as silently as she could, catching up to the shooter closest to her. Her target had lined up a shot in Ryker’s direction. With no time to lose, she buried her shiv in the man’s neck.

  She pulled it out fast, buried it in him once more, ferociously, and then she moved around him as he was falling over sideways. Her second target was trying to get a bead on Ryker who had just killed the first shooter and was winding his way into the gunfire of his second target. Ryker reached his man right as Skylar put two rounds in the back of hers. Her target dropped to a knee, arching his back, his rifle falling from his grip.

  Bullets began pinging off the metal all around her. She ducked down and moved against the wall, reminding herself she had the high ground. A quick peek over the ledge showed her three Chicoms running for the downstairs entrance, and by proxy, the stairwell.

  She sprinted back to her door, flattened her back against the wall beside it and waited. The second someone pushed it open, she swung the shiv in high, stuck someone in the neck, then dropped down fast and fired four rounds into the three of them.

  The two she hit fell into the third. She’d only nicked him. But he was so startled and off balance, he stepped backwards, missed the step completely and tumbled down the stairs ass over tea kettle.

  She hustled over the two dead men, rolled an ankle in the process and cursed under her breath as she shook off the pain. Getting down the stairs as quickly as she could considering her flaring ankle, she found the third man on the landing, woozy and trying to recover.

  He was using his fingers, moving his legs, blinking his eyes. Not paralyzed. She turned him over and stuck him in the side with the shiv to loosen him up. He complied loudly and painfully. When she got him belly to the ground, she arranged his face on the first stair, his brow resting on the edge. He was cursing in Chinese, saliva drizzling out of his mouth. Ignoring the protests, she then lowered her knee to his neck, grabbed a fistful of hair and slowly applied weight and pressure, his screams both satisfying and jarring at the same time. When the huge pop echoed through the stairwell, he stopped fighting. Before returning to the balcony and to Ryker, she punched a hole in his broken neck with the shiv for good measure.

  Getting up, hustling back up the stairs—more tired and winded than ever, her energy draining by the minute—she went for the fallen guard’s rifle. Ryker was already positioned on top, shooting Chicoms. Ryker saw her, she signaled that she was okay, and then together they focused on the landscape below.

  Turning inward, she reached for that lethal silence. Eyes roving over the masses, she saw one of them. She lined up the Chicom in her crosshairs, then slid her finger on the trigger. In that time, the guard managed to shoot two people.

  She put that out of her head as she pulled her heart rate down a beat. He killed another. She squeezed the trigger. The rifle kicked lightly, a spray of red misting out of the guard’s head as he dropped to the ground.

  She worked the bolt action, found the next guy—a man out of ammo using his weapon to club and corral the masses. She put him in the crosshairs, watched his head pulp even though she hadn’t pulled the trigger. She glanced over at Ryker. He’d made the shot. Now he was pointing in another direction. She swung her rifle over, found three more Chicoms who were very aware of them.

  She locked on her target, took the first down. Ryker took out the other two in short order. Dropping the weapon, Ryker ran her way and said, “Time to go!”

  “Where?” she said.

  He ran past her and she took chase.

  “Drop it!” he called back, referring to her rifle. “They know we’re up here now and there are only two ways up! Hopefully they choose the other side!”

  Unfortunately, Ryker was wrong. When he reached the door she’d come through, he pulled to a stop so fast, she all but collided with him.

  “Wait,” he said. She waited. Down the stairwell, they heard men opening the door below and piling in. “What I wouldn’t do for a grenade right about now.”

  She seconded the thought.

  Grenades and IED’s were Tristan’s department, she thought. But Tristan wasn’t there, and she had no hope of ever meeting the eccentric weirdo, let alone getting at his stash of incendiary devices in a pinch.

  “There are four bodies in the stairwell to slow them up, but they’ll be cautious,” she whispered in his ear.

  Finally he turned and ran, nearly knocking her backwards. She got her bearings and followed, her lungs quickly starting to revolt.

  Ahead of her, Ryker snatched up a rifle. Gasping, tired, fearing what was to come, she pocketed the shiv and grabbed a rifle as well. After that, she had to put on a burst of speed to catch up. Before they could reach the other side of the platform, they began taking fire.

  Skylar dropped down low, grabbed her pistol, spun and fired three rounds. They took cover inside the stairwell, pulling the door shut behind them. Her shots were reactionary, but surprisingly close to the target. Ryker used the break in action to line up a shot.

  He looked through the scope, slowed his breathing. Contrasting his calm, her eyes were everywhere, her heart beating so hard she wondered if it would collapse from fatigue. The second the door cracked open and a head appeared in the shadow, however, Ryker’s rifle report made her jump. The guy in the stairwell fell down dead, the door closing on its own.

  “Let’s go,” Ryker growled.

  Slinging the rifles over their backs, pistols in hand, they hustled down the stairs, pushed through the door and into a hallway where a group of men a dozen yards away turned and looked at them. Skylar shot all three of them, popped the mag and said, “I’m out. Finish them, will you?”

  “Waste of rounds,” he mumbled, tossing her a spare mag. He broke into a trot. She followed, switching out mags on the run.

  When they eased open the door leading to the yard, Ryker peeked around, then quickly pulled the door shut.

  “What?” she asked, finally able to breathe again.

  “If you can imagine, it’s gotten worse.”

  He stepped aside, motioned her to the door. She snuck a look outside, found the chaos and the noise startling.

  Voices were shouting in several languages, the kind of thing you’d expect of rioters and the Chicom oppressors. The guards were the loudest, snapping out orders in Chinese, desperately using their weapons to control the mob. The masses were constant though, their push insistent, the pressure unrelenting.

  The barking sound of gunfire, along with the smell of things burning, left her with a sick, surreal feeling. From one side of the modified west block, across from what Ryker said used to be the gymnasium, Skylar watched the guards mow down the first line of dissidents.

  On the roof was a sniper, the gunfire loud, no repeatable pattern of fire.

  She assumed he was a crack shot, too.

  Her emotions suddenly, unexpectedly broke free of the constraints she’d put them under years ago. She stepped backwards, spiraling, a sweep of dizziness shooting through her. The door fell shut as she pressed a hand to the wall for support. In that moment, she felt the pain in her foot again, though it had lessened dramatically.

  “You okay?” Ryker asked.

  Riding the moment out, she held up a hand, one that begged him to give her a second to recover.

  To her utter dismay, she was feeling everything—all kinds of pain in her body, the fear that seemed rooted in her like a cancer, the helplessness she felt in this situation. Had she reached the end of the line? Was this it? Get a grip, girl! she thought, chastising herself not only for the moment of weakness, but for its poor timing.

  “I’m fine,” she finally said, more for herself than for Ryker. “I need some food the second we get a chance.”

  She focused internally, the way she did when she meditated. Instead of fixating on the soot-filled air, the widespread carnage and the animal scent of terror she couldn’t get out of her nose, she turned inward to the steady pulse of blood traveling through her Carotid artery.

  Her eyes closed on their own, but only for a moment, and only to center her. The throbbing sound of her pulsing blood soothed her, forced everything out, drew together that which had scattered. The awkward, crippling feeling passed.

  She was herself again.

  Her finger slid up to the trigger guard on its own, gave it a light double tap for reassurance, and then she opened her eyes and said, “Let’s go spill some commie blood.”

  “I got the guy on the roof,” he said.

  “Roger that.”

  The second he stepped out into the mayhem, Ryker raised the rifle and fired off a round, catching the sniper in the shin. The man fell forward, slid halfway down the sloped roof, holding his leg and screaming. He fired again and the sniper’s body gave a jolt before going completely still.

  Ryker slung his rifle over his shoulder, whipped out his nine and popped off two more rounds, catching two nearby Chicoms. Feeling slow, realizing she was still off kilter, Skylar stepped out behind him, pistol drawn and ready.

  Ryker rushed to the two dead guards and collected their weapons. Several men tried to wrestle them from Ryker, but he elbowed one guy in the face, shoved another woman away, and jostled his way back to Skylar.

  Quickly ejecting the mags from the guns, he tossed her one and pocketed the other. “It’s about to get really ugly,” he said. “Stay behind me.”

  “My dick is just as big as yours,” Skylar hissed.

  He moved in front of her anyway and said, “Mine’s prettier. Watch my six. Figuratively, not literally.”

  “Unbelievable,” she said, keeping tight as they moved into the chanting, shoving, fighting crowds of malcontents.

  The second they got around the corner and into the West Block yard, they ran into a massive crowd pressing against the Chicoms. A row of guards were blocking the wide path to the former library, the North Block and the Adjustment Center. Across that yard was their destination: the newly installed, massively reinforced front gates.

  Another eruption of gunfire had everyone ducking. Ryker used the opportunity to fire on the seven Chicom guards blocking everyone’s path. Three of these commie turds were cutting a chest-high line of automatic gunfire, while the other four were shooting the people in front of them with pistols.

  The innocents continued to drop like flies, the Chicom’s lack of respect for human life beyond appalling.

  The first guy Ryker shot didn’t die; he missed the next two shots completely. The fourth nicked one of the guys spraying the crowds with gunfire. The bullet blew a chunk out of his chin. Staggering sideways and collapsing, his finger still on the trigger, the guard inadvertently took down three or four more innocents as the mob converged. The remaining shooters turned to both Ryker and Skylar and began firing.

  “Get down!” Ryker screamed as he turned around and pushed her back in the direction of the West Block. The concrete walls around them were pocking violently, shards of plaster peppering them as Chicom bullets dug in everywhere.

  “I’ve got your six!” he screamed. “Go, dammit, GO!”

  Terrified, ducking down low, she ran as best as she could. A bullet skipped off the hump of her back, causing her to yelp out. She didn’t slow down, though. If anything, the injury forced her to run faster.

  It’s not that bad, she told herself, even though she began to worry about the hot trail it cut across the back of her ribcage.

  Behind her, Ryker was cursing like a sailor, dropping F-bombs like he was in the bar with the guys rather than the bullseye in a game of live-fire target practice. He continued to press Skylar, his trash-talking mouth and his pushy hands holding her at nearly too fast of a pace.

  By the time they reached the protective end of the West Block, she heard Chinese chatter and the tramping of feet approaching from the lower yard. She dropped low, raised the weapon and dispensed of a pack of Chicoms who appeared to be securing an offensive position behind the crowds.

  Looking back, gunfire was rampant, save for the occasional pausing to refresh the ammo. There was no way she could deny what was happening. They were killing everyone! Ignoring the sharp, hot pain and the wetness in the back of her shirt where she’d been shot, she hurried over to one of the Chicoms she hit earlier. He was still moving. Because she was pissed off and scared, she instinctively put another round into him.

  “Stop wasting ammo on these morons!” Ryker snarled. “They’ll bleed out just fine.”

  He pushed past her, stripped them of their weapons and ammo, then said, “We have to get through to that gate, which means we have to stop the assassination squad.”

  “Use the rifle then,” she said. “If we can get close enough, or if we get in trouble, I’ll provide cover fire.”

  Removing the rifle from where he’d slung it over his shoulder, he leveled her with a look.

  “We’re already in trouble!” he snapped.

  She didn’t know what to say.

  Turning his attention toward the mayhem, he took a deep breath and settled himself. She watched this happen. And then something changed in his eyes. A deadness took over. She recognized the look immediately—this was complete surrender of one’s own mortal self, matched with the single-minded task of bringing as much death as possible.

  He sighted up his first target, let out his breath, squeezed the trigger. He worked the bolt action quickly, seating the next round. Same thing again, a clean shot. He quickly stood and she was ready to go, the adrenaline supercharging her body.

  “We need to hit the mob hard, push through them like they’re cattle, which they are. If they don’t move, pistol whip them.”

  “I got it,” she said.

  “And if that doesn’t work,” he said, looking her in the eye, solemn, “then just shoot them.”

  “They’re just like us, trying to get out,” she said, her focus wavering.

  “We are their way out,” he practically yelled. Slinging the rifle back over his back, he chambered a round in his pistol then said, “We kill one to save many, got it?”

  “Got it,” she said, stiffening her upper lip.

  She followed his lead, slamming into the back of the angry crowd and shoving her way through. Someone tried to grab the rifle on Ryker’s back; she clubbed the guy in the head with the butt of her pistol. He stepped back, holding his head as she pushed forward, fighting her way forward with elbows and shouts to get the hell out of the way. Hands grabbed at her rifle, too. One got ahold of it, pulling her to a jarring stop. She swung the pistol around, caught a woman on the cheek with the barrel. She let go.

  By now Skylar was wearing down, the smoke from a nearby fire was burning her eyes and nose, and her adrenaline stores were nearly depleted. At the rate they were going, she’d be too exhausted to get to the front of the line, much less put up a fight if Ryker needed her.

  She told herself she was stronger than she thought.

  She had to be!

  The agitation at the heart of the dissenters stirred everyone. Rebellious voices rose a few octaves and the pushing and shoving inside the throng of people intensified. More hands tried grabbing hers and Ryker’s rifles. She was quickly wearing down in the struggle to keep them. For a brief moment, she considered letting them go, but then Ryker went for his, fast. He started hitting people in front of him with the butt of rifle and from there the path widened and they were able to move forward faster.

  The automatic gunfire started up again. Half the crowd ducked down, which was her cue to line up a shot. Not all the crowd went down, though. A man in front of them was screaming louder than the rest. Ryker shoved past him, the gunfire continuing. Suddenly the shouting man’s head flashed in a spray of red, some of his blood misting her.

  Wiping her eyes, clenching her jaw, she pressed on, all kinds of bodies smashing up against her, the heat of them, the sweat and hands and crush of feet and knees and backs upon her. By then she was getting claustrophobic, manic, the whole of them moving her around like a beach ball in the surf as Ryker slipped farther and farther away.

  More gunfire, more screaming, lots more hands on her and her weapon. She told herself to keep up. She was having a hard time gaining ground. The press of bodies was too much. Someone finally grabbed onto her rifle and pulled it hard, yanking her backwards. She swung around with her pistol in hand, but the man after her rifle blocked her at the wrist.

  She bent her wrist just enough, turning the weapon on him.

  He startled; she pulled the trigger.

  His head jerked backwards, the hand letting go. He fell in a heap at her feet and someone started screaming. A young girl. A second later the tenor of everyone’s fright changed. The mob around her now pushed back against each other, giving her space which she then used to her advantage to press forward.

  By the time she caught up to Ryker, she was exhausted, her back slick with sweat and blood, everything hurting and working together to deplete her, to force her to quit.