“What are you doing?”
“There are Tabs down there,” he was told.
“Well no shit.” Rifle up he charged down the stairs, going around and around, two stories, three, then he ducked back as a hail of what sounded like pistol fire bounced off the ceiling near his head. The men pounding down the stairs behind him skidded to a stop.
“Told you,” he heard. Then there was a huge explosion above them. The Toad had just taken out the rooms they’d occupied with its main gun. The men looked up, then back down at Thor.
“Violence, Speed, Momentum!” Thor shouted over his shoulder, then plucked a grenade off his chest. He pulled the pin, let the lever fly, counted to two, then leaned around the next corner and heaved the grenade. He heard two dull thuds as it bounced off the cement walls, then the entire concrete stairwell shook as it exploded. He charged down the stairs, rifle up. One and a half floors down he found two men dead from the blast, but when he went to step past them rifle fire from below whanged off the walls and steel railings. Thor stuck his rifle around the corner and fired a few quick shots
“Eagle Eye, Eagle Eye,” he heard over the radio. “All elements of RoadRunner that can make it to you are en route. Don’t wait for us. Repeat, DO NOT WAIT. It’s Plan B for us.”
“Shit,” someone said.
“We can’t stay here, we need to fucking go.”
There was a fusillade of gunfire below them, individual shots and full-auto bursts, rifle and pistol fire and shouts. Then, nothing. At least, from inside the building. Outside he could hear steady fire, perhaps still directed up at their perch on the seventh floor.
“Eagle Eye, you up there?” someone shouted up to them. “Stairway’s clear.”
“Golf ball?” Thor yelled, nearly deaf from the gunfire.
“Fucking Felix!” the person yelled back. “Fucking move your ass!”
“Good enough for me.” They pounded down the stairs to see the first floor stairwell covered in Tab bodies and two-thirds of RoadRunner in a defensive perimeter at the rear of the lobby. “Down down down, go!” Thor yelled, stabbing his hand like a spear.
He followed a line of backs as the dogsoldiers headed down the stairs into the parking garage. It was clear, for the moment, and they made a beeline for the hole in the wall. They could only enter the narrow tunnel one at the time and had to take off their packs to do it. Thor and the other soldiers kept their rifles trained on the door they’d entered. It seemed like it was taking forever. The gunfire outside was decreasing. He was guessing the military would be doing a dynamic entry into the building, in force, at any second.
Finally, there were only a few dogsoldiers left. Thor slowly backed up to the tunnel, then turned around, shrugged out of his pack, and handed it up. Then he was offered a hand and was pulled up into the hole by Randa.
“Go, don’t wait for me,” Thor said. He scooted backward, rifle in one hand, dragging his pack behind him with the other. The tunnel slowly curved until finally the opening into the parking garage was out of sight. It seemed an eternity before his boots hit the edge of the trunk line.
Thor dropped his pack down. From the far end of the earthen tunnel he could hear shouts and the pounding of boots on pavement. He pulled the pin on the grenade he was holding and tossed it as far down the tunnel as he could. Then he jumped down into the sewer line and dragged his pack off to the side before the grenade detonated. Dirt flew past him. He used his flashlight, but there was too much dust in the air, diffusing the beam, to tell how fully the tunnel had been collapsed. He grabbed a second grenade and threw it after the first, just in case, then stood to the side with his fingers in his ears as it detonated.
He shouldered his pack with a grunt. Between the two Spikes, and the five magazines he’d burned through his load felt decidedly lighter. He dug out a canteen and began walking north, following the bobbing lights of the dogsoldiers ahead of him. He could only hope the grenades had collapsed the tunnel enough that the obstruction couldn’t be removed easily, he really didn’t have the energy for a running gun battle in the sewer.
Harris and six other soldiers jogged through the parking garage, heading for the south side. Heavy full-auto fire erupted behind them, making them flinch and drop and dive for cover, but none of it was directed their way. At the southwest corner of the parking garage, on ground level, they found the two vehicles they’d been told were there—a full-size Tahoe SUV, and a mid-size pickup. Old, dusty, and battered, but in one piece, and none of the tires were flat. The keys were right where they were supposed to be, inside the rear bumpers.
“Anybody that’s got a grenade launcher or a Spike, sit where you can use it!” Harris shouted. He had neither, and got behind the wheel of the pickup. His hearing was starting to return. He heard roaring engines and saw IMPs and Growlers race by the parking garage on either side, backing up the Toad. “Hang the fuck on.”
He backed the truck up, then headed west, toward the closest exit. The Tahoe was right on his bumper. They roared through the exit and into the adjacent parking lot, which was encircled by a tall steel fence. Harris cut the wheel left, angling for the driveway out. He never got off the gas, and the pickup went briefly airborne as he flew across the seven lanes of Michigan Avenue. Four hundred feet to the left was one of the checkpoints leading into the base, and a quick glance showed him it was manned by an IMP, two Growlers, and a lot of soldiers. Heavy weapons opened up on their two vehicles, but he didn’t slow down, he just sailed across Michigan, the gas pedal floored, and slammed into the chain link fence on the far side.
The fence was flung away, and the pickup fishtailed briefly in the gravel lot beyond. Harris kept it under control, kept his speed up, and slammed into the identical fence on the far side. It went up and over the hood, spider-webbing the windshield and spraying him with small particles of glass. The pickup bounced over the curb and he yanked the wheel left. They were southbound in the northbound lanes of 3rd Avenue, out of view of the checkpoint troops still firing at them. Harris checked his side mirror—the Tahoe was still back there. He didn’t need to check his rearview to see if the doggie was still in the bed of the bucking pickup, the man was motherfucking him at full volume.
The city’s Public Safety Headquarters was on their right, but it was barely occupied, and most of the military troops were stationed on the north half of the base. Harris flipped it off anyway. He pushed the pickup as hard as he could for a block and a half, then stood on the brakes and took a wide right turn onto Howard Street, which ran behind the huge parking garage servicing the PSH. Three hundred feet ahead of them the street ended in a wall of jersey barriers, dragon teeth, and concertina wire.
Engines straining, the two vehicles raced to a stop fifty feet from the barricade which encircled the military base. For the moment, they were completely hidden from view, but Army troops had to be on their way. Harris doubted they had more than a minute.
“Somebody tell me we still have some fucking explosives left!” Harris shouted out the open windows of the pickup.
Two dogsoldiers got out of the SUV and fired their grenade launchers at the obstacle in front of them. Two of the jersey barriers were blasted into pieces and flung into a tangle of concertina. Then the man in the back of the pickup let loose an RPG, and the explosion flung puzzle pieces of concrete and threads of razor wire into the air.
“That’ll have to do. We’re going off-roading!” Harris shouted. “Hang on.” He floored the pickup, then slowed down as he approached the debris field. The pickup bounced violently up and down as he crawled over the remnants of concrete barriers and through shredded concertina wire. One strand wrapped itself around his rear axle and he could hear the shrieking of metal, but ignored it.