Gunfire.
He stooped, tried to get low. His hands found a car. No, part of a car. He started to kneel down behind it when that iron-grip hand grabbed him again.
“Up,” Klimas said. “Stay behind me.”
Another SEAL fell in next to Klimas — Tim didn’t know which one. They moved, he followed. They ran half crouched, rifles at their shoulders, turning left and right to fire while never breaking stride.
Tim saw a man on his right: Cooper Mitchell.
Something exploded off to the left, kicking up a fresh wave of dust and dirt. Tim shielded his face and kept moving.
People screaming.
Guns firing.
The snap of small explosions.
He looked forward, saw Klimas’s back — but the other SEAL wasn’t there anymore.
Klimas stopped at a red Prius that seemed to be embedded in some kind of cracked, fluid-looking masonry. He waved Tim forward.
“We’re going over the top, let’s move!”
Tim realized the car was part of a wall, a good six feet high, that stretched out both left and right. He threw himself at it, hands grabbing at anything he could grip. Broken glass and metal shards sliced into his skin but he didn’t stop. Up and up he went until he reached the top.
He heard an automatic weapon firing, then the blast of a shotgun. He slipped and fell, tumbled down the hard wall’s far side. Something whacked his left calf, knocking it cold and numb.
Clarence ran by, Margaret bouncing on his shoulder like a gagged rag doll.
“Keep going, Feely! Move!”
Clarence vanished into the swirling dust.
Tim’s chest drew in panicked breaths of dirty, icy air. He felt a knife in his lungs, cutting and tearing. He was going to throw up.
Whatever it takes, do not fall behind.
Klimas. He’d promised to get Tim out of there. Tim righted himself, got his feet beneath him and started running, then slowed.
Cooper… none of it mattered without Cooper.
Tim turned back, saw Cooper land face-first on the rubble-strewn pavement.
And behind him, a stumbling man with half his face torn away, dust-caked blood sloughing down the white of his exposed temple and cheekbone, a big-toothed forever smile where his lips no longer were.
He held a red axe.
Cooper… none of it mattered without Cooper.
Tim ran toward them, or tried to, but his leg wouldn’t respond, so he hopped instead.
On the ground, he spotted a head-size shard of concrete.
Tim bent, grabbed, lifted, hopped.
The man limped toward Cooper, one shredded foot dragging along for the ride. He raised the axe into the air, gurgled a wet battle cry, and arched his back to bring the blade down hard.
Tim got there first.
He didn’t recognize the sound that came out of his own mouth. He’d never made a noise like that, not once in his entire existence.
With both arms, he shoved the jagged concrete forward, drove a rough point into the good side of the man’s ruined face. The hard concrete crunched through tooth and bone, rocked the man’s head back, dropped him like he’d been hit by a heavyweight hook.
The axe clattered to the slush-streaked pavement.
“Cooper! Get the fuck up!”
Cooper crawled forward on raw hands and torn knees, the jeans on his right thigh wet with dust-coated blood.
The half-faced man sat up. He reached for the axe.
Cooper… none of it mattered without Cooper.
Tim Feely stepped forward, the pain in his leg forgotten. He put one foot on the axe, raised the chunk of concrete into the air.
The man looked up — maybe he smiled, but now both sides of his mouth were destroyed, so who could tell?
Tim brought the concrete down like a misshaped hammer: the man’s skull collapsed, folding in on itself in a sickening, liquid crunch.
The man didn’t move.
Tim leaned down, drew a deep breath and screamed a long, unintelligible roar at his dead enemy. The intelligent part of his mind, the educated part, the civilized part, that part had checked out. Something primitive had taken its place.
A hand on his neck, pulling him.
“Feely, come on!”
Klimas. Klimas had come back for him.
The SEAL pulled Tim through the smoke, pushed him, did the same with Cooper, stopped and turned and fired, pushed and pulled them some more.
Tim stumbled forward. He didn’t know how long, he just kept moving. His ears rang. He had no strength left. He couldn’t breathe. He felt dizzy. He kept moving until someone grabbed him, shoved him to the left.
“In there,” that someone said.
Tim shuffled through a door. So dark. The world spun, made it hard to walk. He was much closer to vomiting now. A strong hand on his arm. Someone dragging him along up a long flight of hard stairs.
Dizziness, nausea, weakness… right at the end, he realized those were the symptoms of blood loss.
Tim Feely fell to the floor, and blackness overtook him.
DAY THIRTEEN
STYLISH OUTERWEAR
Dawn’s light burned through the store’s tall, second-story windows.
Paulius shivered from the cold. He sat still, waiting for a response from his missing men. There was none. He’d been trying for three hours.
He thumbed his “talk” button.
“Roth, Harrison, come in.”
Paulius released the button and waited.
No answer.
“Roth, Harrison, come in.”
Still nothing.
His hands felt numb, as did his toes. He pulled the long, fur coat he’d found tighter on his shoulders. They’d taken refuge in a clothing store — and, of course, it was a women’s clothing store. He wore the coat like a cloak.
He was back far enough from the window that he couldn’t be seen from the road, but close enough that he could look out. Four lanes of Oak Street running east and west, intersecting the three lanes of Rush that ran north-northwest to south-southeast. He had a wide, commanding view of the surrounding area.
Right after they’d cleared the barrier, Katanski had taken a shotgun blast to the throat. He was probably dead before his body hit the ground. Roth and Harrison were missing. Ramierez had made it, but he was badly wounded.
Only Bosh and Klimas were still in proper fighting shape. He’d sent Bosh out to the rendezvous point at LaSalle and Goethe. It was dangerous to send him out alone, but Paulius didn’t have a choice — he had to stay with Cooper Mitchell.
Ramierez sat close by, his back against the wall. Cooper was asleep in front of a rack of shoes. Dr. Feelygood was also out, lying on a big pile of dresses. Paulius had cut away Feely’s shredded, now-useless CBRN suit, then covered the man in a couple of fur coats.
Clarence and Margaret were on the far side of the store. Paulius didn’t want either of them anywhere near the others.
“Roth, Harrison, come in,” Paulius said. “Bosh, come in.”
Nothing.
Ramierez lifted his head, a bloody bunch of gauze taped against the socket of his ruined left eye. He had a long velvet coat hung over his shoulders, another across his lap.