Henry and Martinez walked through the crowd of people who had gathered to watch the fire. Some of them were sitting in the cold and staring into space, others talking in small groups. There were cries and groans from tents that had materialized from somewhere. It was as if the town converged upon the school by some unspoken collective agreement.
Henry felt tears sting his eyes, not from the smoke now, but from the scenes of heartbreak and tragedy everywhere he looked.
A young couple clung to one another, sitting on the frozen ground, a small, unmoving bundle in their arms. They rocked back and forth, swaying to an unspeakable melody of pain and loss.
An old man, stooped and bent with years and anguish, murmured over a white-haired woman and he touched her face with trembling, bony hands.
A boy of nine or ten walked in circles, hands stuffed tight into his coat pockets, making drowning sounds and chanting “muh, muhm mamma.”
Henry wanted to fall to his knees and weep.
“There,” said Martinez, pointing. A white van with Action News 4 painted on the side was parked near the edge of the throng of survivors. Martinez rapped on the door. A kid with curly hair and thick glasses poked his head out from the back of the van.
“Get lost,” he said. He looked like he wasn’t old enough to drive. Maybe a college intern. He tried to close the door. Martinez stopped him.
“Do you have a satellite feed?”
“Who the—”
“Wait,” said a woman from somewhere behind the kid. “Travis, grab your camera. These are the heroes.”
The interior of the van was crammed with electronics. Glowing screens displayed various scenes of carnage and destruction.
“You’re famous,” the woman said, beaming. “Four million hits in the last thirty minutes.”
“So you have a feed,” Martinez said.
“Obviously.”
Travis was pulling out a handheld camera. Henry took it from him.
Martinez reached into a pocket in his jacket, a small black stick drive in his hand. “I want you to upload this. Right now.”
“Give Travis his camera back, and we’ll talk about it.”
On one of the screens over her shoulder, Henry was carrying a child to a fireman. The camera zoomed in for a close-up shot of his sooty face. At the bottom of the screen, a headline scrolled in bold print highlighted in red, reading Unknown heroes rescue school children in war-torn Colorado.
“I don’t have time to be nice,” Martinez growled. He held out the tiny flash drive. “Upload this.”
“For an interview? An exclusive?”
“Sure, lady.”
She turned her head and said over her shoulder, “Travis, do it.”
Travis took the drive and plugged it into a port, sitting in the cramped van. “It’s encrypted,” he said.
“Just do it,” Martinez said.
“But it’s gibberish. It won’t make sense. It’s just unreadable code at this point. I’d have to—”
“There’s no time,” Martinez said. “Put it out there raw.”
“All right. Where do I send it?”
“Everywhere. Send it to everyone,” Martinez said.
The kid was typing feverishly. “There’s a ton of files,” he said, peering at the glowing screen. “It’s gonna take a few minutes.”
“Huh,” Travis said then, cocking his head. “The upload just stopped.”
“Give me the drive,” Martinez said.
“Hold on. It might be—”
Martinez climbed into the van and removed the drive from the computer. “You need to vanish,” he said. “On foot, and right now.”
“Wait!” the reporter said. “What about the interview?”
“Leave the van and go!” Henry said. “You’re in danger.”
Martinez had already walked away, and Henry turned to follow him back to the fire truck where they’d left Carlos. Martinez removed his jacket mid-stride and tossed it on the ground. Henry followed suit. They made it about a hundred yards.
Henry heard the hiss of the rocket a fraction of a second before the blast knocked him forward. He pushed himself back to his feet and saw an inferno where the news van had been. People were screaming again, running to nowhere in particular. Henry hoped the reporter and Travis had listened.
Carlos was on his feet next to the truck, a duffel full of gear over each shoulder. He handed Henry his own bag. They grabbed helmets from the fire truck and put them on.
“Evasive action,” Martinez said. Let’s split up. The church with the big steeple on the south side of town. Let’s meet there in fifteen minutes. Go!”
Henry walked at a brisk pace, not quite, but almost a jog. He moved at an oblique angle to his destination, cutting through backyards and staying beneath the cover of trees as much as he could. Many houses bore wounds. Some burned, others had holes torn through them. It looked like a war zone, which, of course, it was. He cut through an empty house, grabbed an olive green parka from the coat closet, and put that on, along with a knitted cap. He walked out onto the sidewalk, slowed his gait, and limped just for effect.
He reasoned that somehow, the upload had been intercepted and stopped. Whoever had done that had ordered the air strike, and there were probing eyes in the sky scouring the town. Maybe drones, maybe satellites, or both. As he neared the church, he was aware of the thrum of the shattered town, straining to filter out the many sounds. There was the sound of sirens and car alarms and a wailing that seemed to emanate from the trees, which he was not certain was real. He strained to listen for aircraft, knowing that if a drone had him, he would be dead before he could react.
One of the things he had been trained to do was to think like the enemy. I don’t know who my enemy is, but I’m learning. If I were trying to silence an enemy in an American town, I wouldn’t rely on drones and air power. I’d want people on the ground. If I were evil, I’d wipe the whole town off the map. I’d want to see the bodies.
He forced himself to walk slowly, crossing the street to the church. The traffic light was dead and hanging in the middle of the road at just above head height. This part of the quaint town had seen heavy fighting. There were military vehicles smashed and smoking in the middle of the road, and uniformed bodies lying in motionless clumps. Blood stained the snow.
The thump of rotors, multiple birds inbound, which was a sound Henry had once loved, now chilled him more than the icy wind.
“Wilkins!” From off to his right. “Over here.”
Henry turned on the sidewalk, catching movement from the corner of his eye. Martinez waved from inside a blown-out storefront. Henry jogged in that direction while the sound of approaching helicopters grew louder.
It was a hardware store, the kind of mom and pop place Henry remembered from his childhood but rarely saw anymore. Martinez and Carlos were inside, along with other soldiers.
“What took you so long?” Martinez said. “Nice hat.”
“I’m right on time,” Henry said, pointing at his watch. “Who are these guys?”
“These guys,” said a square-jawed man in fatigues and a helmet, “have just had the shit kicked out of them. And now we’re about to save your ass. Or maybe we’re all just gonna die.” He sounded like he’d walked out of a New York mafia movie. Deese guys.
“This is Captain Canella,” Sergeant Major Martinez said.
“Colorado National Guard,” Captain Canella interjected. “Of the United States of America.”
“Sir,” Henry said, saluting.
“Are you fucking kiddin’ me?” Captain Canella snorted. “Kit up. It’s about to get interesting again.”
“Yes, sir.”
Henry tore into his ruck. He pulled on his vest, strapped his sidearm to his thigh, and assembled his submachine gun. The helicopters closed in, and the pitch of the rumble changed as they swept past.