The Hummer and truck weaved around the edge of the market and moved back onto the quiet streets.
“Is it just me?” Elvis asked. “Or was that surreal? It’s like everyone in the whole goddamn city was in there. Out here, it’s a ghost town again.”
“I don’t like ghosts,” Jameson replied. “Keep your eyes peeled.”
A few minutes later Bosco cut in over the radio. “Left in 150 meters. UN compound should be in the following city block.”
Kids ran down one of the alleys, playing with each other. They were wearing sky-blue Kevlar helmets with the white UN logo on the side. Bower doubted that was a good sign.
The two vehicles turned into a broad avenue running straight for several miles through the deadpan eastern side of the city. In the distance, colored fabrics billowed out from the rooftops, sweeping down across the road like curtains and broad streamers.
“What the fuck is that?” Elvis asked. “A parachute?”
“Too many colors. A hot-air balloon, perhaps?” Bower added, her mind casting back to the gentle fields of England for a moment.
The fabric had a purple tinge with hints of scarlet, emerald and a golden yellow hue depending on the way sunlight played on the windswept material. Sections ballooned up on the rooftops, catching a breeze that never made it to ground level.
“Too big,” Jameson said.
What had initially looked like power-lines crisscrossing the street suddenly resolved into a vast network of tentacles strewn on the rooftops lining the avenue.
“They brought one of those things down,” Jameson added, with no need to explain himself further. Bower breathed deeply.
“Fuck,” Elvis said.
Silently, Bower agreed with him.
A burnt-out armored personnel carrier sat to one side, its tires reduced to hardened piles of black rubber. Dark stains marred the dirt, dried blood from bodies long since dragged away, at least she hoped they were remnants of some forgotten conflict. In a couple of places the blood looked fresh. The smell of cordite hung in the air.
A sense of heartache struck Bower. There was a disdain for life in war-torn Africa, where the price of a life was less than the bullets that felled a man.
At the end of the block, a torn UN flag flew above a battle-scarred walled compound. Billows of what she presumed were alien skin flapped in the breeze easily a quarter of a mile beyond.
“Hi Honey, I’m home,” Elvis said in his distinct southern drawl. No one laughed.
“No troops,” Jameson said, leaning forward and looking at the factory walls on one side and the rooftops across the road. “Why no sentries?”
“Look at that fucker,” Elvis replied, pointing at the dead alien creature. “It’s a goddamn scarecrow. Who the hell’s gonna wanna attack them with that Mo-Fo hanging there. God knows what was in its belly.”
Jameson ignored him, grabbing the radio just as the Hummer turned to enter the courtyard. “Hold there, Bosco. Something’s not right.”
“I’ve seen this movie,” Elvis continued. “Fucking face-huggers and acid-spitting aliens. We go in there, we’re screwed. I hate this shit.”
Bower could see Jameson was shutting Elvis out, trying to think on his feet. Jameson wasn’t worried about aliens, he was worried about an all-too-human ambush, and Bower felt it too. The Hummer was half-way through the entrance to the factory courtyard. She watched as the lightly-armored Hummer reversed out, clipping a power pole on the blind side of the vehicle.
“Get us out of here,” Jameson yelled at Elvis.
Elvis was already hitting reverse, twisting his body sideways as he peered at the side mirror. The whine of the engine hit fever pitch as the truck raced backwards in reverse gear.
“Bus,” yelled Elvis, hitting the brakes and twisting hard on the wheel, sending the vehicle sliding to one side. At first, Bower didn’t know what he meant, but then she felt their truck collide with a large vehicle behind them. The jolt passed through her as a wave, rattling her bones. In the wing mirror, she could see a burning bus blocking the road behind them, having been pushed in place by rebels on foot. Their AK-47s were shouldered as they heaved the barricade in place.
Smithy opened up with the SAW mounted on the Hummer. From the angle, Bower could see she was firing on someone on a rooftop to their right. Plastic cartridges danced across the road.
“Go forward. Go forward,” Jameson screamed into the radio.
A trail of smoke sailed down the road, skimming past their truck and exploding against the bus behind them. Suddenly, the smell in the air was one of soot, that of burning rubber. The sound of automatic gun fire broke around them like thunder.
The hood of the Hummer exploded in a flash of flames. A fireball arose, but the Hummer raced on, swerving wildly as it passed the entrance to the UN compound. A trail of smoke raced from a darkened window on the first floor, out across the street and down toward the Hummer.
Bower watched in horror as the Hummer lifted off the ground with the force of the explosion. The vehicle flipped onto one side in a blinding flash and skidded to a halt, barring their path.
For a second, Bower thought Elvis was going to ram the Hummer to push it out of the way, but he rode the truck up over the curb and drove half on the sidewalk as Jameson fired his M4 out the open window. Whereas before she’d thought the gunfire was loud, now it was deafening, the shock from each round reverberated through the cabin so much so she couldn’t hear what Elvis was saying. He was yelling, of that she was sure, but his words were indistinct, just a blur in the confusion. Smoke trails cut through the air followed by explosions tearing up the sidewalk.
Bower felt the rear of the truck slide out from beneath them before she registered the sound of the explosion and the wave of heat emanating from a rocket blast. The truck skidded through the intersection in front of the UN compound.
Jameson was out of the truck. How he’d moved so fast Bower wasn’t sure, but his door was open and she could see him standing there, his legs spread slightly apart on the dusty road, firing short bursts in various directions.
Bower went to move toward him when a hand grabbed the collar of her vest and dragged her backwards out of the cab of the truck. Bower struggled not to fall to the ground, grabbing with her hands to steady herself as she slid out of the door to the street below. Elvis had his M4 cradled so the butt of the rifle sat in the crook of his arm. Like Jameson, he was firing short bursts, just one or two shots in one direction and then another. With his other hand he kept a firm grip on her collar, holding her head down so she couldn’t see all that was going on. He was protecting her, she understood that, but with a ruthless amount of force. The stiff panels of her Kevlar vest made it awkward to move, digging into her hips.
Elvis herded her toward the back of the truck where black smoke billowed into the air.
Jameson had come around the front of the truck. She could see him firing one way while Elvis fired the other.
Elvis shoved her down against the back of the burning truck, using what little cover he had. Bower could feel the radiant heat of the flames lashing at her cheeks. Bullets whipped past.
Looking around, dark shapes appeared in the doorways and broken windows of the surrounding buildings. Bower could see the upturned Hummer. Oil and diesel seeped out onto the dusty ground.
Smithy was standing defiant in front of the wreckage, firing the SAW on full automatic at rebel soldiers charging in from further down the street. They dropped like flies. Hot shell casings skidded across the road away from her. Smithy eased up, turning her attention back to the rooftops with short bursts. Her tiny frame shook with the recoil of the bullets streaming out of the smoking barrel of her machine gun. She was fearless. Bower was terrified.