Distant muffled explosions and cracks of rifle fire sounded through the trees, the fighting in Boston harbour now progressing into the streets behind the waterfront, thick black plumes of smoke rising from the shattered forward thoroughfares and burning buildings, the inferno spreading northwards.
The young marine slipped the helmet from his head, rubbing a gloved hand through his matted hair as he drew breath, recalling the screams and horrified shouts behind as they had run from the lighthouse, the Morgons slaughtering everyone in their path, hacking and mutilating the adults as they had cowered with their children. A grey MPV had hurtled past the running soldiers, two teenagers sprinting with them, the terror consuming the middle aged driver preventing him from seeing any need to stop for others.
They had run along Long Island Drive from the north for a short time, passing the tourist signs for the historical defensive forts on either side and then approaching converted apartment buildings, the island originally housing the homeless and dependency recovery programmes.
The two soldiers had slipped into the trees, wary of staying on the long straight track from the lighthouse at the northern picnic area of the island, passing impressive secluded and private dwellings at the water’s edge. Both realised in grim silence that any wealthy residents that were in the apartments behind were probably now beyond help and if left could delay the hunting Morgons searching the numerous buildings and surrounding land, preventing their own demise as they searched for a boat. The soldiers knew they had limited time to escape...every second counted and none would be saved if they waited for others.
Rodrigues had indicated for them to move along the coastline, to scour the private moorings for any possible launch or pleasure craft, the only possible escape from the remote island. The Latino senior private had considered that it was best for them to sail south, towards Quincy or Weymouth to join another military unit there, or even the national guard. The searches had been fruitless…any boats they found being without keys, several already having departed earlier in the day as the owners went to work in the city beyond.
His thoughts had then considered there may even be security personnel or even weapons at the abandoned cold war missile base further south on the island…perhaps a military launch if they were lucky, the two soldiers progressing alone through the trees on the western coastline and then preparing to make their way inland when they reached the outer boundary of the complex.
Muffled gunfire from the north caused them to wearily rise, realising the Morgons had now reached the apartment blocks and were butchering any unfortunate remaining residents in their homes, several of the occupants firing back with their own private handguns or rifles. A low howl chilled the blood of the younger soldier, his ears straining as he heard another to the north east, his lips curling in distain as he realised the hunting beasts were calling out to each other, perhaps celebrating their kills.
Slipping further into the trees, Rodrigues moved first, his pistol raised as they stepped carefully along the sightseeing path, hearing distant screams between the gunfire and wary of stepping out from the shadows of the trees, stars beginning to sparkle in the clear sky above.
The young marine glanced round, staring at the flashing lights of several enemy craft as they swept through the night air towards Boston further west, his head shaking in despondency as they moved further southwards, glimpsing rising steel fencing ahead with the benefit of flickering illumination from the burning city, the coastline path weaving back and forth with a narrow beach below.
Approaching the boundary to the abandoned Nike Missile Launch Base, Rodrigues turned to his countryman, grimacing at the high fencing and razor wire above, his voice raised with the perforated eardrums, ‘We will have to be quick…skirt the western edge for an opening or signs of any security…then continue south if we find nothing.’ He sighed, a hand rising to the side of his head, dried blood smeared from his lower ear lobes, ‘I don’t fancy swimming across to Moon Island…that’s where the bridge was before they demolished it.’ He grinned, wiping his sweat and dirt encrusted face as the younger marine grimaced, the Latino slapping his uniformed shoulder in encouragement, ‘There will be some sort of marina or mooring at the southern tip…maybe we can get a boat there. Someone must have escaped and be trying to get to their vessel…perhaps even the tour boat will be there for…’ His voice trailed off as the young man stiffened, grasping his arm, the cracking of twigs and rustling of branches behind in the trees alerting the other marine as he pointed, their bodies lowering with pistols extending in alarm as the youngster heard a low growl, Rodrigues gritting his teeth as both soldiers backed along the path.
Holland Tunnel, beneath the Hudson River, NYC
Struggling along the darkened Holland Tunnel, Davis glanced from side to side, his eyes widening in horror as he saw the shadowed huddled figures, women with children and exhausted office workers cowering in fear against the walls in the gloom of the tunnel. Many were slumped silently with bloodied head or limb wounds, the low moaning and weeping resounding across the grimy tiled walls as many sat with heads slumped downwards in defeat, their emotions drained completely from an afternoon of terror and exhaustion. Most were dishevelled, in dirt and dust encrusted suits and clothes, a number of medics crouched before the more seriously wounded, other people struggling past between the abandoned stationary cars and vans.
The NYPD police officer slowed and glanced round, biting his lower lip and drawing blood
