“Roll, get ready. I’m going to brake hard and spin this thing. You pop out of the sunroof and open up on those monsters! Rock, you get ready with the .50 cal. to cover us. Viz and Para, be ready to move those kids from the van to the truck. But no matter what, you all stay on the Gig Harbor side. Don’t even go on the bridge. Be ready. This is going to happen really fast.”
“But Grandad, I ... people, kids. I-”
“Viz, just do it!”
The SRT is near the middle, the crest, of the bridge about half a mile from us. Roll has already opened fire, one round after another. Big shells with a heavy thump. We can hear them over the truck speaker and a split second later the sound repeats from their position half a mile away. Some are Dragons Breath. The bugs are milling around, hesitating, staying out of range of the shells. I’m not sure if they are carrying weapons. No return fire yet.
The smell was terrible. A mix of burning protein from charred bugs and melted plastic. The SRT was smoking. Grandad had pulled up next to an abandoned semi-truck with a load of water bottles. It had jackknifed some time back, and overturned, exposing the bottles. The wind shifted a little and the smoke and steam began to billow from thousands of smoldering water bottles. Then there was an explosion of a sort and water bottles went flying all over. More steam and smoke, all of it drifting over the water of the Narrows.
We could hear Grandad over the car speaker. “Roll, 3 o’clock on your right. One’s trying to get to the side of the bridge.”
“Got him.”
The van full of kids had stopped fairly close to us. Grandad and Roll had taken a position between them and the bugs, near that semi-truck to gain some cover. The van was done, the rim had finally given way. Para had stopped the truck. Grandad didn’t want us to go on the bridge. They all started piling out of the van. A lot of kids! They were screaming and running toward us.
That’s when we saw them. Some bugs had gotten on the other side of the barrier wall and were going around Grandad, way on the right side of the bridge. The bridge deck was giving them cover. They wanted those kids! Para punched it, then braked hard. The truck skidded to a stop near the kids on the left side of the bridge. The SRT was also toward the left side of the bridge.
We jumped out of the truck. Rock had the door open and the window rolled down, with the .50 cal. resting on the door frame. He was more amped up than I’ve ever seen him, yet he still had this odd calmness to his voice. “Stay to the left and keep the kids to the left. I need an open field of fire.”
I remember shouting, screaming, in between loud bursts of .50 cal. fire. I grabbed two of the smaller kids. “Quick! Follow us. Get in the truck! Jump in the back. Hurry! You’re all going to be okay.”
Para and I herded the kids and their driver into the truck. We had made it! I joined Rock, adding to the noise with 3-round bursts from the M-16. Then we saw more bugs coming from the east, over the crest of the bridge, at least 20 of them. There was another cloud of smoke, from squealing tires, as the SRT took off.
Grandad was shouting. “Let’s go! Move it! Go, go! LOOK OUT! Bug with a weapon, your 9 o’clock.”
The three of us were poised to jump into the front seat and get out of there, guns thrown onto the seat. A bug was coming up from under the left side of the bridge, unlimbering a large tube. A weapon. No time to get a gun. Para tore the driver-side door off the truck and heaved it at the bug. Oh! The tube clattered to the ground as the bug, now attached to the door, careened out from the bridge deck. Fast thinking Para. But the other bugs were closing in. Time to go.
We were again getting set to hop into the truck when we saw the bug fliers coming in from the north. I knew we were done; they would tear us to pieces. We’d already seen what those fliers could do, on day two of the invasion. Terror.
It was a strange feeling in that moment, as I gave up and just didn’t care anymore. Terror gone. I felt a peacefulness. We had done what we could.
Then I was shocked from my trance by several bright flashes followed by loud explosions. I could feel the concussion of the air bursts. Blast waves. There was a metallic clattering as debris rained down, some pieces impacting nearby. Several of the bug fliers had disintegrated and erupted into clouds of smoke that would be added to the smoke on the water. Bug smoke.
It was like an afterimage of something streaking by only a couple hundred feet above the bridge. F22s my mind registered. Probably came out of Portland. They were moving so fast, firing missiles at point-blank range. A lot of cannon fire too. They passed over and were gone. Almost straight up, with the remaining fliers veering off to give chase. I looked at Para and Rock, both staring, transfixed.
We felt the truck buck and I could see the truck engine through a gaping hole, the paint bubbling and giving off a noxious smoke. There was a lot of heat. Bugs were running hard, coming on fast. Grandad had stopped to check on us. The entire back end of the SRT was a charred and melted ruin. He had a big smile on his face though.
Grandad waved us on, he would take up the rear. Para didn’t need any
