Ace pulled the cold chunk of metal from the back of hispants, and stalked toward the driver. He assessed the situation, calmly,coldly. Three soldiers. Nine bullets in the handgun. It was doable, but hewould have to be fast. He kept his eyes on the man in the driver seat of thejeep. He never even heard Ace approach. Ace pulled the trigger, and the manslumped forward, blood splattered on the inside of the jeep's windshield. Withno hesitation, Ace turned to his right, locking in on the soldiers, whosereactions were somewhat slower than he would have expected. He was able to lineup his second shot, and he shot the second soldier in the shoulder. He fell tothe ground, as the third soldier spun and peppered the side of the jeep withbullets. It was too late though. Ace had already ducked behind the jeep,smiling, his back pressed up against the cool metal.
The third soldier never had a chance. He was stuckbetween a rock and a hard place, the rock being Ace and his handgun, the hardplace being the four criminals behind him, brutal, unforgiving criminals whohad no intention of having their wonderland torn away from them and sealedbehind the cold iron bars of a cell. As soon as the soldier turned his back andfired, Ace's men tackled the soldier, hauling him to the ground, and wrestlingthe rifle out of his hands. They kicked him and stomped him, just to let himknow how displeased they were with the interruption of their revels.
Ace rose from behind the jeep, dusted off his leatherjacket and walked over to the man, who was lying facedown on the ground, thered-bearded man's knee in the soldier's back. Ace twirled the gun in his handand squatted down in front of the soldier.
"What do you want us to do with him?" thered-bearded man said.
Ace smiled at the soldier on the ground, a predatory,unfriendly smile, and said, "Take his weapons. Take all their weapons. Puta bullet in his knee, and let him see if he can survive."
They did what he said, just as he had done with the copin the police station. By the time they had thrown their beer, snacks, andcigarettes into the back of the jeep, the soldier was hopelessly surrounded bythe dead, as were they, but they had a jeep... the soldier merely had a limpand the breath in his lungs. They drove away, pressing through the dead,smashing in the faces of the one's that got too close with the butts of theirstolen rifles. Over the noise of the roaring jeep engine, they could hear theman scream.
Ace hummed a tune from his childhood as the man with theshaved head drove them to their destination. A helicopter flew over head andfired a rocket into the distance. There was an explosion. Explosions are cool,he thought.
Chapter 7: Fortified
Lieutenant General McCutcheon sat in the cab of a Hitachigantry crane sitting on the edge of the Port of Portland's Terminal 2. Theterminal sat on the edge of the Willamette River, some three and a half milessouth of the St. John's Bridge, a beautiful green steel suspension bridge thatspanned the river. Of course, this was not the direction that LieutenantGeneral McCutcheon was looking. He was looking further south, at the tops ofthe buildings that were on fire a mile and a half away to the south.
Below him, the bulk of an army corps was working atfortifying the terminal, 52 acres of parking lots, abandoned shippingcontainers with nowhere to go, and 30,000 men under his command. He had not yetbeen promoted to a four-star general, but he could feel the promotion coming.The body of the previous general that had been in charge of the city's defenselay smoldering in one of the burning skyscrapers in downtown Portland. At leasthe hoped that was the case. It could very well be walking about by now. Suchwere the risks of working in the army.
McCutcheon cast his gaze to the west, eyeing the oppositeside of the river. He could see bodies moving. Whether or not they were deadwas of no consequence to him. Right now, his only concern was fortifying hisposition and the city's deep waterways, dredged to make the city one of themost impressive inland ports the country had. It was their lifeline. With theport in their hands, they had access to supplies. They had access to the Navy'sresources, they had reliable runways, but most importantly they had a means ofescape.
He looked down at the binoculars in his hands, stronghands, capable hands, and he put them to his eyes. On the opposite side of theriver, he watched as a young boy ran, shambling forms chasing after him in thesunlight. He heard the brief pop of a rifle, and watched as the head of one ofthe creature's turned into a red mist.
On top of warehouse #206, one of the snipers under hiscommand was doing his best to help out. Considering the opposite side of theriver must have been at least 2,500 feet away, he was doing a heck of a job.The boy ran, his blonde bowl cut bouncing with each awkward step. The boytripped on a rock, the way young people do. There was another pop fromwarehouse #206, and another puff of pink mist. This time one of the dead's armsfell off. But it wasn't enough to buy the boy a reprieve. McCutcheon loweredhis binoculars and ran one of his strong, capable hands over his face. Smooth shavenand grim, he let the binoculars dangle on the cord that was hanging around hisneck.
"Jesus. Just... Jesus."
McCutcheon climbed down the ladders and landings thatwould get him back on the ground. At the bottom, in the long shadow of thecrane, he met Colonel Tejada, a thick squatty man with brown skin, and armslike woven steel cables. "Any word from the men that checked out thehospital?"
Colonel Tejada saluted McCutcheon before he spoke."The hospital is lost, sir. They said it was overrun. They only found twosurvivors, a doctor and a patient, sir."
McCutcheon scrubbed his hand over his face. "Anycasualties?"
"One injury, sir."
They walked across the black tar of
