As I Walk These Broken Roads

smoke and within seconds the platform was covered.

That was okay. He still had his point of aim. Time for the eyes to go glassy, and the heart to beat steady.

Ears straining, he made out the sounds of footfalls. They were coming down the stairs, planning to immediately bypass the platform because it was lit up, and go straight for the tunnels. He waited a moment, guessed at the timing, and squeezed the trigger.

His rifle cracked and struck his eardrum, the cement tunnels echoing viciously, followed by a loud blast from the platform. Its echoes interplayed with the echoes from his rifle for a second. Then the screams started.

Wentworth was already running. He’d used the recoil of his weapon to roll backwards, onto his feet. The next platform was close at hand, he could make out the red glow of another of Raxx’s fires. He ran blind, not risking a flashlight, trusting the reflections off the two rails. Everything was glints of silver and red. The sound of machinegun fire started up just as he reached the platform. His rifle was raised up in one hand while his other grasped the side of the platform. Invisible in the shadows, Raxx grabbed the hand guards on Wentworth’s rifle and pulled him up. Something bit into the back of Wentworth’s calf and he gasped in pain, sagging for a second — goddamnit, the same fucking leg! — but his grip on the rifle only tightened as Raxx finished hauling him.

They were safe for the moment. The back of his leg felt wet, but aside from the initial bite he felt no pain. Time to come up with another idea.

* * *

Phillips had noticed the fire extinguisher bolted to the wall immediately upon entering the platform. As soon as he saw it things clicked; he knew what Wentworth was planning, but he didn’t have a chance to say anything before the man’s round had screamed through the smoke and into the container of pressurized gas. It had been all Phillips could do to dive for cover as it exploded, sending shrapnel everywhere.

Now two of his men were dead, a third dying. He’d grabbed the machine gun off the dying one and vaulted down to the tracks. He’d fired for a good five or six seconds, raking it back and forth across the tunnel, before releasing the trigger. Exposed as he was he didn’t dare turn on the flashlight to see if he’d hit anyone. They’d need to regroup and keep going.

Steele had dragged the dying gunner to cover and was administering first aid, while the other three took up covering positions. Phillips could already see that the first aid would be useless; one of the dead had been their medic. To their credit, none of his troops looked phased. Two, soon to be three, of their brothers were dead, but they’d deal with their emotions later. Right now there was work to be done.

They regrouped quickly, though it took longer than Phillips would have liked, then arrayed themselves along the tunnel and started moving. Ahead the next platform glowed, a garbage can fire had been kicked over and the chamber was easily visible. They jogged, not wanting to waste time, trying to deny any advantage to Wentworth and his cohort.

At the last platform there’d been had tracks running along either side; here, the tracks came together and there were two platforms. The kicked-over barrel was on their left, but he decided to hedge his bet and split their force — three on the left, three on the right. They climbed up while he covered them. They were still cautious and sharp, fluid, taking the area in stages, staying behind whatever cover they could find. The boarding-area was clear. Their quarry would be above, by the ticket booths.

* * *

Raxx remembered this area. The stairs came up on either sides of the tunnel, and the platform was huge, shops littering both side of the rotunda. Above it was a semi-circular balcony, leading towards the exits, and looking down on the subway stairwells. They were up on it now, crouched in the shadows with their weapons trained. Wentworth had called it the fatal funnel. This was where they were going to end it.

The minutes stretched on. It was dark. Only the barest hints of red, flickering light reached them. Finally they heard sounds from below. Wentworth’s hands were sweating, he opened and closed his right before putting it back on the pistol grip. Phillips was being cautious.

A glint of black in the stairwell. He and Raxx opened fire. The gong of a grenade launcher. Raxx was already running, as planned, after firing a short burst. Wentworth dove to the side, rolling onto his stomach and bringing his rifle up. A piece of shrapnel pinged off his helmet as he started firing back down into the stairwell. Raxx had circled around the balcony and was going down the service stairs. Without exposing himself, the grenadier lobbed a second grenade. This one exploded against the ceiling. Wentworth ducked again. This time he couldn’t tell what showered his body, bits of concrete or shrapnel, but he still seemed to be okay. He rolled back from the edge and played dead.

“Move!” came the shout from below. The Section tried to bypass the stairwell as quickly as possible, but the troop guarding their six was too slow. By this time Raxx had snuck down the service stairs, and was crouched at the back end. His shotgun chugged as he held down the trigger. The muzzle flash lit his face white, casting shadows on his eye sockets and making the hairs of his goatee stick out like a thousand threatening needles. His piercings glowed viciously.

As Raxx fired, Wentworth stood up and started snap-shooting into the stairwell. Raxx backed off and Wentworth switched to fully automatic. That’s when he saw the movement on the second stairwell. He switched his point of aim, but it wasn’t enough. “Raxx, get down!”

The Mechanic never heard him.

He fell backwards, the strength going out of his knees and his weapon flailing, as the newspaper box behind him exploded into plastic shards, under a barrage of fire from the second stairwell. He hit the ground, limp.

Hot lead built up in Wentworth’s eyes to match the seeping from his leg. It was just too much. He hadn’t expected the second stairwell — how had he missed the second stairwell? — and now Phillips had traversed it, taking cover in the far corner. It was too much. Exchanging fire with his old brothers — with Steele — and then the death of his only friend—

An idiotic idea occurred to him. His head was already swimming with vertigo. It wouldn’t matter, then. He rolled off the mezzanine into the empty air.

The world swung sickeningly. There they were, crouched, two meters apart, weapons still trained on Raxx’s corpse. He aimed the rifle between his legs and fired — the soldier with the rifle fell.

The concrete struck him; shocks through his body.

Phillips was holding a machinegun, still frozen in surprise. Wentworth was seeing double. Phillips reacted.

They pulled their triggers simultaneously. Phillips’ shots went wide. Wentworth’s didn’t. The four round burst pushed his weapon upwards, leaving a trail of punctures on Phillips’ body. The machinegun flew from the man’s hands, shot several more rounds, then stopped. It hit the ground with its ammo belt jingling.

Their fire echoed up and down the corridors in heavy pulses, fading. Then there was silence.

Wentworth bent his knees, and tried to stand up. His body ached. There were no stabbing pains, though. With any luck he hadn’t broken a bone. With ones hand under him he managed to sit up. He tried to stand — his right leg was numb, stiff. He blinked away tears, unsure if they were for his leg or for his friend, and forced himself up. Rifle tucked into his armpit, he stumbled over to the bodies of Phillips and his soldier.

They weren’t a threat anymore. Off behind him, Raxx wasn’t a threat, either.

He stumbled over to the first stairwell. One of the grenadiers lay there, his body silent, weapon fallen down to the lower level. Taking a deep breath he moved over to the other stairwell, the one Raxx had pelted with his full-auto burst. The stairwell where he’d killed people. Raxx’s final action.

Two more bodies. They were lying on top of one another.

He saw the glint of an eye and dropped. A brief muscle movement from one of the bodies, firing a shot from a long gun. His rifle barked in response, on target to the threat. The enemy’s round missed him as his own split open a forearm.

A high pitched shriek. He looked down at the face, a rictus of pain, as she tried to hold her shredded arm. It was Steele.

He put down his rifle, and moved down the stairs, leg still numb, sliding his ass from step to step. By the time he reached her she’d quieted, though her breathing was laboured. The steps were soaked with blood.

He looked at her. Her eyes were frantic with pain, but deep within them, there she was, looking back. He gasped a breath. “You were a hell of a kisser,” he said

“Yeah,” she panted back, cradling her pink and white flesh, “You weren’t so bad yourself, Iain.”