The explosion shocked me.
The hive of activity before me, lit by a few sputtering emergency lights, quickly became darkened as smoke filled the room. The sound of gunfire popped through the darkness, and I pulled Adam down, down to the floor. We started crawling for some kind of concealment. In the dim light, we could only make out rough outlines of shapes, shapes of men running past, shapes of larger objects we could only guess at, shapes of things that had been so familiar just a few moments ago, but which now took on a strange, otherworldly quality that was disorienting.
Adam tugged me over to the side. We were behind a pallet that looked to be stacked with some kind of books. It is always interesting to me that when in those kinds of circumstances, we become hyper-attenuated to the finest details of our surroundings. I could smell the sulfur in the smoke, for example, acrid and biting. I could see the screws they used to bind the books together, noting that they were some kind of technical manual. I also noted that sweat was beading up on my son's forehead. I needed to do something, I thought. But what?
Looking around, I noticed a tracked vehicle, parked with its hatches open for easy ingress. I motioned for Adam to crawl over and get inside there. At least there, I'd hoped, he'd be safe from stray bullets. Bullets which were not coming rapidly, but which were nonetheless fairly constant. I had not served in the military, but in the course of my interaction with those who had, I'd come to know about special forces and how they were trained. These shots were not the "spray and pray" variety. It was not suppression fire, designed to intimidate and to provide cover. These shots were precise, accurate, and extremely deadly.
I also noted that there was not as much sound as I'd have expected. Aside from the first explosion, through which I assume the attacking force gained entry into the compound, there was very little noise. The pops from the guns sounded like dropping a box onto the floor, rather than the incredibly loud rifle report I'd have expected. Also, the attackers had on goggles - night vision goggles - and helmets that enabled them to coordinate their movements. Their movements were quick, efficient, and spoke of their deadly training and intent. Soon, they were the only people moving. I guessed there was about twenty of them, dressed in a dark, charcoal gray.
I also noted that they were headed my way, towards the door I'd come into the staging area/garage from. I knew that the limited information I had would be of assistance to them, and I also felt a very strong desire NOT to get shot by them. So how could I make myself known without being shot?
I looked for something to wave in the air, to get their attention and to show like a white flag. There was nothing... nothing. In frustration, I took off my shirt and waved it in the air above the pallet. The air vents had been doing their work, and the air was largely clean. Soon, I found myself looking at the barrel of what was unmistakably a machine gun, being roughly pushed onto my back. The soldier waited just a tick, and then was joined by another soldier, this one wearing captain's bars on his lapels. The first soldier stood back, never moving his gun from what looked like my eye.
I was scared as hell.
The captain leaned over and quietly said, "Who are you?"
"My name is Michael," I began. "Look, my son and I are being held here against our will. We've been here for months. I don't know what's going on - well, some of it I do - but I just want to get out of here. I have some sketches of the interior of this compound if you'd like them..."
He did. It was then, however, that I realized that the sketches were still with my son.
"My son is in that tracked vehicle over there," I said, pointing. "His name is Adam. Shall I get him?"
"No," the captain said. He keyed in somewhere - I couldn't catch where or what he was doing, just that something was sent and received, and I could hear (barely) the steps of a couple of guys moving to the tracked vehicle.
After just a few seconds, Adam came over and joined me. "Adam, please hand over the sketches we made to this gentleman here," I said. Adam passed them over, then joined me in a seated position, backs up against the pallet. The captain immediately saw the usefulness of the sketches, incomplete though they were, and started sending our more non-verbal commands. I heard additional movements behind me, and then soldiers moved in to the door and started up the hallway Adam and I had come through.
"Michael," the captain said, looking directly in my face. "I don't know you from Adam." (A slight smile crossed his face as he glanced at my son) "And I find that trusting people I don't know is a sure way to get killed. I'm going to leave Sergeant Johnson here to watch you while we go clear the rest of this compound. Thank you for your help."
"Captain, before you go, there's something you should know."
I told him about the mini-nukes. He wasn't surprised. They'd already had some indication of that. "I don't think they'd be foolish enough to use them in here," he said, supremely confident and a bit arrogant. "Besides, my men have all been trained heavily, and have been given iodine shots that should help with any errant radiation."
"Hang on, though. There's something else." I explained about the miracle solvent. Again, he wasn't surprised. "Our folks have done an analysis on the stuff. These outfits we're wearing are not our standard gear - they are made of the same polymer that protects the folks who use the stuff. We'll be OK, as long as we don't get a shot to the face. Anything else?"
"No. Just please be careful. My wife and daughter are in there somewhere, too. I'd like them back alive, if at all possible."
The captain did not respond, just turned and hurried off to join most of his men as they moved down the corridor. I could hear those eerily, nearly silent gunshots moving off, as the soldiers encountered resistance.
Just then, from behind the tracked vehicle, came my wife. With her was Rick, John, and Ellen. John, upon seeing Sergeant Johnson, sprayed him full in the face with the solvent. The result was as instantaneous as it was terrible. His face evaporated into a steam of wispy, white mist that floated away on the air currents. He was still standing as his entire skull was eaten away, his body falling to the floor with a clatter.
It was so quick, so ruthless, and so incredibly cold that I couldn't believe what I'd seen. Mercifully, Ellen had been turned away, looking at Adam with real concern in her eyes, and so missed the event. She looked back at the body as it fell to the floor, and she clung to her mother's leg in a gesture I'd not seen in years.
Janice looked startled, too. She was not a violent person, I knew. She looked back at me, mounting horror in her eyes. What was going on in her head at that moment I can only speculate,
The hive of activity before me, lit by a few sputtering emergency lights, quickly became darkened as smoke filled the room. The sound of gunfire popped through the darkness, and I pulled Adam down, down to the floor. We started crawling for some kind of concealment. In the dim light, we could only make out rough outlines of shapes, shapes of men running past, shapes of larger objects we could only guess at, shapes of things that had been so familiar just a few moments ago, but which now took on a strange, otherworldly quality that was disorienting.
Adam tugged me over to the side. We were behind a pallet that looked to be stacked with some kind of books. It is always interesting to me that when in those kinds of circumstances, we become hyper-attenuated to the finest details of our surroundings. I could smell the sulfur in the smoke, for example, acrid and biting. I could see the screws they used to bind the books together, noting that they were some kind of technical manual. I also noted that sweat was beading up on my son's forehead. I needed to do something, I thought. But what?
Looking around, I noticed a tracked vehicle, parked with its hatches open for easy ingress. I motioned for Adam to crawl over and get inside there. At least there, I'd hoped, he'd be safe from stray bullets. Bullets which were not coming rapidly, but which were nonetheless fairly constant. I had not served in the military, but in the course of my interaction with those who had, I'd come to know about special forces and how they were trained. These shots were not the "spray and pray" variety. It was not suppression fire, designed to intimidate and to provide cover. These shots were precise, accurate, and extremely deadly.
I also noted that there was not as much sound as I'd have expected. Aside from the first explosion, through which I assume the attacking force gained entry into the compound, there was very little noise. The pops from the guns sounded like dropping a box onto the floor, rather than the incredibly loud rifle report I'd have expected. Also, the attackers had on goggles - night vision goggles - and helmets that enabled them to coordinate their movements. Their movements were quick, efficient, and spoke of their deadly training and intent. Soon, they were the only people moving. I guessed there was about twenty of them, dressed in a dark, charcoal gray.
I also noted that they were headed my way, towards the door I'd come into the staging area/garage from. I knew that the limited information I had would be of assistance to them, and I also felt a very strong desire NOT to get shot by them. So how could I make myself known without being shot?
I looked for something to wave in the air, to get their attention and to show like a white flag. There was nothing... nothing. In frustration, I took off my shirt and waved it in the air above the pallet. The air vents had been doing their work, and the air was largely clean. Soon, I found myself looking at the barrel of what was unmistakably a machine gun, being roughly pushed onto my back. The soldier waited just a tick, and then was joined by another soldier, this one wearing captain's bars on his lapels. The first soldier stood back, never moving his gun from what looked like my eye.
I was scared as hell.
The captain leaned over and quietly said, "Who are you?"
"My name is Michael," I began. "Look, my son and I are being held here against our will. We've been here for months. I don't know what's going on - well, some of it I do - but I just want to get out of here. I have some sketches of the interior of this compound if you'd like them..."
He did. It was then, however, that I realized that the sketches were still with my son.
"My son is in that tracked vehicle over there," I said, pointing. "His name is Adam. Shall I get him?"
"No," the captain said. He keyed in somewhere - I couldn't catch where or what he was doing, just that something was sent and received, and I could hear (barely) the steps of a couple of guys moving to the tracked vehicle.
After just a few seconds, Adam came over and joined me. "Adam, please hand over the sketches we made to this gentleman here," I said. Adam passed them over, then joined me in a seated position, backs up against the pallet. The captain immediately saw the usefulness of the sketches, incomplete though they were, and started sending our more non-verbal commands. I heard additional movements behind me, and then soldiers moved in to the door and started up the hallway Adam and I had come through.
"Michael," the captain said, looking directly in my face. "I don't know you from Adam." (A slight smile crossed his face as he glanced at my son) "And I find that trusting people I don't know is a sure way to get killed. I'm going to leave Sergeant Johnson here to watch you while we go clear the rest of this compound. Thank you for your help."
"Captain, before you go, there's something you should know."
I told him about the mini-nukes. He wasn't surprised. They'd already had some indication of that. "I don't think they'd be foolish enough to use them in here," he said, supremely confident and a bit arrogant. "Besides, my men have all been trained heavily, and have been given iodine shots that should help with any errant radiation."
"Hang on, though. There's something else." I explained about the miracle solvent. Again, he wasn't surprised. "Our folks have done an analysis on the stuff. These outfits we're wearing are not our standard gear - they are made of the same polymer that protects the folks who use the stuff. We'll be OK, as long as we don't get a shot to the face. Anything else?"
"No. Just please be careful. My wife and daughter are in there somewhere, too. I'd like them back alive, if at all possible."
The captain did not respond, just turned and hurried off to join most of his men as they moved down the corridor. I could hear those eerily, nearly silent gunshots moving off, as the soldiers encountered resistance.
Just then, from behind the tracked vehicle, came my wife. With her was Rick, John, and Ellen. John, upon seeing Sergeant Johnson, sprayed him full in the face with the solvent. The result was as instantaneous as it was terrible. His face evaporated into a steam of wispy, white mist that floated away on the air currents. He was still standing as his entire skull was eaten away, his body falling to the floor with a clatter.
It was so quick, so ruthless, and so incredibly cold that I couldn't believe what I'd seen. Mercifully, Ellen had been turned away, looking at Adam with real concern in her eyes, and so missed the event. She looked back at the body as it fell to the floor, and she clung to her mother's leg in a gesture I'd not seen in years.
Janice looked startled, too. She was not a violent person, I knew. She looked back at me, mounting horror in her eyes. What was going on in her head at that moment I can only speculate,
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