Harris stood in an alleyway behind the tank and watched the huge machine trundle past. Standing this close he could feel the ground tremble beneath his feet and his teeth chattered, though that wasn't all to do with the vibrations. A number of thralls trotted in its wake and Harris pressed further back into the shadows.
"How many?" Ashley asked.
"About fifteen," Harris replied, "but you can be sure there's more coming. Are you up for this?"
Kelly and Ashley hefted the grenades in their hands and nodded.
"I keep thinking of Butch and Sundance," Harris muttered.
"What's that?"
"Nothing," he said. "Now or never then, guys." With that, the three men came out from behind the wall and all hell broke loose.
The men threw their grenades quickly and brought their weapons to bear even before the first blast ripped through the thralls. Bodies were flung into the air by the blasts, the explosions popping like firecrackers at second intervals, and then the machine guns roared and caught the remaining thralls in a devastating crossfire.
The thralls were taken completely by surprise, but their reactions were uncanny. Boosted by their enhanced abilities, a few actually managed to get their guns ready and return fire at the three men. Bullets flew past Harris" head and his shirt billowed as the rounds tore at the material. Beside him he heard Ashley scream when a line of bullets stitched a pattern from his groin to his neck. Harris suddenly fell to one knee when his left leg was shot from under him and then, just as suddenly as it began, it was all over.
The tank continued on its way, oblivious to the brief and deadly battle behind. The air was full of the smell of blood and cordite and Harris gagged on each breath.
"Are you okay?" Kelly asked.
Harris looked over at Ashley.
"He's dead, I'm afraid," Kelly confirmed.
Harris just nodded dumbly and began to climb to his feet using the machine gun for support. "Come on, we're not done yet."
Reiss and Rodgers stood side by side in the street and watched the helicopter bank in readiness for its return run. Behind them the rest of their group had reached the top of the rubble and disappeared down to the trucks. Both men checked their magazines and slapped the chambers closed. The helicopter straightened its approach and opened fire. Bullets traced a line some fifty yards ahead of the two men, picking up small tufts of dirt and asphalt with each impact.
Scott Anderson could see the two men in the middle of the street. The scene was one of nightmares and war movies. Fires burned steadily all over the square. The whole area appeared to be under a shadowy veil of thick smoke mingled with the dust from the destroyed buildings that blocked the morning's sun. The noise of the tank and the helicopter were deafening and he shuddered at the sheer horror of the scene.
"What the fuck are they doing?" Pritchard asked from behind.
"Trying to distract the helicopter so the trucks can get away," Anderson shouted back.
Pritchard blanched as he realised what such a distraction would take.
"Right, you two set up here and fire at that fucker as soon as he's in range," Scott ordered and got to his feet. "Don't stop till he's either dead or you run out of bullets." The helicopter had already begun its run and bullets tore up the road.
"What are you going to do?" his brother shouted over the thunderous noise.
"Join them, what else?"
Harris and Kelly ran after the tank.
"Keep me covered!" Harris shouted over the roar of the engine. He gritted his teeth against the pain in his leg and launched himself at the back of the tank. He caught hold of the rear service ladder and quickly pulled himself aboard. The diesel fumes that assaulted him as he pulled himself over the filter grids made him retch and cough violently. Then, suddenly, he was clear. He took a few seconds to rest and breathe fresh air before he again pulled himself to his feet and continued on.
Harris skirted the main hatch as he inched his way along the vehicle. The tank pitched and rolled like a boat at sea as it travelled over the many bumps and debris and Harris found the going slow. His arm, though not broken from the fall, hurt like hell and he couldn't grip the handrail properly. He shuffled past the hatch and finally managed to get to the turret extension. Gingerly he lowered himself from the side panel to a horizontal position and straddled the turret.
This was the time he was most vulnerable. The occupants of the tank noticed him for the first time and reacted. Harris heard the bolt in the hatch behind him slide open; metal creaked when the port was swung open. Harris heard a roar of gunfire and couldn't help but flinch while he waited for the impact.
The bullets, however, were not aimed at him. Kelly shadowed the tank and watched Harris make his way to the front. He had seen the main port swing open and let loose a hail of fire at the thrall who appeared. Bullets ricocheted around the hatch. The thrall blanched and tumbled back into the main cabinet. A few seconds later, a hand appeared briefly and shut the hatch.
Harris lay over the turret on his stomach with hands wrapped around the metal on either side and began to pull himself along. The occupants tried to shake their passenger off by driving over rubble and potholes. The tank pitched violently and Harris slipped. He frantically swiped at the turret to stop himself falling. He grasped the turret with his left arm and screamed with pain when the injured muscles protested. Sweat poured down his face; his feet bounced against the asphalt mere inches from the treads of the tank. His hand began to slip and he tried once more to lever his legs back over the turret.
He brought his right hand up and used its strength to lever his legs up. He gained a foothold with his right leg, but the bullet in his left thigh had left that leg practically numb. He moved his hips and upper arms and finally dragged the injured limb over the turret. He lay there hanging upside down from the turret and waited for the pain to subside. It was then that he felt the rumble in the turret and the metal suddenly spiked in temperature. The roar of the explosion competed for volume with the scream that ripped from his throat as searing heat shot through the length of the turret. It was a close call as to which was louder.
Reiss watched the line of bullets approach and brought his own weapon up. He aimed the machine gun along its sight and began to fire. The recoil hammered his shoulder in a rapid, rhythmic beat as he tried vainly to keep the weapon steady while it bucked in his hands. He was dimly aware of the bullet trail getting closer but forced himself to concentrate on the approaching helicopter. Then bullets whined past him and, suddenly, a violent impact knocked the air from him. He felt himself fall and struggled for breath. Then darkness descended.
Scott Anderson ran toward the men who had raised their weapons and begun firing as bullets stitched across the asphalt toward them. He heard the gunfire behind him when his brother and Pritchard joined the fray. There was no time to join the two men and they obviously were not aware that help had arrived. They had bet everything on this gambit. Scott ran harder and launched himself at the men. He caught Reiss in the midriff and his momentum carried them into Rodgers. The three men tumbled in a heap as the road where they had stood only moments before was ripped to shreds.
Bullets ricocheted off the metal of the helicopter. Pritchard shouted in triumph when a spider-web shattered across the glass screen in front of the pilot. Some of the bullets penetrated the glass and ricocheted wildly within the small cabinet of the flight area. The helicopter seemed to shudder in the air and then the high-pitched drone of the engine missed a few beats. It coughed and spluttered until the engine died.
The blades continued to turn, but the engine driving them had given up by the time the machine dropped like a stone.
Harris felt the heat sear his hands and thighs, but knew he'd be crushed if he let go, so he held grimly on. The pain was intense, but luckily the metal cooled quite quickly once the shell passed through. Harris renewed his effort to pull himself along the length of the turret. Blisters formed on his hands and legs and just as quickly burst. He had passed the point where the pain made any difference; now it just remained at a constant level.
The tank suddenly veered to the left and drove directly at a nearby building. Harris groaned when he realised that the thralls were trying a different approach. He saw the wall some twenty feet away and redoubled his efforts to get to the end.
Fifteen feet.
Harris pulled himself forward and smiled grimly when his ruined fingers touched the end of the turret.
Ten feet.
He reached back and pulled a grenade from his belt. His heart skipped a beat when the grenade nearly slipped in his blood-soaked hands. He gripped it tighter and ignored the pain from the blisters. The wall loomed closer as he brought the grenade to his mouth, gripped the pin with his teeth and pulled.
Five feet.
The wall was right in front of him when Harris stuffed the grenade into the bore of the turret and tried to launch himself to the ground. His body just didn't have the energy needed to get clear and the tank treads loomed above him. The turret hit the wall and exploded at the same time. Debris flew everywhere. Harris felt a strong grip under his left arm and suddenly he was pulled out from under the tank. The treads missed him by inches on their way past. Bricks and the remains of wooden supports rained down on him and his body took another beating. The turret itself split like a banana at the top from the explosion.
The tank, however, was still a dangerous tool. It changed gear and began to reverse out of the building.
Harris looked up and saw Kelly, who continued to pull him clear of the rubble. "Get the treads!" he shouted and waved the man away.
Kelly ran to the tank and pulled a grenade from his belt. The tank had freed itself from the wall and was already beginning to pull forward when Kelly pulled the pin and jammed it between the wheels. He returned to Harris and helped drag him to cover before the grenade exploded and tore the tread off the right wheel brace. The engine screamed and the smell of diesel hung heavy in the air as the thralls tried again and again to move the metal behemoth, but without the tread, the tank was just junk.
"Piece of cake," Harris quipped and then collapsed in Kelly's arms.
Pritchard and Bill Anderson ran over to the three men on the ground. Bill helped his brother get to his feet, while Pritchard checked on the other two.
"Anyone get the number of that truck?" Rodgers joked.
"Are you okay?" Pritchard asked. He helped Rodgers to a sitting position.
"I'll live," he replied. "How's Reiss?"
Pritchard looked over at Reiss and saw blood pour from a head wound. "Not so good," he replied. "Looks like one of those rounds grazed his head." He examined the wound and tore a strip from his shirt to tie it around Reiss" forehead. "We'll have to carry him. Are you up for it?"
"Okay, guys, quit the chatting," Scott Anderson interrupted. "Grab a leg and let's get out of here before the rest of the city shows up. Bill, check on the others and see if any are still alive."
The three men lifted Reiss and headed for the meeting point. Bill Anderson followed, stopping occasionally to check on the many still forms that littered the square. One after another Bill Anderson checked the bodies. His posture seemed to stoop further and further and tears welled in his eyes as, one after another, he found no sign of life. He reached the top of the mound of rubble made by their initial assault and turned back to look at the desolation.
So many dead, he thought. He turned to watch the others pull themselves into the last remaining truck. The failure to find anybody alive weighed heavily on him as he turned to join the others. Then, suddenly, he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. He rushed over to the area where he saw the hand sticking up from the rubble. New hope replaced frustration as Bill fell to his knees and tore at the debris around the limb.
"Bill, come on. We're leaving." He heard the shouts from below, but ignored them. His hands bled and his nails cracked but, slowly, he revealed the body buried beneath.
"Warkowski," he exclaimed when he revealed the battered face. He pressed his fingers against the man's neck. "He's still alive." The pulse was weak but stable.
His heart leapt and he attacked the debris with renewed vigour, quickly clearing away the last of the rubble. He didn't have time to check the extent of the injuries, so he just dragged the limp form over the rubble and stumbled to the truck under its weight.
"Hold on, Warkowski. Don't you dare die on me."
