Starship Desolation (15 page)

“
D
rive faster
!” Logan yelled.

The automated cab responded. “I’m sorry. I cannot exceed the maximum legal speed limit.”

Logan craned his neck and looked through the rear window. A black hover-car fell in line behind them. It was a Vanguard SX7—a luxury sports sedan that was THE car to own. You could drive it manually, or it would drive itself. Every pop star and gangster worth their salt had one. This had to be one of Little Nicky’s crew, or worse, someone working for Big Nick himself.

A machine gun emerged from the passenger side window. Muzzle flash erupted. A flurry of bullets pierced the air, smacking against the rear window of the cab.

The tempered glass webbed and cracked. Broken shards sprayed about the cab. Everyone ducked for cover.

“Please do not damage the vehicle,” the automated voice said. “Your account will be debited in the final amount of the repair costs.”

Logan and the others drew their weapons and began firing back at the black car.

“Somebody give me a gun,” Slade yelled.

Logan pulled a backup from his ankle holster and handed it to her.

The sound of gunfire was deafening in the confined space of the cab. The air filled with the sharp smell of gunpowder. Searing hot shell casings sprang from ejection ports, bouncing onto the seats and rolling onto the floor.

The two vehicles exchanged a volley of gunfire. Soon the windshield of the black car was peppered with bullet holes and webbed with cracks.

The Vanguard weaved through traffic and quickly caught up with the cab. It pulled alongside, and the passenger peppered the cab with bullets. Glass shattered. A hailstorm of gunfire ripped through the vehicle. The metallic thud of the bullets impacted the door panel in a staccato rhythm. But the bullets weren’t piercing the composite material of the door panels.

“Drive faster!” Logan shouted over the gunfire. He hunkered down, taking cover behind the door.

“I’m sorry. I cannot exceed the maximum legal speed limit,” the automated voice said again.

“This is a medical emergency.”

“Okay. You said
medical emergency,
is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“I am permitted to exceed legal speed limits in instances where an occupant needs medical attention. Would you like me to reroute to the nearest hospital?”

“No. Continue to the space port.”

“Patients typically have better outcomes seeking immediate medical attention at a healthcare facility. Are you sure you don’t want me to reroute?”

“No! The space port.”

Logan reached up and fired over the windowsill. The barrel locked out, and he pressed the magazine release. The magazine dropped out, and he smacked in his last magazine. He chambered a round and resumed firing.

The Vanguard rammed into the cab.

Metal crumpled. More glass shattered. The cab rocked, then took evasive action.

“Encountering overly aggressive drivers,” the voice said. “It seems we have been involved in an accident.”

“Do not stop,” Logan yelled. “Keep going.”

The two cars weaved in and out of traffic, racing down Hawthorne Ave. Logan, Mia, Slade, and Gorth took turns firing and reloading. The Vanguard slammed into them again.

“It seems we have been involved in another accident,” the voice said.

“No shit,” Logan said.

“I’ve determined this driver to be hostile.”

Logan rolled his eyes and kept blasting at the Vanguard until his magazine was empty. “I’m out.”

Everyone was almost out of ammo. The Vanguard kept ramming into the side of the cab. It was like a demolition derby on one of the busiest streets in Europa City.

Slade waited for the brief pause in the gunfire that came when the gangsters needed to reload. She popped up over the windowsill and took aim.

The machine gunner in the Vanguard popped in another magazine. He was lifting the weapon, ready to blast. Slade had a clear shot. But the cab was anything but steady. It bobbed and rolled, speeding through the heavy traffic. Slade held her arms firm, but still, they wobbled. She tried to time the bounces just right—then she squeezed the trigger.

The bullet launched from the barrel in a plume of smoke and muzzle flash. It was her last shot. The weapon locked out. The bullet tore through the air, penetrating the passenger’s left eye. Then it blasted out of the back of his skull. Brain and blood and bits of bone splattered on the leather seats, the windshield, and the driver.

The passenger slumped over and his weapon dropped out of the window, clattering across the pavement below.

But the bullet kept going.

The driver didn’t have any time to react. It drilled through his temple and lodged into his gray matter. He slumped forward against the steering controls, blood oozing from the hole in his temple. The car drifted across three lanes of traffic and slammed head-on into a massive shipping drone. It was the equivalent of an 18 wheeler Mack truck. The Vanguard shattered into a million tiny pieces. The truck seemed completely unharmed.

The cab sped away through the city. They all watched the wreckage vanish behind them as they raced away.

Logan was impressed. “Nice shot.”

“Somebody had to get the job done,” Slade said.

“Is everybody okay?” Logan asked. “Anybody get hit.”

They all checked themselves over, patting at their torso and extremities, feeling for blood. After a firefight like that, the adrenaline can run so high you might not even feel a wound for a few minutes.

It seemed impossible, but everyone had escaped unscathed. There were a few minor cuts and abrasions from the flying glass and debris. But no one was worse for the wear.

The feeling was exhilarating. You haven’t really lived until bullets have zoomed over your head, or ripped past your ears. Talk about a near-death experience. Walking out of a situation where you should have died can leave you feeling euphoric—and traumatized. It was better than any high you could get from a drug. Slade knew this all too well, as did many combat veterans. A few minutes of intense fighting, a spike in adrenaline, and the long, anxiety filled wait until the next one.

Slade’s ears rang, and the world was a little muted for the next several minutes.

The cab arrived at the spaceport and they exited the vehicle. Her whole body felt numb, and her heart was still pounding in her chest.

The cab looked like a hunk of twisted sheet metal, peppered with bullet hits. Logan didn’t even want to know how much they were going to try and bill him.

They entered the lobby of the
Chadwick Thackston Spaceway
, and raced to their docking port. There was little security in the private space ports. They didn’t have to comply with
Federation Aviation Regulations
. It was a loophole that these were merely docking, refueling, and service stations. You could come and go as you pleased, without a pat down or body scan. With all the chaos that had been going on recently, no one had ever hijacked a small private space ship. Passenger vehicles, cargo ships, military vessels—yes. Scarabs—no.

One thing was for certain. They were getting off this planet, and they weren’t ever coming back. They dashed through the terminal and stepped out on the tarmac, approaching the Scarab.

Logan breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of his majestic ship. But that didn’t last long. They were quickly surrounded by thugs with heavy weapons. These were Big Nick’s people, and there were at least a dozen rifles bearing down on Slade and the others.

B
ig Nick’s
fist slammed into Logan’s face. They were like bricks. His knuckles were bloody and raw. Nick was a big, thick bald guy, with a cream double breasted suit that was now stained with spatter. A cigar dangled from his mouth as he beat the crap out of Logan.

Nick’s thugs had taken Logan, and the others, to some seedy warehouse on the wrong side of town. It was damp and dark. The kind of place where you could kill someone, stuff them in a barrel of acid, and no one would ever come looking.

A stream of crimson blood spewed from Logan’s mouth. His face was purple and green and yellow. Blood filled his left sclera. He tongued his lateral incisor—it wiggled. It wasn’t going to last for too many more hits.

Big Nick had been at this for a while, and he wasn’t anywhere near finished. Beads of sweat coated his meaty face, like a cold soda can during summer. He was already huffing and puffing from the exertion. He unbuttoned his coat for a little air. Under his jacket, a shoulder holster held a Bösch-Hauer P355 magnum.

Nick puffed on a cigar, and the cherry was nice and glowing. He moved the orange tip toward Logan’s eye, dangling it millimeters away. “I’m gonna burn your eyes out. But first, I’m gonna pull out all your fingernails with this pair of pliers.”

Logan swallowed hard as Big Nick stuffed the cigar back in his mouth, and grabbed an old rusty pair of pliers. There was a tray of tools that Big Nick could choose from—wire cutters, hammers, power drills. There was a crow bar, a blow torch, and a disc sander. Big Nick was going to work his way through all of them.

“You killed my son for what? Some floozy you pulled out of a maximum security prison?” Big Nick snarled at him. “I never figured you for such a moron. I hope she was worth it.”

Big Nick drove the needle nose pliers under the nail bed of Logan’s pinky finger. He clamped the tool down like a vice on his fingernail.

This was going to hurt like a mother fucker.

Slade could hear him scream in agony from the next room as Big Nick ripped out Logan’s fingernail. She had no idea what was happening, but it didn’t sound pleasant.

She was tied to a chair, awaiting her fate. There was no telling what Big Nick was going to do to her. Torture her, kill her, put her back to work in the club?

She heard Logan scream out in pain again. He didn’t seem like the kind of guy to scream easily. She couldn’t imagine what was happening to him.

She struggled against her bonds. The ropes dug into her wrists. Her heart raced, and a thin mist of sweat coated her body.

Logan’s gut wrenching screams echoed throughout the warehouse. After his screams faded away, she heard the dull rumble of what sounded like an explosion. Her face twisted up, perplexed. Then she heard another rumble. Then another. And another.

The sound was all too familiar. This was an airstrike. Someone was bombing the city with conventional weapons. She heard fighters and bombers rip through the air.

The explosions grew closer. The sound of chaos filled the city. Shrieks and screams. Car horns and alarms. Europa City was under attack. But by whom, she wondered? Had the Verge returned so soon?

Dappled rays of moonlight filtered in through a nearby window. Slade wanted to edge her chair closer, but even if she could get to it, the window was too high to see out of while strapped to a chair.

The ground vibrated as the bombing grew closer. The sounds of chaos on the streets grew louder. Soon the explosions were right on top of her. She could hear the sound of incoming ordinance whistle through the air, followed by a deafening explosion.

Bricks and mortar flew through the air as the blast erupted. The warehouse wall came apart like a stack of legos. The overpressure from the blast slammed Slade across the room, crashing into the opposite wall. Dust and debris filled the air.

The impact knocked her unconscious.

She wasn’t sure how long she was out. When she woke up, she was covered in rubble. The wooden chair had splintered into pieces. A sliver penetrated through her calf.

Her whole body ached. She hacked dust out of her lungs and crawled out of the rubble. She was cover in minor cuts and abrasions. She didn’t think anything was broken, but she wouldn’t know for sure for a few minutes, till the adrenaline died down.

She could see out to the street. There was a huge crater in the roadway from the blast. She could hear the distant moans and cries of nearby wounded. Others ran through the streets, screaming in panic. Parts of the city were on fire. Black clouds of smoke billowed high into the air.

Two fighters roared past overhead. Slade caught a glimpse of the sleek ships—she didn’t recognize them. They weren’t Verge Hornets. Great, some new type of intergalactic threat, she thought.

The rumble of explosions continued throughout the city. The staccato report of small arms fire rattled in the distance.

Slade eyed the giant splinter poking into her calf. She tore off a strip of clothing, then delicately removed the sharp piece of wood. She winced with pain as she pulled the jagged thing out. Then she wrapped the fabric around the wound and tied it off. She staggered to her feet and hobbled through the hole in the wall to the next room. Each step sent a stabbing pain through her calf.

Logan’s body was covered in dust and debris. Slade didn’t know if he was alive, or dead, or somewhere in between. Big Nick was crawling out of the rubble. He was definitely alive—and extremely pissed off. His face twisted up at the sight of Slade. Screw the fact that the city was getting bombed—Big Nick was still hellbent on revenge.

B
ig Nick charged at Slade
, like a steam roller. He lumbered over the debris and came with a wide right. Slade ducked aside. Her calf stabbed with pain. Big Nick barreled past her. She stooped down and grabbed a fragment of brick. She spun around and hurled the chunk at the thick bastard.

It cracked him in the side of his melon forehead. The brick bounced off and clattered across the floor. It opened up a gash across Nick’s forehead. Crimson blood oozed out. But it didn’t seem to faze him one bit. It was like his skull was made of titanium. He just snarled and roared like an animal, charging at her again.

Big Nick was slow—heavy, lumbering steps. He swung again. His hammer of a fist whooshed over her. Slade dropped down and bounced up behind him. She spotted the crowbar amongst the debris.

Big Nick spun around and squared off to her again. He was already huffing and puffing. Blood was pouring into his eye, obstructing his vision. The welt on his forehead had swelled up like a baseball.

Slade reached down and grabbed the crow bar.

“You know what…? Fuck this.” He reached into his coat and pulled out the Bösch-Hauer. It was a big gun. The magnum hollow point bullets could blast a hole in a person the size of a basket ball. The big black barrel pointed right at Slade.

But with the blood dripping in his eye, he couldn’t aim very well. He blasted off several rounds. It sounded like a canon.

Slade dove for cover behind a tattered table that had toppled over during the blast.

Big Nick fired into the table. Bullets ripped through the wood, blasting holes the size of baseballs next to Slade.

Nick marched forward, closing in on her. She cowered behind the table with no where to go. She clutched the crow bar, but it wasn’t going to do any good.

Nick made it to the edge of the table, towering above her. He aimed the pistol at her head. The barrel was big and black, like a sewer pipe. Nick’s finger wrapped tight around the trigger. His narrow eyes glared at her, and he gritted his teeth. He didn’t get to torture her, so he wanted to savor this moment as long as possible.

This was it. Slade was going to have a good sized hole in her head—if the bullet didn’t decapitate her completely.

But Nick savored the moment a second too long.

Logan had climbed to his feet and was standing behind Big Nick. With a brick in his hand, he swung with all his might. He clobbered the meathead’s skull so hard the brick shattered. The hit opened up a gash on the back of Nick’s shiny head. You could see the white of his bone for an instant, before the blood oozed into the gash.

The blow would have knocked anybody else to the ground. But not Big Nick. He just spun around with a scowl on his face.

Logan’s eyes widened with surprise.

Nick whipped the pistol around. Logan grabbed the barrel, and the two struggled over the gun. But Nick was too powerful. Logan kneed the meathead in the groin, but it didn’t seem to do any good. This guy was built like a tank.

Nick hammered Logan in the face with his massive fist.

Logan’s jaw jerked sideways as he launched into the air. One punch knocked him from his feet. He crashed to the ground, impaled against the jagged pile of broken bricks. His lip was split, and another tooth was loose.

Nick stared down the barrel of his big gun. He was about to pull the trigger when Slade plunged the crowbar through his back. It ripped through muscle and bone. The metal pierced his thoracic cavity, severing the aortic artery. The tip protruded through his chest for an instant, then Slade retracted the implement. Blood spurted from the wounds.

The aorta is the main artery in the human body. It starts at the left ventricle and descends into the abdomen, feeds the kidneys, then forks into the legs. If that is severed, or ruptures, you’ll bleed out in seconds.

Before Big Nick really had a chance to process what happened, he collapsed to his knees. Then he face-planted amidst the rubble.

Blood dripped down the crowbar and dribbled onto Slade’s hands. She tossed the bar aside and wiped the blood on her pants.

Logan looked impressed. “Let’s find the other’s and get out of here.”

Bombs were still exploding in the distance. It was pandemonium across the city. Slade could see what looked like troop transports landing. This was a full scale invasion.

Slade and Logan sifted through the debris, looking for Mia and Gorth. They found them buried under a pile of debris— neither had survived the blast. No pulse. No respiration.

Logan was visibly shaken. But he knew now wasn’t the time to dwell on the loss of his comrades. “We need to get to the Scarab. Can you walk?”

“I can try,” Slade said. She put an arm over Logan’s shoulder and the two hobbled out into the chaos of the city.

More enemy troop transports were landing in the distance. The streets were pocked with craters. Whole blocks were leveled. Some buildings were left half standing. Others were just foundation. The city was reduced to piles of concrete and rebar. Black smoke billowed from the many fires that dotted the metropolitan area. People staggered about, either in a daze, or screaming with panic. Some looked for loved ones among the ruins. Others ran in sheer terror, looking for some type of escape.

By the time Logan and Slade made it to the spaceport, it had been destroyed. Fragments of the structure remained. The bombed-out carcasses of several ships littered the tarmac. The Scarab was reduced to a smoldering hunk of metal.

“Son-of-a-bitch!” Logan yelled as he saw the withered remains of his beloved ship.

Most of the bombing had stopped. What remained was the clatter of small arms fire. At the end of the block, Slade saw what was left of a platoon of UPDF Marines.

“Fall back,” the squad leader shouted.

There were only four Marines left. They were exchanging fire with the enemy as they pulled back. Brilliant bolts of blue plasma-like projectiles darted through the air. They looked similar to tracer rounds. The enemy bullets erupted into small, incendiary explosions on impact. They left 12 inch craters in the brick and concrete. The pock marks were charred black and burned for a few moments before flaming out. Getting shot with one of those bullets wouldn’t leave much left of you.

Soon, the Marines broke out into a full on sprint.

“Come on,” Slade muttered to Logan. “I think we need to get out of here.”

“I agree,” he said, staring at the oncoming invasion force. There were hundreds of them advancing down the block. Light armored vehicles were cruising down the street.

Slade and Logan ran along with the Marines. Every step was agonizing for Slade. She tried her best to keep up. Falling behind would mean certain death.