Teen Soldiers

Two teens go renegade during a terrorist attack.

Training Begins.

           May seventeenth, 2010. Military training grounds.

The bus was filled with men and women eagerly chattering away about the coming months. Well, most were. Some gazed out of the grimy windows, hoping the trip would end soon. At the back of the bus, about four rows away from the guarded emergency exit, was a wall of wire-enforced inch-thick bullet-proof glass, housing eight criminals who decided to join the armed forces rather than rot in prison. They gazed hungrily at the women. A guard gave his shotgun a pump, and the convicts eyes darted to the windows. Their shackles as their burdens, they wondered if they had made the right decision. Not to join the marines, but the wrong they had done to get themselves into this. They felt as if the whole world was against them. Even now the sky was gray and intimidating. As it darkened and the rain began to fall, the convicts could not help but picture the drops as crystal bullets falling from a heavenly war. They felt they could make up for one by saving many, risking their lives to do the best they could to make things better again. Lightning flickered. The bus fell silent as it was rattled by a blast of thunder. The old engine whined and rattled, sputtered and coughed, as though it were an old man on a regular commute. The bus suddenly jolted to a stop, and row by row, everyone filed out. The convicts, given enough trust to exit with them, were unshackled, and, with their burdens released, set out to free themselves.

Thunder rumbled as the soon-to-be soldiers stepped off the rusted white bus. Some, eager. Others, regretful, cursing themselves again for their wrongdoing, remembering that this was their fault, that they had condemned themselves to this. They would soon see the battlefield of the damned quarrel known as war. The rain pounded hard, the wind howled briskly, and the men were soaked in an instant. Yet they stood, arms crossed behind their backs, feet positioned at shoulder length, and staring straight ahead as their instructor bellowed his introduction, his strong voice easily matching the winds roar. “Recruits!” the trainer barked, “today is the day we begin to break you, then rebuild you. Hopefully as Marines.” Lieutenant Travis Lynn was about six foot two inches tall, dressed in a dark tan T-shirt and desert camouflaged army pants. His dog tags hung from his neck proudly. He had a black crew-cut, clean-shaven face and a glare that could crack marble. A thick white burn mark ran from his left chin-bone to his earlobe. He was positioned like the recruits, arms folded behind his back, boots shoulder length apart. His voice was rough, and firm as iron. The rain did not bother him. “There will be no holding back. You will go through rigorous training. Starting immediately!” The instructors assistant barked, “Down and twenty!” He was very similar to the trainer, except he had brown hair poking out from under his Red-Sox cap. He was also older than the instructor, with no scars, and quite a bit of stubble. He was in a navy-blue windbreaker, and positioned as they all were. The recruits understood the command, dropped to their bellies and pushed off from the asphalt of the parking lot. The instructor paced slowly down the row. “You will become the best. No victory without pain. You don’t send sheep to kill wolves. You get an exterminator. You get the marines. This is just a taste of what we will be doing for the next…few…months…”The sergeant’s voice trailed off as a young lieutenant walked up and whispered in his ear. The instructor dropped his professional manner immediately.

            “Right now?”

            The lieutenant nodded solemnly.

            With a sigh, the instructor looked to his assistant. “Lieutenant Dave, can you take over?”

With a nod, the assistant turned to the rookies.

“This better be good,” the instructor muttered to himself as he jogged over to the nearby building. What could be so important and so bad that they need me? There are at least thirty others that could be bothered. Why me. He continued to contemplate this as he stepped through the door. As he trudged down the hallway, he lost his thought in the commotion. Shouts coming from a phony interrogation room echoed throughout the corridor. He walked in, expecting a recruit cracking under pressure, exactly the reason the room had been built. He nearly fainted when he saw two small men, mud spattered, clothing and backpacks shredded, hands bloodied with deep gashes. In the two-way mirror he could see that their backs were even bloodier, with more cuts running the lengths all the way to the backs of their legs. One was thin and tall, about five foot six. The other, about the same height, was built like a linebacker, looking large, but more muscle than fat. They were with a middle-aged man. He was bald, wearing a dark-blue uniform, and looking over a file. The soldier knew at once that this was colonel Marshall.

            “They were found trying to impregnate the perimeter,” the colonel, informed him coldly. He never took his eyes off them as he spoke.

            “It’s good you found them before they could.”

            “They did.”

            The sergeant looked at him. He must have misheard. You couldn’t get in the base even if you were flying in with a jet.

            “Excuse me?”

            “They did. They found camera blind spots and even managed to evade the radar. They made it past the ten-foot walls, through the razor-wire, and broke their fall with a mud puddle. A passing Jeep caught sight of them and gave chase. Quite the little showoffs though. Took a detour through the obstacle course. The advanced one, by the way. Finished in record time, and were caught. They make a damn fine team if I ever seen one. The thinner one isn’t very strong, but he makes up for it in skill. When they were apprehended, the fight they put up…” he paused for a moment, then remembered where he was. “He landed hits in places the guards couldn’t block quick enough,” he added, pointing a finger at the smaller man. “Knows how to use a weapon. Beat the guards with a stick. Good center of gravity too. Took fifteen minutes to get ‘em down.”

            “And the other one?” the soldier asked, motioning towards the bigger of the two.

            “He’s got skill, but his style is brute force. The small one fights dirty, but the big one just…” he gave a small swing at the air, clicking his tongue as if hitting something. “It’s a, ‘Got your back’ kind of teamwork. The little one plans it, the big one fights. They aren’t much for talkin’ though. They claim to be self-trained. Planned everything themselves. The only other thing we got out of them is...”

            “We want in,” the thin one said in a surprisingly young voice. He leaned back onto his chair with still-fresh wounds, gave a small cringe, and then relaxed. Such pain resistance would take years to master. A nurse came in with a medical kit, saw the men, and went straight to work, muttering “We’ll have to throw that chair out now.” She brought out a needle and injected both men with some sort of vaccine. The small one looked at the needle disgustedly as it poked through his arm. The big one hardly blinked. When she brought out a needle and thread, the small one muttered, “They’ll heal.” The nurse would have protested, but she couldn’t. Arguing would get his heart rate up, prolonging the healing process. The large one looked at him confused.

            “First battle scars, man.” His counterpart snickered in amusement. Now it was the sergeants turn to be confused. Battle scars are symbols of possible death being avoided. It’s not getting sliced up by a fence.

            “I gave them both the tetanus,” the nurse informed them. “That one doesn’t want any other help.”

            “Thank you, ma’am,” the colonel replied kindly.

            “We won’t talk until we’re in,” said the other in a deeper, yet still young voice.

            “I’d agree, if we had that kind of jurisdiction,” the colonel said, leaning back in his chair.

            Again, the young sergeant was confused. They had that kind of jurisdiction. It was just a matter of paperwork.

            “We also know this; this was no juvenile stunt. They are serious. And they impressed me with their skill.”

            Juvenile?

“We’re gettin’ ready to post pictures around. When they get cleaned up, we’ll take a photo, put it on the flyer, and post ‘em everywhere. Take a look.” He passed a flyer over with two large blank squares. Above it read;

FOUND: TWO ADOLESCENTS.

If recognized, please contact 1-800-574-8823.

            “Sir, there must be a mistake. These-“

            “There is no mistake, sergeant,” the colonel cut in. “But don’t you worry. We know they’re American. We’re searching every school across the nation. We will not stop-“

            This was all the soldier could handle. “Enough,” he shouted. “Wrong jurisdiction, adolescents found, searching schools. If you want my help, I’ll need some sort of explanation. Who are these men? Why are they here?”

            The colonel stared in shock. “That information is classified,” he growled, “and unless you want to scrub the latrines with a rock, you’d better start toeing the line, private.”

            His face went from red to green as if his skull was a stoplight. He regretted his sudden outburst, and the colonel could tell.

            “Sir, I wouldn’t tell you if I could. You wouldn’t be able to handle it.” The sergeant scowled at him. The old colonel sighed.

            “You really need to know?”

            The soldier nodded.

            “You might want to sit down then. It will be hard to handle.”

            He did as he was told. In the ten years of his military career, he had never thought anything could be as frightening as the war. He buried friends and comrades. He leaped through ramparts, ran through bullets, nearly died. Yet when these words the colonel spoke sunk in, all of that became a play date in the sandbox. The soldier nearly vomited when he heard these words;

            “The answer practically slapped me in the face,” the colonel said calmly. “Can’t you tell their only thirteen?”  

 

Wolf

 

            June seventh, 2012. New York City.

            Do you know what bad is? Bad is when there’s one week left ‘till summer break and you still do schoolwork. Bad is when you take the garbage out and the bag splits. Bad is when you do something wrong and blame someone else. Bad is not the s**t that happened today. Bad can’t even come close. I do not know why it happened, or how, but it was not a bad day.

Today was the day that all hell broke loose.

            We were doing some English work when it happened. The windows shattered as the deafening explosion rocked the neighborhood. Glass shards flew like shotgun shells. Planes ripped through the air, machine guns hot, chasing each other like the devils dogfight. I’ll never forget the gunfire. A constant ratatatatat. The class scrambled to the code-red hiding spot, out of sight of the windows in the doors. The only ones not moving, not shouting, not even bothered were two sophomores, sitting at their desks. I was sitting with my arms crossed in front of me. My friend Joey was cracking his knuckles, a thin scratch across his left cheek, and a sharp, red tipped glass shard lay on the desk. He was pissed, which is actually normal for him. We could hear doors being kicked off their hinges and muffled screams and men yelling. Then our doors were kicked in. Two tall men in Iraq military uniform stormed inside with Ak-47s, yelling in “Everybody down!” That was when they noticed us. They yelled “On the ground!” We stayed put. One advanced toward me.

            “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

            The men began to talk to each other in their own language.

            “You have three seconds to leave” I said in the same language. “One.”

            They began to yell, making gestures with their guns.

            “Two.”

            I was grabbed by the left arm and stood up.

            “Three.”

            I spun to the right, punched at his elbow, and at the same time pulled his hand back. The crack silenced the room as the man screamed and dropped to the floor. The other man, whom had just grabbed Joey, froze, giving Joey enough time to put his foot on the chair, push himself straight up, and bring his fist down hard onto the man’s head. He dropped to the ground, unconscious.

            “Oh my god,” one of the trembling frosh feebly muttered.

            “Amateurs,” I snickered. I looked to Joe. “Now?”

            “Nah. I think we should let it blow over.”

            We made our way across the room to a cupboard the teacher could never open. At the same time we both began to kick the ledge above it. When it came loose, we moved it to get at the goodies.

            “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” The teacher came to her senses and was now red-faced.

            “Saving your asses,” Joey replied with a shrug. He then bent into the cupboard.

            “Ak or M-16?”

            I sighed. “You should know me by now.” I rummaged around. “You didn’t think I’d forget the heavy guns,” I asked, shouldering an Ls-86, “Did you?”

            “Show off.” He fished out some body armor and the Ak-47. I fished out the grenades.

            We turned to the class. “Okay, everybody is going to follow me. We will lead you to safety.” Another missile hit, shaking the school. Everyone cowered, but I talked like it was nothing. “Stay together, and stay behind me. Keep close to the walls. No one will go behind Joe, as he will be covering us from behind.” Everyone was crying. “Let’s move people!”

            We moved silently. I led them to a corner room. “I’ll be back,” I whispered as I stepped into the class. There was yelling. Then there was gunfire. And then there was silence. Everyone nearly screamed as I poked my head through the doorway.

            “You’re not dead?” one asked.

            “Sorry to disappoint you.”

            “That’s not what I-“

            “Forget it. Everyone in,” I instructed. I stopped the toughest guy in the class. At least he thought he was. “I need you to do something for me,” I told him. “You’re a soldier now,” I said, handing him a pistol. “Protect them.”

            He nodded fearfully. I exchanged an extra clip with the one in the gun to show him how it works. Then we left.

            “I know you were being a good guy, giving them that gun, but now where’s your sidearm?” Joey asked. I whipped out two Desert Eagles and cocked them on my belt.

            “Never underestimate me.”

            We stepped outside.

            “Cover me from behind,” I yelled over the gunfire.

            “Where are you-“

 Before he could finish, I ran out, guns firing everywhere. My arms seemed to flail around. They all hit their mark.

“Marksman first class,” I yelled to Joe. Then it was his turn. Gun on his back, he ran out to two enemies, tackled them, took their ammo, then gave them each a round.

“Brute force, my class,” he sneered.

Bullets flew. Grenades blew. Bloodshed was in the air. And we couldn’t have been more excited.

“Grenade,” I yelled to Joe.

“We’re all out”, he shouted back.

CRAP. I looked around. A car was parked next to some enemy troops. Ls in hand, I fired point blank over the dumpster we had taken cover behind. There was a ping followed by a SPA-WHOOM! as the gas tank exploded. We ran to a nearby jeep where more soldiers had just pulled up.

            “Clear the building!” I yelled over the noise. He nodded, yelled into his radio, and went in with twelve troops. Some might find it odd that a grown soldier just took an order from a fourteen-year-old, but we were well known. A few minutes later, in the school parking lot, the school was being evacuated into some large armored trucks. As the eighth graders got on, a flaming helicopter crashed into the pavement. A large hummer whipped around the corner. Joey was at the roof-mounted gun, and I drove. It wouldn’t have seemed so bad if we hadn’t been laughing maniacally.

            We were about to head back into battle when we were clipped by another hummer. It sent us into a wild tailspin. I slammed the hummer into reverse, turned into the direction we were spinning, which caused us to stop. I popped the clutch and run full force into the enemy head on. Suddenly, a dark figure flew onto my windshield, nearly shattered it, and rolled off. I few seconds later, Joey stood up.

            “I…am going to kick…your…a*s,” he panted as he climbed into the passenger seat. “Let’s check on everyone.”

            We drove back to school, arguing the whole way, which was our favorite pastime. As soon as he calmed down, I got out and asked, “Is that everyone?”

            “Yes sir, Major Wolf.”

            “Then get them out of here.”

            “Yes sir.” A call came in on his radio. “WE’VE GOT REINFORCEMENTS. ALPHA-SQUAD U.S. MARINES!” he yelled excitedly. Sure enough, in they came. It was a different squadron, one that I had not met. Their moves were coordinated and well-planned.

            “Get those kids outta there!” was the last thing I heard before I was rushed into a large truck, sat down next to Joey who was still putting up one hell of a fight, and examined by medics as we sped away from the battlefield. I had not realized the bullet in my shoulder or the chunk missing from my left ear. My shirt was blood soaked, and I was starting to feel light-headed. They found more wounds and sedated us before we could talk.

           

            I awoke in an interrogation room. When I fully came to, there was a bombardment of questions and comments, like, ‘What were you thinking?’ or ‘Who are you?’ and “Were you trying to get yourselves killed?’ blah blah blah. Their shouts rang through the cinder-block room. Then the door opened, and my commanding officer stormed in. He was in full army gear, with a black crew cut that had grown about an inch. He had thick stubble, and a desert-tanned face with an angry look upon it. He was pissed.

            “Sir, we apprehended these two adolescents with guns. We are awaiting your orders.”

            “Did they ask you anything?”

            “They kept saying, ‘You’ll get a demotion if you don’t let us go.”

            “Demoted to what?”

            “Grunt.”

            “Well then. Enjoy your new rank. C’mon boys. You hungry?”

            “Let’s hit up that china buffet. I need some Chinese take-out.” I offered.

            “Sorry, but we’re not in Milwaukee anymore. It’s being evacuated. So far there are no civilian deaths,” he said. “Your parents and families are secured,” he added quickly.

            “Sir,” one of the other men started.

            “Yes, private.”

            The man was stunned. “Sir, you’ve known me for years. Why would you-“

            “Do you not realize you’ve just “apprehended” two of the most IMPORTANT MARINES IN THE U.S.?”

            “But what does that have to do with my demotion?”           

“It’s not my call.”

“Then who’s is it?”

            The colonel sighed.

            “It’s the majors’.” He walked out, leaving them speechless.

           

            “So what’s happening?” I asked. We were in Colonel Lynn’s black Suburban.

            “Iraq’s plan is to hold the one thing that matters most in America hostage; the next generation.”

            “They’re going after schools?”

            “Most of ‘em, yeah. So far it’s four in every state.”

            I did the math. “That’s over ten thousand kids.”

            “For now. They sent fleet after fleet of planes. Attackin’ from all sides. Canada and Mexico let ‘em pass. Still fought them, but surrendered. They’ve made it halfway across the U.S., and still goin’ strong.”

            “What do they want?”

            “Resources. Weaponry. Nuclear power. All the good stuff.”

“So what now?”

            He sighed. “Boys, I know you wanna fight, but,” he paused, “I gotta take you guys to base.”

            We were silent for the rest of the ride.

 

III

           

            October twelfth, 2010.Military training grounds.

           

            “Dude, no.” Joey warned.

            “I can’t believe they would just leave it out like this.”

            “Come on man.”

            The Comanche was sitting out on the helicopter landing pad. Its pilot had landed it to take a leak. It was black as night, with machine guns and missile launchers that sent chills up my spine.

            “You should listen to your friend, private.” I saluted Major Lynn, soon to be Colonel, as he strode up to us. “At ease. These things are expensive, and there aren’t that many of them. If you wanna fly, find a plane and a pilot. Otherwise, back to base.” We turned and walked.

            “That was embarrassing, wasn’t it? Hey! He looked around, searching for me. He cursed when he found me.

“What are you doing?” he shouted to me, and ran to my side.

I was making my way toward a hangar. I knew what was inside.

            “No way,” we chorused. I was excited. Joe was warning.

            The Blackbird was bigger than I had pictured. And the cockpit was open. I rolled the staircase over to it, bolted up, and was in and putting on straps. Joe couldn’t hide his excitement, especially as he scowled from the passenger seat.

            “If you’re so mad, why are you getting’ in?”

            “Uh…well uh…just fly the damn thing.”

            I put on the headset and turned on the radio. Instantly it was filled by yelling and screaming.

            “I think they know we’re here.”

            Then Major Lynn’s voice cut through and silenced the rest. “Relax people. They’re just kids. They need some fun. Besides do you think that they can start…”

            The engines began to whine.

            “So that’s what all that stuff does.”

            “…it?”

            I pulled the ‘bird out of the hangar and started down the runway. The engines were loud, but barely audible over the screaming in the headset. I brought the nose up, and we were soaring through the air. We rocketed straight up, went into a thousand-foot nose-dive, pulling out of it so close to the ground the belly of the plane nearly scraped. I pulled it through a series of acrobatics that the most skilled pilots would have crashed from. It took me a moment to realize that my headset was silent.

            “Hey, where’s my tunes? I’m feeling kinda lonely up here.”

            “You are flying stolen property in a no-fly zone. Land immediately,” the voice was stern and forceful.

            “If y’don’t mind, can I ask who this is?”

            “Colonel Dregg, U.S. Air Force and Military. If you do not comply, we will use force to bring you down.”

            “Yes mom. Just five more minutes.”

            “Great. Not only do we have a minor flying a million-dollar aircraft, but we’ve got a smart-mouthed jackass too. Are they up?”

            Another voice replied; “F-22’s are up and flying.”

            They appeared on either side of the Blackbird, the pilots gesturing for me to land. I sped up a few times, because I didn’t think planes could revv their engines. Then I opened the throttle and rocketed forward.

            “I hate you,” Joe stated.

            “Now is not the time.”

            “They’re keeping up-“

            “Shut up, Joseph,” I said timidly.

            “What exactly is your plan here?”

            “Can’t outrun them, so I gotta outmaneuver ‘em.”

            “Wonderful,” he replied sarcastically. I shut the throttle, hit the airbrake, pulled the nose straight up. I opened the throttle again and we rocketed upwards.

            “Planes gonna stall.”

            I whipped around in my seat and yelled “I KNOW WHAT THE HELL I’M DOING, SO LAY OFF D****T!”

            There was an awkward silence.

            We reached the peak of our ascension when the motor cut. We were at thirty-three thousand feet. Using only the steering and freefall, I pulled the pane into a nose dive. When the engine would restart, I put it to max throttle. I felt G-force after G-force hit, and was grateful that I didn’t black out, like before, I pulled the nose up at the last possible second, brought it to nearly a crawl, landed, and parked it in the hangar. As we stepped out, a voice said “Impressive. You boys fly much? ‘Cause if you used that in battle, you could move up a few ranks.”

            “First time actually.”

            “But… you just-“

            “I know, right? It was just like, y’know, instincts and stuff.”

            “Well, then. I know what we’re training you on.”

 

*                      *                      *

 

            “We need to get back to that battle.”

            “Colonel says to stay at base.”

            “So.”

            “So I think we should stay.”

            “Joe, you know damn well you wanna go back.”

            He paused.

            “That’s what I thought.”

            “We can’t disobey the colonel.”

            “I know what he told us.”

            “Good.”

“Colonel also told us that if we wanna fly, we should get a plane.”

            “What’s that supposed to mean…oohhh.”

            We walked toward the Raptors.

 

Wolf

 

            Somewhere above Minnesota. Thirty-five thousand feet up, nearing the speed of sound.

 

            “How you doin’ there, man.”

            The headset was silent, then a shadow appeared across me.

            “Look up.”

            Joe had learned a few things about flying. I took him up a few times in a small plane that the military had provided me with.

            “Bring it on.” I banked with a slow half barrel roll, arced sideways, and was flying upside-down above him. I waved. He flipped me off.

            “Now there’s no call for…” I stared horror-struck, and then I was pleased.

            “We got company.” I flipped the plane upright as two others, enemies, came to intercept us.

            “Fifty bucks says I can take ‘em out, no guns,” I bet.

            “You’re on.”

            “I get the one on the left.”

            “Whatever.”

            “On my mark,” I said, now flying to his left, “decrease speed, barrel roll right, nose-dive a couple thousand feet, fly at five hundred, try to shake him. Wait for me.”

            “Got it.”

            The planes approached.

            “Three.”

            We were within five hundred feet.

            “Two.”

            Twenty-five hundred feet.

            “One.”

            Fifty feet.

            “Mark!” I yelled. We split. We rolled. We shot up. We dived. My guy was right on my tail. I dove. Thirty thousand, twenty thousand, ten thousand. I watched Joe pull up at a thousand feet, but I kept on. I moved my plane in a swift, upward corkscrew arc, and watched the other plane explode. Joe was flying nearby.

            “My turn,” he sneered. He shut the throttle, practically stopped in mid-air, then descended. When his enemy had flown over, he kicked it into overdrive and shot up. When he was flying directly above the other plane, he deployed his landing gear and pushed the plane down. But the enemy was smart. I could see he was going to barrel roll and cause Joey to crash.

            “PULL UP!” I shouted through the radio. Without hesitation, he broke his grapple and dropped back. At the same time, I went into a sideways corkscrew, touching belly-to-belly. I continued the move in a swift, fluid motion. The enemy was stunned, and confused to where he pulled up while still upside-down. The fireball erupted behind as we rocketed on.

 

            The city was a wreck. It had been evacuated, so it was full-on war. We jumped right in.

            “Alright, let’s see what this thing can…”

            Static muffled the rest.

            “JOE!”

            I stared in horror as the enormous fireball erupted next to me.

            I was frozen for a few seconds. I nearly crashed. My blood ran cold. The RPG’s handler was cheered on by his comrades. They began to congregate around him. Soon, tanks and even more soldiers were in one area in the heart of the city.

            I had no plan. I flew directly up as high as I could. The engines stalled. I dove. As I neared the ground, I ejected my seat, pulled the parachute, and was ripped upward. The jet hit the ground with enough force that nearby windows shattered, and the street had a shallow crater. I landed atop a hummer, hijacked it, tore down the street. I didn’t care. My top comrade, my friend, was just killed. I was out for more blood than ever. I grabbed a 12-gauge shotgun from the passenger seat, stuck it out the window, and fired.

            BANG! Head splattered on the truck. I pulled the E-brake and swung the truck into a hard left turn. I opened the passenger door and jumped as it flipped, I twisted in the air and fired point blank at the gas tank. The blast carried me a good ten feet. I armed myself from a dead enemy, and ran to more ranks.

 

Joe

 

            I wasn’t dead.

            Hell, I felt more alive than ever. I flew like I’d never done before. And then that a*****e shot me down. Reflex and instinct made me eject. The explosion knocked me into the neighborhood nearby. There was shrapnel and heat and pressure, and then I was flying. When I landed, I ripped off my harness and flung my gun barrel toward some Iraqi b*****d. As he fell, I was tackled from behind. I was tied up and thrown into the back of a truck. The truck sped away. There was talking, but I couldn’t understand what they said. Branden usually translates for me. Then, one looked at me. He grinned.

            “Aren’t you a bit… small, to be in army?”

            “Your mom thought I was kind of big.”

            He chuckled. “Well then… we will have to do something about this. Insults do not go unpunished.”

            He began talking amongst his comrades. One turned around while I surveyed the surroundings. It was a large canvas truck, with weapon crates and benches for soldiers. The entrance flaps waved in the wind. I was distracted long enough to miss the sniper rifle pulled from one of the crates. The handler chuckled as the truck screeched to a halt. He fell prone, and began taking aim. He aimed at one lone soldier running through the street. I watched the road as he was firing. He pulled the trigger. Blood flew.

            And Branden fell to the ground.

            Before I could do anything, I was clubbed over the head, and I was out.

 

*                      *                      *

 

            I finally came to a while later. God knew how long I’d been out. It was like a movie; yellow light swinging from the ceiling, dark room, terrorists yapping away to each other. I knew where I was; I was behind enemy lines. I was tied to a chair. I kept my head down, and closed my eyes when I heard footsteps. A man called back to the others. He was about two feet from me. He began to poke my head with his gun barrel, and then cracked me one in the side of my head. Pain rang throughout my head, and my chair tipped. But I stayed down. Too risky to try fighting. I opened my eyes slightly, and watched as all but one left. Apparently, terrorists take lunch breaks too. The one left behind was about eighteen, and armed with a pistol, just a beat up Glock 18. He walked toward me.

            “Are you awake?”

The world seemed to stop as he waited for a reply.

“You can trust me. I am only here because my father forced me. If you are awake, I can help you.”

The seconds ticked by, until finally, I said something.

“How can I trust you?”

He suddenly yelped into his radio. The door flew open after a few seconds, and ten men ran in. They dragged me to my feet. As they began to walk me out, I stared daggers at the kid. He suddenly changed his facial expression, and winked.

With rattlesnake speed, he drew the pistol, and like a gunslinger, fired from the hip. The men hit the ground. There was fire in his eyes and his hand shook violently.

“I know where they keep their weapon inventory. There may not be much, but enough to get us out of here alive.”

“What’s your name?”

“Just call me friend. I will surely be executed for helping you.”

“Well, friend, take me to the vault.”

He pulled a small snub-nosed revolver from a holster on his ankle, with five extra bullets. Ten shots to get me through an enemy building.

“Let’s go. I have a full memory of this place,” he explained. “This should be quite easy.”

We walked down a hallway. Two unexpecting soldiers came out of a room. Two shots and they were done. They had no guns though. We came to the weapons vault, and inside was nothing but old revolvers and rifles.

“This is the wrong place. Why did they have to set up the museum as a base?”

He dropped to his knees in grief. An alarm rose.

“Friend, we may be doomed, but we can still die fighting.” I went over to a crate and cracked the lid. World War II weapons gleamed like gold.

“So,” I said while loading up a Type 100 machine gun. “Let’s kick some a*s.”

A wicked grin spread across his face. “By the time we are done, there won’t be any a*s to kick. I fight with pistols.”

 

*                      *                      *

 

            In three minutes, we turned a parking lot into a war zone. Our guns were firing, but our stomachs churned with the thought of them exploding in our hands. My “friend” was running around, dual wielding two Python revolvers. My gun was nearly rattling itself apart. The kickback was hard for the old gun to handle. I already had to use a shoelace to hold some parts together.

            “American friend!” suddenly cut through the gunfire. Through the crossfire came my ally, riding a black-and-gold Ducati.

            “I also brought you a present.” He handed me a fully loaded Ak-47, modified for one handed use. It would be less accurate, due to a shortened barrel and no butt-stock to help with kickback (actually, it had been replaced by a folding Spas-12 stock), and get less range, but it would do. He gunned it, and we tore through the streets. When we were certain that we were safe, he pulled the bike into a parking garage.

            “That was gre-” as I tried to finish my sentence, brass knuckles met my jaw.

            “This is the only way,” he said sadly as he caught me in the gut. He continued this brutal assault until my nose gushed blood, and my face cut and puffed. He then cuffed me to the bike and we sped away.

 

Wolf

 

            As I stood up, more enemies trained their guns on me. Whoever got me shot through the right shoulder, the fifty caliber round splitting the bone.

            “You… a******s,” I said smiling grimly to myself. “You shot my gun arm. Now you pissed me off.” Awkwardly grabbing my pistol with my left arm, I loaded it.

            “Let’s do this.” Dropping to the ground, I let loose the whole clip on the ten guys surrounding me. One dodged, but not before his hand was hit, and his gun went flying. We both ran. He got to the gun, stood, and swung it toward me. As he turned, I planted my left foot on his chest, and kicked him hard as I could in the chin. He staggered and tried to maintain his balance. I snapped his neck.

            “B******s.” I said as medics rushed me.

 

            The next day, I awoke in a hospital. Colonel Lynn sat beside my bed, a cheeseburger in one hand, a small bottle of Jack in the other.

            “I’m assuming those are mine?”

            He smirked. “Kid, you probably been through hell. You need this more than I do.”

            We sat in silence for a moment.

            “He’s gonna be honored, right? Twenty-one gun salute?”

            “Twenty-one guns.

            There was a soft chuckle.

            “You’re gonna be alright. Honorable discharge and-“

            “WHAT!”

            “Branden, you need to understand.”

            “You DON’T understand. I’ve taken bullets before. This is nothing!”

            He handed a gun to my right arm. “Lift this.” The pain shot through my arm and in my body. I strained to hide my pain, but Lynn saw through me.

            “I can stop you from being in the marines, but I can’t keep you from combat.” With that he opened a window, revealing that I was on the first floor of the hospital.

            “Kinda stuffy in here,” he said with a wink. “I’m gonna go to the can.” He closed and locked my room door as he left. In a flash, I was on my feet, getting dressed, and heading out the window, handgun still swinging from the limp arm.

 

            The drug store was seemingly abandoned. The glass doors took a few kicks to break. I found medical gauze to dress my bullet wound, not to mention morphine and other painkillers. Steroids were necessary, because I was drained from the run and strain on my shoulder. I put my arm in a sling, as my fingers still worked no problem. As I worked, I felt as if I were being watched. A gun cocked, and I was soon facing two barrels, a finger on the trigger. She was a pharmacist, middle aged, thinning red hair in a ponytail, and obviously didn’t care about her weight, seeing as how she took up most of the aisle.

            “I expected thieves, but not a kid.” I put my hand up in surrender, revealing my wound. She lowered her gun.

            “Carissa,” she yelled over her shoulder. “We got another one.”

            Seconds later, a girl came out of a back room. She was around sixteen-ish, with tangled short brown hair highlighted with blond. She wore an orange tank-top, faded skinny Capri’s, and black-and-green Osiris’s. She had thick black eyelashes, and watery blue eyes. She carried a medical case in her hands, and began dressing my wound properly.

            “What the hell were you doing?” she asked as she worked.

            “Combat. This is what happens all the time.”

            “You can’t possibly be in the army.”

            “Marines. Got recruited two years ago.”

            “How?” she asked. So I began my story.

            “I lost my parents to a bank robbery. A guy had a bomb rigged to himself. He got scared and hit the button. My dad was in the Marines, so he got a twenty-one gunner. His good friend, Major Travis Lynn, said he’d help look after me. Got me into a good orphanage. I met this guy named Joe when I was about three. We grew up like brothers. I was kind of scrawny, so Joe had to fight off the bullies. It’s not often a kindergartner can bench-press about a hundred pounds. In the fourth grade, I started learning about explosives. Blew up a swing set with a pound of homemade C4. Then I got put into a foster home. Joe did too. Only got to see him at school. We hated it, and every day we just got angrier. When we were in fifth grade, we decided to pick a fight with some eighth graders. Make that every guy in the entire eighth grade class, plus seventh grade. We got expelled from that school because the teachers came out and there we were, standing in the middle of unconscious guys. When we were thirteen, we ran away. The closest place was this military base. So we snuck in. We got caught and showed our skills, which actually came from all our Call of Duty campaigns. They liked us, and practically adopted us. My commanding officer actually did adopt us. We were recruited within about six months.”

            “Just like that?” she asked, as she dabbed a cotton ball in rubbing alcohol.

            “Yeah. It’s kind of easy when your dad is a Marine Colonel.” She gave a slight chuckle. She was cute. The way she giggled at small jokes, the weird, yet not-grossed-out faces she made when she treated my wound. She had a Desert Eagle Crudely holstered to her belt, and a hunting knife strapped to her ankle. My kind of girl. I made an a*s of myself when she went to go get some gauze.

            “So, this may be the drugs talking, but what would my chances be with you?”

            She whipped around. “What?”

            “Drugs, drugs,” I quickly replied.

            From the backroom, she heard her mother yell.

            “Yeah, hang on,” she shouted back. Then she stood up.

            “You’re at about ninety percent, just for blaming the drugs.” She kissed my cheek and left.

 

IX

 

June 22^nd, 1999.

            It was a normal day. Normal people going about their normal routines. A normal bank was having a normal business day. A couple walked into a bank to make a withdrawal. The woman was in a hurry, because she did not trust the babysitter with her one year old son. Otherwise, it was completely normal. That is, until exactly three thirty in the afternoon, when a group of men walked into the bank wearing ski-masks.

            “Everybody on the ground!” one shouted. Three moved to the teller windows and withdrew shotguns. The last man walked to the middle of the room, wearing a large overcoat. The men at the teller windows were demanding their money.

”If you do not comply,” said the overcoat man, “There will be consequences.” He pulled out another gun, just an ordinary pistol, grabbed a woman nearby, and held the gun to her head.

“Please!” she pleaded. “Please, d-don’t d-do i-it! I h-have a son at h-home!”

By this time, the nearest police department had responded to the silent alarm, and had barricaded the bank. The man stepped outside with the woman.

“Leave, or I’ll do it!”  But it was not the gun he was referring to.

He opened his coat.

Detonator in hand, explosives crudely duct-taped to his body, the man threatened and gestured. He did not see the snipers taking aim, but he knew to be aware. He stepped back inside.

“Did you get in the vault?”

His assistants’ eyes darted away nervously. Suddenly, unexpectedly, the thief was rushed. One of the hostages rushed the man with the bomb. Taking advantage of this distraction, police stormed the bank. There was no other choice, he had too much at stake.

He pressed the button.

Just a few blocks away, not knowing it, Travis Lynn was bouncing a baby on his knee, a baby who would soon be his own son.

 

About five or six years later, the playground blew up.

 

X

 

I’m really glad the city was evacuated. Otherwise I would get in so much trouble for what I did. Stealing the cherry red Camaro was nothing. Nor was the modifying of it so it would have body armor. Nor were the bottles of alcohol I stole from the nearby liquor store (its New York. There’s always a nearby liquor store), which I stole so I could make Molotov Cocktails. The bottle of Jack was just to help cope with what had happened today. Soon I was driving down the empty streets in a war machine that got forty mpg and eight-hundred horsepower (Big block Chevy’s are my life). Not to mention it was bulletproof, and the bumper was now lined with death spikes. By the time I got halfway to the battlefield, I had speared a guy, and had him by the torso. He had no waist, or legs, and I literally left a blood trail. After picking him off, I was about to get back in my car when a weird blanket on the back floorboard quivered.

            “Whoever you are, I have a gun.”

            “Just don’t take me back,” came a muffled female voice. Then, Carissa sat up.

            “Don’t take me back. That woman isn’t even my mom, she’s a foster parent and she hates me. She stayed in the pharmacy to protect it and she wouldn’t let me go.

            “You know I’m going to the fight.”

            “I don’t care,” she cried, tears welling up, turning her eyes a silvery aqua color. “Just help me.”

            She was already in the car, and closer to safety if she stayed with me. A pharmacy is not a good hiding place. It would most likely be stormed for food and medical supplies. I handed her a gun.

            “Just in case.” I closed her door as a pickup truck came around the corner. It saw us and gunned it. I got in and jumped on the gas. They avoided my deadly spikes by whipping around us, and then clipping my rear. They began shooting, and my armor wasn’t going to last long.

            “Hang on to something.”

            As the truck made a U-turn, I started a burnout. The truck was bearing down on us, guns blazing. After ten seconds, I let it go. We reached ninety, but I was holding back. The truck started throwing grenades, forcing me to slide into a side street. Thank god I was a hell of a wheelman. We shot through the street, and turned onto another. The truck intercepted us. I turned again. I overshot the left turn, lobbing one of the Molotov’s. It was not lit, so I had to shoot to ignite it. While they were busy with that, I rolled two more under the truck, and the explosion destroyed their gas tank, and the truck flipped. Soon, a helicopter came to investigate, and we took refuge in a nearby parking garage. When the car stopped, Carissa jumped from her seat into my arms.

            “Oh my god, that was insane!” she was flipping out, exited by the carnage and rush. Again, my kind of girl. She sat on my lap for about five minutes, kissing and breathing heavily. I had forgotten about the rush. The chance of dying, but doing it anyway. High speed versus high caliber. It was a first time for her, and she liked it.

            “Oh,” I gasped. “I think I’m in love.”

 

            We stayed at an abandoned motel. There was still electricity, and water. I showered for at least an hour, washing off all the blood (most of it wasn’t mine) and cleaning my wounds. When I was out, I grabbed the bottle of alcohol, took a swig, and flopped onto the bed. Carissa was flipping through the T.V. channels, until she found a movie channel. The movie was Saving Private Ryan. I shot the T.V. out of annoyance. The last thing I needed a reminder that there’s a damn war going on. Bombs went off in the distance. Carissa slid out of her bed and found a place next to me in mine. She smelled faintly of vanilla and gunpowder, a strange mixture, but nice all the same. She shuddered with every distant explosion, but as they became fainter, her gentle breathing told me she was asleep. It also lulled me, and I kissed her forehead before I faded into the night.

 

            I was flying the plane, and Lynn was in another. I pulled into an upward spiraling arch, and Lynn followed. We dove, then rocketed up. The sky was clear, the sun was shining on my face… then, suddenly, we were caught in a massive super cell. I couldn’t fly, but Lynn could. I was suddenly paralyzed as a missile flew from his wing. It blew my own wing off, and I spiraled to the ground. I awoke with a start. I could hear the crash as my dream-plane hit the ground. Then I realized that the crash had come from outside. Carissa was already dressed; the nearby thrift store provided her with a black tank-top, bright green undershirt, maroon skinny jeans, and a black hoodie. She brought me a white Aeropostale hoodie, as my old one was tattered and scorched. She must have been up for a while, because was cooking eggs and bacon in a pan. She swore to herself as black toast popped out of the shiny chrome toaster. She adjusted the dial, and popped four more pieces of bread into it. She also had two small backpacks on the floor, one carrying some supplies, the other with two large canteens. There were even two small crates full of canned foods, and a large plastic can full of gasoline. After flipping the eggs and turning the bacon, she began loading bullets into gun clips, and shells into a brand-new shotgun. Its stock was gun-metal grey, lever action and side shell holder. Engraved in the stock was her name. She put a red bow on the barrel of it, put my breakfast on a tray, and walked it over to me.

            “What’s the matter?” she asked concerned. “Don’t like eggs?”

            “Nothing… Just personal business. Where’d you get this stuff?”

            She pulled out a cell phone. “The alarm on this went off at six this morning. You slept through it, but I was awake, so I thought I’d get us some supplies.”

            “And a new gun.”

            “We can’t do much with just pistols.”

            I aimed it at a lamp. It exploded when the shot hit. I spun it around my hand to c**k it and shot the T.V.

“Besides, it’s a gift”

            “Jeeze, I sleep with you for one night, and you’re already buying me presents,” I joked. I held the new gun in one hand. Its balance was obviously modified, making it lightweight, and one hand usable.

            “Well… Maybe after the war…” she crawled into my lap, wrapping her arms around my neck, her face within inches of mine, “We’ll see if we can cover that base.”

            She would have said more, but at that point gunfire had broken out in the street outside the motel. We quickly packed up our supplies, and jumped into the car. We tore out of the parking lot, just barely avoiding the missile that reduced it to a pile of rubble. I raced down the street to an auto-repair shop.

“I got an idea.” I went into the trunk and started pulling up the interior. Where the spare tire should have been were two Ls-86’s, belts carrying about two-hundred and fifty rounds. I welded them to the hood of my car. I then drilled two holes through my windshield, and fed a shoelace through each. Tying each shoelace to a trigger, I soon had a redneck war machine. I got in the car and gave the shotgun to Carissa, in exchange for her pistol. We rolled out of the garage, and I opened fire. The ones not mowed down by the guns were harpooned and dragged. Carissa pumped out shells, while I killed off as many as the pistol could fire at. We were a red death devastating the whole street. When the guns ran out their belts, we made our way to the highway.

 

XI

 

            For a city that never sleeps, Times Square was just too god damn quiet. So when a high powered blood red armored muscle car comes screaming around a corner at nearly a hundred and twenty miles an hour and roars down the center of an open road, your damn right it’s gonna be noticed. Not only noticed, but try shot at and rammed into. We were T-boned from the right and smashed into a light pole. My tires smoked as I tried to break free. Only when the driver let go of the accelerator was I was able to get out. I raced down the street. They were using high powered assault rifles, and a few shots got through the windshield. Two hit me, in the shoulder an arm. Then one hit Carissa in the side. That set me off. I pulled the handbrake and twisted onto a one-eighty spin and hit it into reverse. I shot at them with my mounted guns, and we were a mobile battle. Then I hit it into drive and rammed them head-on. I charged them down the street, still firing on. I backed them onto a fire hydrant, and left them there, dead. When I went to shift, my hand slipped, and I hit the radio. It turned on to a broadcast.

            “We are broadcasting on all frequencies. We have retreated, and have migrated to a new temporary settlement near Juneau, Alaska. We can provide food, clothing, shelter. We have ten large bunkers that can accommodate up to fifty people each. Come with us, and you will stay safe.”

            The broadcast ended.

“What now?” Carissa asked

I sighed. “Looks like we’re going to Alaska.”

*                      *                      *

          Heading along a highway, we were stopped at a checkpoint. Our car was eyed suspiciously, but confirmed identity as a U.S. citizen was all they needed. About half a minute later, we were ripped from our car. Gunshots rang from Carissa’s side, but someone else screamed, so I was relieved. I turned to see some guy getting into my seat. I kicked him in the face. He lashed out and grabbed my ankle. I brought that leg down, while at the same time kicking up with my other, catching him directly in the jaw. He staggered out of the car and rushed me. He was about five-seven, wearing desert camo pants and a tan shirt. He had some weird rag tied around his head to hide his face. He launched punch after punch at me. On one, I grabbed his wrist, punched at the inside of his elbow, and hit him with his own fist. On another, I simply ducked, and sprang up behind him. I grabbed his shoulders, kicked at his knees, tucked in my legs, and pinned him when he hit the ground. I ripped off the rag, and gasped.

 

Joe

 

            The checkpoint guards looked me over. He checked my handcuffs, and agreed to let us pass. “Transporting an interrogation suspect.” My “friend” needed me in pain to disguise me as a prisoner, who he had to fight to get a hold of. It helped get through Iraq checkpoints. Of course, I didn’t realize this until after I beat the s**t out of him. He understood, and then we made a plan.

            “We need a vehicle.” Friend explained. “We are too vulnerable on a bike.”

            “There’s a freeway at the edge of the city. Cars will be there no doubt.”

            “We will need a better disguise.” He pulled a large handkerchief from his pocket, and wrapped my head. It felt wrong, but I had to. We walked at first, but then had to run as a small battle surrounded us. We were going to go for the first car we saw, but I stopped dead. Barreling down the road was a midsized red armored vehicle. Upon further inspection, it was a modified muscle car, with thick metal plating attached. It had seen combat, survived, and was going at about ninety, maybe ninety five. After it was out of sight of the checkpoint, we made our move. There were two teenagers in the car, both with guns. I heard pops, but wasn’t hit. Apparently the guy I got was my match in combat. A blow to the face could’ve downed him, but I couldn’t get him. He got me to the ground, and ripped off the hanky. I felt relieved after I saw it was Branden, ‘cause he was the only guy that could have ever taken me down (less times than others), meaning I’m not a failure. And, being the driver he is, I probably have a better chance of survival.

 

*                      *                      *

 

            The screams were unbearable. Obviously, this guy had never been shot before. We got a break when the painkillers kicked in. Joe got to “And he helped me escape” when we were attacked again. A gunner from a chopper spotted us. I guess a red car in the middle of a highway is a good target. I gunned it to the next off ramp, and raced through the city. He could only hover above the skyscrapers, and he was having trouble hitting us. He did hit us, though. Five rounds went through the roof, and the armor was getting pummeled.

            “Hang on,” I yelled as I screeched into a parking garage. You ever see the third Fast and the Furious movie? The one where they have to race to the top of the parking garage? Well that’s what it was like, except I never let go of the gas. I got to the roof, and met a volley of armor piercing rounds.

            “Get DOWN!”

            Our windshield smashed, but I kept on going. At the last second I yelled “Brace for impact!” and jumped to the back seat, as well as Joe. The car smashed into the short concrete wall, and we flipped trunk-over-engine. We smashed into the chopper, and lodged. I opened the door and we all spilled onto the roof of a building. The chopper hit the side, and erupted in a fireball, which triggered my Cocktails, and the explosion cracked the roof.

            “We’re screwed.”

            “No we’re not,” Joe said. He was holding the choppers gun. He was burned a bit, and scraped up from the fall.

            “Nice gun, if you’re trying to compensate for something.” I joked.

            “Just shut up and kill something, d****t.”

            I shot out the lock to the roof door, and we made our way down.

            We made it three blocks before we were surrounded.

            They tried to rush us, but backed off quickly as Joe showed off his gun.

            They aimed their guns, and prepared to shoot. My heart pounded. The following happened within three seconds: We pushed our allies to the ground. Over the roar of twenty guns firing, Joe yelled “DOWN.” A few soldiers were shot, but there were still more than a dozen. When we got to our feet, it was our turn.

“Back to back!” I yelled. Joe started head shots with his gun, and I had two handguns to use. When those ran out, I snatched an old trench gun off of Joes back. I would have questioned it had three bullets to the left leg, right arm, and a grazer on my side hadn’t jolted me back into battle. I pumped out shells and suddenly, we weren’t surrounded anymore. Well, we weren’t surrounded by enemies anymore. We were loaded into cargo trucks, and Colonel Lynn smiled from the truck. Carissa suddenly ran to me. She was holding a cross-charm necklace.

“I want you to have this. So you’ll have something more to fight for.” With that, she kissed me. Her lips were warm, and tasted of vanilla lip balm. She then stepped into the truck, and it drove away. We walked over to Lynn’s truck. As we were loaded, Joe suddenly put up a struggle. He was then stuck with a needle, and went limp.

“What the hell is going on here?” I asked. Lynn smiled at me and said, “Its ‘de-briefing’ time.” With that, he kicked me in the face. I fell off the truck.

“One less nuisance to deal with.” Then the world dissolved to black.

 

XIII

 

My vision was blurred as I came to. It became clearer as, as well as hearing. Lynn slapped me awake, then turned to some Iraqi guys. They spoke in what sounded like Latin, a language I didn't know.

“Colonel?” I muttered feebly.

He chuckled softly. “Didn't see that one coming, did ya? Can’t have you out there killing off all my soldiers now, can I?”

“Why?”

“Because, Wolfe, this country is going to the dogs. I made a deal with Iraq to help them, and in addition, I lead them. It took fourteen years to get where I am now. Napoleon Bonaparte was a general by the time he was sixteen. Plus, I’ll be rich! I can retire, and be out of all this godforsaken war and combat.

“You’re doing this for money.” The anger inside me was boiling. I was handcuffed to a chair, and I was already thinking of a way to escape. Lynn got distracted by another soldier entering the room, giving me enough time to turn my head and spit on my left shoulder. It ran down my arm, to my wrist, and I spread it as best as I could around my hand. I wriggled it all I could. Finally, with some pain, I got it free. I quickly pulled the lucky cross necklace from around my neck. It was hard, but I managed to pick the lock. I swung the chain over to Joe’s hands. His cuffs fell to the ground, but Lynn was too busy to notice. After another minute, he turned to us.

“You do know we’re gonna kill you, right?” I warned.

Lynn and three other soldiers laughed. He then turned to one of them and said, “Get ‘em outta here.” The guards started walking towards us.

“Left,” Joe said.

“Right,” I replied.

“Center.”

“Lynn.”

“Go.”

We jumped from our chairs. I strangled one guy with my handcuffs, and broke his neck. Joe went for a cheap shot, kicked the guy in the face, and shoved him into the other. The other guy dodged, and was met by a roundhouse kick to the jaw. In their daze, Joe broke both of their necks. Lynn had fired at me, but I dodged and tackled from below, jumping upward and lifting him off his feet. We crashed through the door and spilled into the hallway. Lynn’s gun clattered off about ten feet, and I was in the way.

“You just don’t know when to back down, do you? We already captured nuclear missiles, and their getting launched soon. Once Americas down, Germany, Russia, China, and all the other countries will back down. We’re gonna take over, and it’s all thanks to me.”

“If you walk away from this.”

“Kid, remember who trained you.” He charged. I kicked for the legs, but he sidestepped that and countered with a left jab. I followed the momentum of the impact with a roundhouse kick. It caught him in the jaw, and he stumbled. He caught his balance, and ran at me again, but he was intercepted by Joe. They crashed into a wall. They grappled and fought. Then there was gunfire, and Lynn dropped to the ground. Blood gushed from his thigh, and he turned pale white.

“That’s enough!” a voice roared. Turning around, I was face-to-face with Marshal Dregg. He was holding Lynn’s gun, And was followed by a small group of soldiers. Navy SEALS, Delta squad. They had their guns trained on Lynn, and would open fire on a moment’s notice. Dregg stood over Lynn.

“Lynn, we’ve got a nice little interrogation planned for you.”

“You’ll never get the launch info out of me.” As fast as he could, he ripped the gun from Dregg’s hands, stuck the barrel in his mouth, and pulled the trigger. His blood gushed black from his head, and painted the walls in red. There was silence, which was broken by a crackle on Lynn’s radio. I translated for everyone else.

“The missiles have launched. Impact in one hour.”

“Then we had better get to safety,” Dregg sighed. “Come on boys.”

He turned us around. Just then, missiles hit. A section of the roof caved in, showing the F-16 Falcon hovering above. It fired missiles, and machine guns. Beyond that, a black dot was just visible, leaving a trail of exhaust behind it. No, not just one. There were two, flying almost perpendicular to each other.

“Dregg,” I yelled over the gunfire, “is there a hangar or some combat plane nearby?”

“Follow me,” he yelled back.

 

“You’re kidding me, right? What is this, World War Two?” Joe complained.

“They still work, and it’s all we’ve got.” Dregg replied.

“I love them.” Dregg had brought us two planes; An F4U Corsair, and a P-51 Mustang.

“They were accommodated from a nearby aircraft museum. The guns are freshly loaded.”

“Joe gets the Corsair, and I get the Mustang.”

“Damn you,” Joe said casually.

“Whatever gets you boys in the air faster,” Dregg cut in. We soon were strapped in and making our way down the strip. Dregg helped us navigate from the control tower.

“You boys got half an hour. Speed it up.” The planes handled well, but making only one hundred and fifteen horsepower, they were considerably slow. We circled the Falcon. He turned his nose on Joe.

“Joe, you’re a decoy. Sorry.” Me being the better pilot, I would never be seen as I attacked. I was already sideways, so I banked to the right (In this case, up) until I was high in the air, did a quarter roll to bring my belly up, brought my nose up, and began my descent. I opened fire on his cockpit, which killed him, of course. I leapt from my plane, into his damaged cockpit. Taking control, I began to aim it. I opened fire on the enemy soldiers. But the plane was still heavily damaged, and it was beginning to drop, so I had to act fast. Ejecting my seat, I dropped it onto a platoon that was storming the building, killing them instantly. Joe caught me in the passenger seat of his plane.

“Boys,” Dregg’s voice crackled into my headset.

“The building can be evacuated now, sir.”

“Fly up.”

I was puzzled, but then Joe explained it in four words.

“WE’VE GOT TWENTY SECONDS!”

Suddenly a shadow passed over me. The missiles were dropping fast, so we had to fly at stalling heights. The engines sputtered and nearly died out. We were almost knocked out of the sky. My plane began to spin, and as it spun, I saw the clouds. They rose higher than I had been flying. The ground… there was such a large crater; a Russian Anotov A-225 could have fit in easily. Our planes skidded and slid on the bubbling runway, the heat boiling us inside the planes. They city was destroyed beyond recognition Many skyscrapers were down, others like tall corncobs robbed of their kernels. I looked at Joe. He nodded solemnly. It was gone. All gone.

And we were alone.

Author's Note

I found this hidden on my flashdrive. Started this in the eighth grade. Worked on it through high school, so you may see changes in style and form. I haven't fully re-read it over, so if you see something weird, please tell me. Also, I really want to change the ending, because I feel like its a bit of a let-down. Tell me what you thought.