He walked over to one of the circular windows looking out onto the street. He unslung his rifle and sat in its frame, lighting a cigarette and drinking from his canteen. Looking out over the city he spoke.
“It’s all useless. There’s nothing for us here.”
Raxx wandered over and crossed his arms, remaining silent.
“If we were scavenging we might find some of the old tech worth salvaging… but what’s the point in that? There’re no answers here.”
“You want to go back?”
“Guess we might as well.”
They started their journey back to the vehicles, still holding out hope that something would show up in their path, but it was all in vain. They passed through the tunnels, squeezing around subway cars littered with skeletons, and when they climbed up to the surface it was only to stare at a city of bones.
Finally they reached the last station. It was a block south of where they’d first entered, but closer to their vehicles. They walked up the stairs. A faded set of pylons had rolled over on the road. Ahead of them one of the paving blocks was missing, some sort of work trench opened up in its place. Cement barricaded bordered on either side. Next to them was another glass building, its windows washed clean by the recent showers. As they reached the top Wentworth turned to look at his reflection. The eerie mystery of this place that he’d felt upon first arriving was gone. There was nothing here; this city was a dead waste…
A flinch. His nerves caught on fire. “Get down!” he screamed, grabbing Raxx by the back of his vest, and pushing him forwards, into the work trench.
He noticed every pebble, every shard of glass, green and brown. Raxx’s weapon was still in his hand. A pile of old cigarettes had gathered in the trench’s corner. As they hit the ground he heard the sound of shattering glass as one of the reflective windows came down in a tinkling shower, followed by the whiz of a bullet’s sonic boom.
Time went back to normal, and for three ragged breaths they lay there, looking at each other.
“Sergeant Wentworth!” a voice shouted in the distance, “It’s over. We’ve got you covered and there’s nowhere to go. Give yourself up; it’s time for you to pay for your crimes.”
“Shit,” said Wentworth, breathing heavily. “It’s them.”
Raxx looked at him, confusion written across his features.
“Alright, listen; they’re not after you, just me. You barely know me, we just worked together a bit. Now I’m going to—“
“Fuck you, what’s the plan?”
“What? Listen, Raxx, these guys aren’t a bunch of jack-offs like the Hellhounds. There’s going to be at least eight of them, trained like I am. They—“
“I said fuck you, what’s the plan?”
Wentworth searched his partner’s eyes. The man was unwavering. “Alright,” he said.
“Sergeant Wentworth, you are ordered to stand up with your hands above your head. You will leave your rifle on the ground, and remove your pistol, and any other weapons you might be carrying. Do this now!”
Combat was always a role of the dice. Those who survived were as lucky as they were skilled. But that didn’t mean you trusted blind chance. He’d been a student of war his entire life, and what he’d learned told him that this was a bad situation.
The man on the megaphone was Sergeant Phillips. He had his personality flaws, but there was no faulting his soldiering skills. The one behind the sniper rifle was probably Corporal Steele. He remembered grad-night, and her evening gown. If she’d been paying attention she wouldn’t have missed. There’d be six others, young kids he couldn’t name but deadly nonetheless. Two with machine guns and maybe a grenade launcher or two. Why they hadn’t used it yet, he couldn’t say.
Four against one were impossible odds if the four were remotely skilled. Three against one was doable, if you were highly skilled and they weren’t, four? Never. The Hellhounds and Slayer had been different situations, even if Raxx didn’t realize it. But now the Regiment had found him. He was probably better than them, but it wouldn’t matter. Not in a fair fight, anyway.
This was dead man walking time.
Steele was sweating. She’d been picking her nose when Wentworth came into view and somehow during that second while she’d hefted her weapon and drew a bead on him he’d sensed her. How the hell had he done that? She was a block away in the shadows of the parking garage where they’d found his motorcycle. A tingle ran down her spine. She ignored the memory — the tingle was fear, not something else. The man was scary. But he didn’t scare her as much as Sergeant Phillips did. She shouldn’t have missed, and she’d hear about it later.
The rest of the Section was arrayed along the walls. All of them wore the same helmet and goggles as Wentworth, with long black trench coats made out of the same black leather. Gaps of several meters separated them, while Phillips watched from behind. They had their weapons trained on the concrete barrier waiting for a target.
“All right;” they heard in the distance, “I’m coming out. Hold your fire!”
“Get ready, Corporal. The rest of you, hold your fire” said Phillips.
Staring through her scope she saw Wentworth slowly rise from behind the barrier, hands over his head as ordered. Taking aim at his centre of mass she slowly squeezed the trigger. The recoil caught her by surprise, as it should, but when the gun steadied all she saw was another cavity in the glass building behind the barrier.
“Shit!” she said, “It was just his reflection!”
A sudden movement on the far side of the barrier caught the Sections attention and they all opened up. Steele drew a bead, only to realize that the object was green — they’d been firing at his duffle bag! Swinging her scope she caught Wentworth and the savage he was with running towards the subway. “Shift Fire Left!” She fired a couple of snap shots and heard the others open up, but all of them missed. Wentworth and the freak travelling with him had disappeared into the subway network.
“Goddamnit!” yelled Phillips. “Let’s move people, we can’t let him disappear into the city. I said move, goddamnit!”
The tunnels seemed darker than before. They moved at a jog, the beams from their flashlights jerking back and forth with each step.
“You got any C4 on you?” asked Wentworth as they vaulted over a series of turnstiles blocking their path.
“Nothing but my shotgun and some extra ammo,” panted Raxx, “You?”
“Same here; nothing.” They’d left their bags behind when they bolted for the subway. There’d been nothing in them that would have helped, anyhow.