Last Avenger

Chapter 9

The clouds over Midtown broke as the sun got ready to set. Forty Second Street, between Park and the UN buzzed with Gennisian troops. They rushed to asses their casualties amidst urgent screams and shouts for medical attention or about another deceased.

A trickling of people spilled into the UN courtyard, dumb at the commotion on Forty Second. A number of buildings had collapsed in the street. Forty Second Street was a canal, just like UN Plaza and the surrounding streets, of cloudy, brown flood water. But Forty Second wasn't brown, it was red. Their eyes followed the red down the road to scores of bodies partly submerged in the water, unrecognizable – some had been charred black, others had been burned right down to the muscle. Fluids leaking from the trucks, some still islands of fire, mixed with the red as soldiers rushed about with buckets of water and stretchers.

The door to the trailer under the Pier 45 pass creaked ajar. Thor poked his head inside. Bucky had crumpled to his knees. He obstructed the body slumped against the wall on the floor. Thor spied the blood smear down the paneling. The room was entirely silent.

Bucky turned his head to his shoulder. Thor pressed past the door up to his chest. Bucky's shoulders heaved and he set a foot under himself, hoisting himself up to his feet. Thor could now fully see the bloody heap that was Steve Rogers just beyond Barnes. He looked to see Bucky's eyes on him; they were red and wet. His hair was astray in parts. There was a hunch in his posture. The look on Bucky's face was one Thor had never seen before. It was not the quiet severity of the man of legend. It was the vulnerability of a boy; someone unequivocally mortal, human, wayward.

"Thor," Barnes said.

Thor was suddenly aware of the shiver that had come over him. It was as though he was trapped in a tunnel and all he could see was Bucky.

"I'm sorry," Bucky whimpered.

Thor's teeth had clenched so tight behind his lips they might have shattered. A soreness wore on the muscles in his face and he realized how deeply wound in a scowl he was.

A platoon made its way across West Street and through the under the pass to Pier 45. They were six – three to a side. They watched every inch of the tunnel through their sites as they approached; left, right, center, front and back.

"We're coming up on the target," the lead announced in a hush.

They surrounded the steps of the trailer and the lead trotted up.

He pounded his fist on the door. "Captain Barnes!"

He waited a few seconds, then turned to his platoon and shook his head. They nodded back to him. He got one hand on the door knob, the other supporting the rifle in firing position. He yanked the handle and whisked in barrel first. He lowered his rifle and stopped, seeing Barnes. He had their back to them, and between his legs the soldier saw Steve.

Barnes turned his puffy, deadpan face to the troops. "Someone clean him up."

The refugees sat under the trees between Weehawken Municipal Court and the 495. Seeing the sun for the first time all day was ultimately exhausting. The shadows of the hollow homes the other side of Gregory Avenue grew long and were almost to their outstretched feet.

"Hey," a tired, gravelly voice called from behind them.

They turned to see Thor emerging from the parking lot. His face fell seeing less than a third of the people he had freed remained. Their eyes looked heavy, they were bruised, they were caught, and most of all they were lost – the shine they had back in New York was gone, almost seeming like they had shrunk. Thor never breaks step and nods for them to follow as he passes.