Prepper

Chapter Fifteen

"Give me a ride!" I plea with the soldiers who busily pack up their gear. Most of them ignore me. "Even a couple blocks, please!"

"Sorry sir." Private Hartt says. "We can't take a civilian with us. Besides we only have room for four."

"But if you are heading to the tunnel, that is halfway to my destination, I gotta get back to my wife."

Hartt just shakes his head as he stows more items in the back of the G-Wagen.

George's radio crackles to life, the reception is very poor, but even I can make out a few of the panic-stricken words from the static-filled broadcast. "Contact -- tunnel -- fucking tank!"

A clearer reply comes back on the net from someone at a command post somewhere. "Two-Six-Alpha, this is Red Column, maintain radio procedure and repeat your last."

More static and garbled, broken comms follow.

"Break Red Column, this is two-five delta, moving on two-six alpha. Observed convoy including one tank heading toward three-two-five-lima, over."

"Copy two-six, advise ETA, over."

"Seven mikes, breaking down and loading up. Over."

"Roger two-six. Red Column out."

The team now move with an increased sense of urgency. There was no way I was getting a ride now. I take off at a run.

"Stay away from the tunnel." Private Hartt calls after me. As if I had any intent of going anywhere near it.

I zigzag, up one street, through an alley, across an avenue. Eventually, my dash slows to a jog, which becomes a brisk walk up to the point where I stop and lean against a storefront window. I am panting heavily, I try to listen, barely able to hear anything over my own heavy breathing. Off in the distance I hear the unmistakable cacophony of a firefight. Something very bad is unfolding somewhere to my east. I've steered clear of the tunnel by a couple blocks, but my desire for self-preservation is at odds with my desire to get to my wife.

I fish my phone out of my pocket, no bars, no service. I try to remember when the last time was that I had seen a payphone. It dawns on me - the bus depot used to have a bank of old school pay phones, I reckon it still does. I check my pockets for change and I turn up a small handful of shiny currency. If I can get word to Kate, she can evacuate and I can meet her someplace safe. Problem is, the bus depot is only half-a-block from the tunnel.

Despite all my better judgment. I move toward the noise that I should be moving away from. I walk, then jog, then run all out. My heart pounds heavily in my chest, I pant like a sled dog and my legs protest, feeling like they are on fire. Still, I run onward. When I can carry on no farther, when my leaden legs refuse my every order to keep moving, I stumble to a halt just one street over from the depot. I plop down on a bench wishing I had pushed myself harder in training.

There is a thin alley, barely a shoulder width wide, between two buildings - a convenience store and a bar. Goddamn I could use a drink. The gunfire is sporadic, but heavy at times and it's spread out now, coming from different directions. I have counted at least three large booms, that I assume are explosions of some kind. I find myself concerned for the safety of young private Hartt and his team as well as my own. I enter the alley and work my way slowly along. Once I am in there, it becomes increasingly difficult to tell which direction the noise is coming from.

I edge along slower. If I am caught in here, I am dead, there is no cover and it is so tight I could not run. I'm so scared I think I might piss my own pants. Twenty meters from the end, I hear squealing tires, shouts and the world erupts in a hellish din of automatic gunfire, screams and untold horrors. I fall on the ground, I stay there frozen for what feels like an hour, while the unseen drama on the street a stone's throw away plays out. The air become thick with the acrid smell of burning rubber and what I assume is gunpowder.