A Hard Rain: Book Two Of The Shift Trilogy

Chapter 19

"Chris! RPG!"

The moonless night sky was bathed in light from flares slowly teetering to earth, their descent slowed down by parachutes. Through the trees, Chris saw an Obsidian Corp security specialist aiming a rocket-propelled grenade in his general direction. Chris raised the sights of his M4 and fired. The man was dead before he hit the ground, a headshot.

"Go, go, go!" he commanded as he slid down the muddy hill, half falling along the way, trying not to lose control of his approach or his bladder, incidentally. The thunderous tearing sound of the .30 caliber machinegun tore at men's will just as it did their bodies.

The flares' light died into the night as Chris and his platoon raced toward the barricade. He switched to full auto and fired behind a pine tree, which provided absolutely no protection from gunfire, but at least it gave some concealment. He turned to see the white eyes of Gunnery Sergeant Birmingham behind him, his face caked in mud.

"Push through!"

Chris nodded and cried out. "Push through!"

He charged the barricade avoiding rounds by mere luck, his legs pumping furiously to reach the other side. As he ran, he raised his rifle and heard a sound, a sound that wasn't right. It got louder, a pulsating wail that rang throughout the darkened forest. Mere meters from the berm, his brain registered what the alien pulsating wail was, some kind of alarm clock.

Falls Church, Virginia

January 2013

The wind rushed past, following the Metro train like a ghost, adding insult for anyone who was left on the platform at West Falls Church station. Chris didn't mind the cold. He had plenty of experience living with constant exposure to the elements and without the benefit of wearing a wool suit, a thick pea coat and fur lined leather gloves. They didn't wear well for riding or fighting.

Likewise, Chris didn't mind missing the train. In fact, he didn't miss the train at all, really. He let it pass him by, moving out of the way to allow other passengers to board instead. In fact, this was the fourth train that he chose not to board. The train status display overhead reported that another DC bound Orange Line train would arrive in four minutes, another two minutes behind that one, and a third one two minutes behind that. It was morning rush hour.

Rush hour...The term itself had become as alien to him as the scene around him. A sea of strangers stood, dressed in dry cleaned suits. Men were cleanly shaven, women had their hair done up. They were docile and acted as if nothing had ever happened. None of them were gangly, diseased, starving or dying. Below the station, sleek polished automobiles jockeyed for position along the ill-conceived Interstate 66; none of them were fitted with armor. A voice mumbled something unintelligible over the intercom while a woman standing next to him casually read a book on some "ereader" thing, completely unaware of how dangerous the world truly was.

Chris felt a sudden surge of nausea, due in part to his concussion, the rest due to his attempt to make sense of the world around him. The disorientation of it all threatened to swallow him whole. Breathe, Chris, breathe. Following his internal instructions, he drew in the frosty morning air.

Several days had passed since he awoke to find himself here in this place that just couldn't be. It wasn't the past. He knew that much. It was 2013, his time. But something happened, something that he couldn't comprehend, because in this place the Shift never happened. It sounded impossible, it sounded ridiculous, it sounded insane, but it was also the undeniable truth.