Physics of the Crowbar

Natural Intention

Wind whipped up the cliff face, tugging at him. It blew dust and grit into his eyes and sent vibration through the drain pipe. He was reconsidering his options when bullets tore a line of bright pinholes through the thin steel wall; how they'd found him so fast he didn't know. He backed up and heard radio static echo behind him.

Only way forward was down.

He swung out of the pipe and clung to its lower rim, his toes finding purchase as two bullets trimmed the rock at his shoulder. He let go of the pipe and skidded down the rock, coming to a stop on a narrow ledge.

Bullets would hurt, but gravity would kill.

Soldiers had rappelled down the cliff and were ensconced along goat paths, drainage pipes and the dam overflow. Freeman heard the alert run through them, heard the echo of static, shouts and gunshots. Most bullets went wide, but a few were getting uncomfortably close.

He was a blotch of bright orange and black on a shaded rocky background; a massive target, though the angle was in his favor. They were shooting up, into the bright sky, while he had the benefit of picking them off from above. Until the tunnel team caught up him, at least. He worked his way down the cliff by finger-tips and feel, using the crowbar like an ice pick to dig into the scree and cervices. He didn't like nature on a good day; he did not appreciate hiking, he did not go exploring the desert like the security guards often did on days off, and he definitely didn't rock climb.

Though the soldiers must have had training for all-terrain conditions, they weren't any more eager to challenge the cliffs. They worked the trails and access walks, but for every soldier he picked off two more seemed to replace them. They were slowing him down, stalling him. Letting their people gather above him. He scrambled to the broad dam overflow pipe. From a distance it looked almost gentile, but from above it had a wicked angle. He hesitated, and a bullet clipped his shoulder. The pipe team had arrived.

No time to debate- he kicked his feet out and went down it on his back, catching the lip with his heels in a tooth-jarring impact. Bullets traced his path and he flung himself off the pipe. He cleared the nest of soldiers at the overflow maintenance hatch but the access was locked. Now what. He scanned the cliff up and down, and caught sight of another drain pipe far above. A way back in, if it wasn't crawling with soldiers. The bulk of the team after him seemed reluctant to take his path down the overflow. Maybe they'd lose him in the rock, if he moved fast enough.

Moving fast was not an easy thing to do.

Climbing the old, rickety rusted ladders up the previous generation of drain systems was also not an easy thing to do. A rung split from under foot and he was left dangling over open space, over the river hundreds of feet below. Wind roared up in a sudden gust and the ladder hummed with its force. He clung, waited, and climbed, spreading weight between hands and feet, testing each rung and bolt as he went.

He crawled inside the pipe. Empty. Quiet. No boots, no parasites, no radio static.

It led into a maze of old storm drains stinking of fuel and solvent. He must be under the vehicle bays or the staff parking lot. A square of grated light showed overhead and he lifted the drain on cautious, silent fingertips. If he could get above ground and get his bearings-

-a shout, the clatter of a grenade.

He dropped the grate and rolled back down the pipe. The explosion kicked shrapnel and washed fire across his shins but the suit held the worst of it back. He scrambled into a cross-pipe and up a different drain, into the vehicle bays. They'd been segregated into a little maze of sandbags, each with its own private duke of a soldier. The man in the foxhole he'd emerged into died as he turned. Freeman pulled the pin on a grenade and tossed it into the next hole, then sprayed automatic fire over the last two. Five soldiers poured out and split to flank him. Three caught the grenade and two ran.