http://mohaveminutemen.com/

“If ye love wealth greater than liberty, the tranquility of servitude greater than the animating contest for freedom, go home from us in peace. We seek not your counsel, nor your arms. Crouch down and lick the hand that feeds you; May your chains set lightly upon you, and may posterity forget that ye were our countrymen.”
Sam Adams

Do we still have Freedom of Speech
in Mohave County?

http://mohaveminutemen.com/nofreedomofspeechmohavecounty.htm

KUSI reports from 6am and 5am, Jan. 26, 2010. Border Patrol Auxilliary helps the Coast Guard and Border Patrol guard our beaches and coastlines from Mexican smugglers of drugs and illegal aliens.

###
Mexican men charged in Calif. killings

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14

MINUTEMEN: THE CRUCIBLE

Chapter Fifteen: “The Rally Point.”

Marlborough & Exeter St.
Evacuated City of Boston
October 20, 2552
Late evening

“On the hop!” Master Gunnery Sergeant Gus Reynolds implored over the sudden explosion of noise ahead of them. Tim McManus, Ron Parsons, and Rachel Lynch hustled past him down the narrow alley while Reynolds put a hand to his throat mic. “McHale, where are you?”

Lance Corporal Adam McHale’s voice was officially frantic. “Bravo actual to all teams! I’ve got one dead, one wounded bad in no man’s land. Taking heavy hostile fire! We can’t hold the rally point for much longer!”

“McHale, talk to me!”

“We’re in a bad way here, Master Guns! Need assistance!”

“Just hold on! We’re almost there!”

The rally point was an ideal location to stage multiple vehicles, but it was far from ideal to fight a pitched battle in. The intersection was wide with roads heading north, south, east, and west. Each street was three lanes wide, creating dangerous open ground that would expose anyone trying to cross them. The intersection itself looked like a child’s jungle gym had been thrown in a giant blender and poured out into the middle; mangled traffic signals had fallen into the middle of the crossroads. The pounding of the mortar assault that churned the large center square into a pock-marked no man’s land that wafted smoke like an urban hot springs. The fallen Pelican’s east-to-west crash landing cut a shallow trench in the street like a half-court line.

The black and gray Office of Naval Intelligence Pelican had come to rest at the northwest corner. Its nose had apparently dug deep into the street before spinning the drop ship so it precariously rested upside down against the side of a devastated brownstone apartment building.

The surviving ex-Marines were taking cover behind a giant billboard, crumpled like a car wreck and blocking half the road. Its display was still sparking and one-third was occasionally flaring to life with majestic mountain scenes in holographic definition. Luckily for the outnumbered humans, the billboard had twisted under the strain and threw the bright light away from the troops and toward the incoming hostile forces.

Unluckily for the outnumbered humans, the Covenant did not seem to mind and they had every intention of taking the intersection.

Two blocks behind the human soldiers, Rachel yelped in surprise as she ran out of the alley and was nearly blindsided with a half-dozen errant plasma bursts. The surprisingly quick Boston College student wheeled back, dropping to the ground and scurrying on hands and knees to a row of intact news download stands. She took an instant to pop up and haphazardly fire her pistol, only taking two shots before the blot clicked and her magazine was empty.

Gus Reynolds reached her immediately and pulled her down out of the line of fire, waving for Tim and Ron to follow. Rachel reached inside her pants’ pockets, withdrawing a thin metal magazine and managing to reload her weapon despite her shaking hands.

McManus and Parsons slid in behind them as Gus craned his head and took stock of the situation. McHale and four other ex-Marines had scaled the back of the toppled billboard and were furiously returning the Covenant’s fire; their weapons’ barrels flashed brightly against the lengthening shadows and billowing gray smoke ahead of them. Boston’s brisk autumn breeze whipped through the contested roadway and swirled the smokescreen high above, obscuring the route ahead and anything that might lie more than two stories above as well.

Tim breathed a short sigh of relief as he caught sight of the Lance Corporal’s black and gray clad team. McManus had to give them credit; they once again melted into the scenery just as they had in the alleyway hours ago. Gus tapped Tim and Ron on the shoulder, pointing ahead and pushing his palm down, indicating to stay low. The two new friends ran as fast as they could in a low crouch that made their legs burn while Reynolds called ahead.

“Friendlies at the your six, Bravo,” Reynolds announced, “don’t fire on ‘em.”

“Hurry the fuck up!” A stressed McHale replied.

Adam McHale dropped nimbly down from the criss-crossing steel supports behind the billboard and landed lightly on his feet, the dull metallic load bearing harness across his torso absorbing the stress of impact with a barely audible hydraulic hiss. The lead element of Captain Jack O’Shea’s escape plan waved emphatically for the four to reach him.

Ron, Tim, Rachel, and Gus picked up the pace, hustling to the Lance Corporal’s position. Reynolds and McHale shook hands briefly before Adam led them to the edge of the creaking, sparking metal shield.

McHale risked a glance around the massive toppled advertisement and was immediately rewarded with a volley of incoming fire. The veteran whipped back around to safety, and Tim could not help but notice McHale’s chest was heaving through his armor.

“You heard from Delta?” McHale asked his superior in a concerned but distracted tone. “I think they all got smoked, man.”

Reynolds only shook his head and deliberately pointed past the billboard to the battle for the rally point. “What happened? Are these the Covenant you told us weren’t heading toward the rally point?”

“I dunno. I, uh…Covenant opened up as soon as we crossed the intersection; I was watching the crash site, nobody was looking back where we saw the patrol. I was sure they weren’t gonna swing around like that…I shoulda been looking out…I— ”

Reynolds snapped his fingers loudly, jabbing them in front of McHale’s face, brining him back to the present. “How many hostiles?”

“Fifteen, maybe twenty, they might be getting reinforced…who the fuck knows, the spook Pelican fried our tech when we tried to scan for survivors.”

“Where’s the rest of Bravo?”

The stocky Lance Corporal chopped a hand to his left across the street at a decrepit-looking corner store, shattered windows and brightly colored snacks splayed out into the street like a gutted piñata. The men inside were only firing sporadically; rarely did a burst persist for more than a few seconds at a time before they were suppressed by overwhelming Covenant fire.

“Half my guys got caught in the open. I lost Ford right off the bat,” The Lance Corporal nodded toward the very center of the intersection, “and Sarkhan’s hit but alive right next to him.”

Gus Reynolds switched positions with the shaken team leader. The Master Guns wordlessly took off his helmet and held it gingerly at arm’s length around the billboard. He held his helmet out for a few moments before taking it back and playing back the protective cover’s internal camera.

The tactician frowned. “He’s out in the very middle. Sarkhan’s bait, McHale,” Reynolds grimly noted. “Probably got a sniper right on him waiting for us to go out there and rescue him. We gotta leave him behind.”

“The fuck we do!” McHale protested aggressively, cutting Gus off and getting in the larger Marine’s face. Tim held out a wary arm and kept Ron and Rachel back. Reynolds looked down at the insubordinate solider, incensed.

“You back off now and use your head, Lance Corporal.” Reynolds growled in a growing rumble. “I will not repeat myself.”

McHale spat on the ground but relented, reluctantly taking a step back as the stern veteran pushed past him. The Master Gunnery Sergeant walked briskly to Tim McManus, turning the confused student around and stripping his backpack wordlessly. Before Tim could ask what was going on, Gus pulled out a small motor-like device and a large gray sphere that looked like a reflective jumbo sized ping pong ball. Reynolds screwed the two pieces together with remarkable dexterity, then tossed the device into the air around the corner. The military-issue freecam suddenly stopped in the middle of its descent and went into a hover, bobbing ever so slightly in the breeze.

“Alpha actual, this is Charlie actual,” Gus reported, still staring at his data pad and tapping urgently on it.

“Send traffic, Charlie Actual.” Tim was relieved to hear the Captain Jack O’Shea’s voice over rushing wind, hopefully indicating the cavalry was on its way.

“Charlie and Bravo teams are at the rally point. Bravo team is split between a convenience store on the southwest corner, and a fallen billboard approximately thirty meters away in the southbound route, over.”

“Hostiles?”

“Twenty-plus infantry with possible reinforcement. Right now hostile force is holding position on northbound route and taking pot shots at us, but that’s not going to last for much longer. I’ve got a freecam in the air now if you need to see the place yourself.”

“Alpha copies all. We’ve lost the Phantom, Alpha’s oscar mike to your location but we’ve drifted outside the AO and are encountering pockets of resistance. We need you to hold that rally point until we get there, Gus.”

“Understood, sir. What’s your ETA?”

Static reigned. Plasma hissed and fizzled against the billboard as the group waited for a response. “ETA is probably two minutes longer than you need.” Jack O’Shea finally replied.

McHale and Reynolds traded worried looks that were not lost on Tim, Ron, or Rachel. “Solid copy, Alpha actual,” Reynolds answered resolutely.

“Good luck. Alpha actual out.”

Reynolds took his hand off this throat and fixed a hard look at Adam. “Let’s talk about defending this rally point,” he instructed, standing up and crossing his arms over his chest. “How many you got in that store?”

“Five inside,” McHale pointed out, “and I’ve got three here with me.”

“How’re you equipped?”

“Assorted small arms. We stashed two rocket launchers in the store so we didn’t have to hump ‘em to the crash site.”

Gus frowned. “We can’t keep all our rockets in one basket,” he grumbled. “If they bring heavy equipment against us we might as well throw rocks from here. Someone’s gotta go get one.”

McHale started to move toward the besieged convenience store in a determined jog but stopped short as Gus put himself between the stocky Marine and the rest of his squad. “Not you, Adam,” Gus shook his head, “we can’t lose another vet at this rate.” The Master Gunnery Sergeant pointed a reluctant finger at Tim McManus, who looked like he had just been asked to recite a novel by memory.

“Me?” Tim asked, just catching his breath from the long distance run. Rachel and Ron shared his look of surprise.

Reynolds nodded gravely as the haze above him glowed with faint streaks of bright, colorful light. “You’re the only one who’s not hurt bad. It has to be you, kid.”

“I got contacts!” A soldier yelled from across the street, pointing emphatically at dark shapes advancing through the eerily lit smoke. “Here they come!”

“They gotta cut through this smoke if they want clean shots at us!” McHale shouted up at his teammate, running towards him and quickly climbing his way to the top of the large cover. Once on top, he looked down and cupped his hands around his mouth to shout to Gus. “Send the runner, Master Guns! We’re gonna open up as soon as we see ‘em!”

“Time to go,” Gus prompted, leading Tim to the edge of the fallen billboard. Ron and Rachel followed somberly behind like relatives of a man on death row. McManus stared ahead at the store, muzzle flashes inside illuminating strobe-like silhouettes of troops. It looked miles away.

Reynolds patted the intimidated young man on the back and spoke as positively as he could. “Looks thirty yards to the store,” he said, pointing out what looked like a clear route across the street. “You run your ass off and you’ll make it there fine. Get a launcher and bring it back to me.”

“No one wants snacks?” Tim joked weakly.

Reynolds chuckled. “You guys are funny.” The brief moment of levity was broken by a three round burst from McHale’s rifle.

“They’re moving on the store!” McHale shouted down at Gus. “Send the fucking runner!”

“Move!” Reynolds commanded as he pushed Tim and pointed urgently at the besieged store. “We’ve got your back!”

“Light ‘em up!” McHale urged over the COM. The human side burst into loud, bright fury as tracers screamed through the air, searing paths through the smokescreen and occasionally smacking into enemy troops that had just begun putting down withering suppressing fire.

Tim took off with his last few ounces of strength surging through him and propelling McManus forward with so much force he surprised himself. Despite the burst of strength and the confidence that he could make it there and back, nothing could prepare him for the next sixty yards.

As soon as the twenty-two year-old Harvard student cleared the cover of the billboard the darkness fell back and opened up into a bright, rust colored cloud of smoke and dust that seemed to be alive, pulsing in a wild array of colors like a psychedelic jellyfish. It was almost unbearably hot, and Tim squinted against the hazy glare and wafting heat immediately, almost oblivious its source: the plasma fire of nearly twenty fully armed Covenant ground troops advancing through the intersection.

The first blast missed the back of Tim’s heel by inches, instead spitting up a chunk of concrete that caused McManus to stumble and duck his head to compensate for balance. That momentary duck caused the second blast to miss the back of his unprotected head by several more inches, but the residual heat was enough to make Tim clutch at his head and completely lose his balance, tumbling onto his right shoulder and forcing his head forward and his line of sight directly back where he had come.

McManus was now nearly facedown and looking backwards at Rachel Lynch and Ron Parsons. He could see the looks on their faces and it broke his heart. Parsons was horrified, his mouth hanging open and his eyes so incredibly sad that he was barely aware that his hand shot out as if to catch McManus. As terrible as Tim felt for his friend Ron, he was devastated by the look on Rachel’s face.

He had never seen anyone stand so still. Lynch’s hand was already falling away from her lips, indicating she had already covered her mouth in worry before Tim took off. Now those worries and fears were being realized right in front of her eyes. The lethal streaks of plasma were passing by her in slow motion, only serving to highlight her complete shocked stillness.

You can’t do this to them. The thought flashed through Tim’s mind.

They need me.

I need them.

I need them to—Tim’s thoughts broke as his head hit the pavement, bouncing roughly up and causing a flash of stars across his vision. He skid to a quick stop and when his vision cleared he was still alive, looking at the last two friends he had in the world.

All Tim’s mind would let him utter was, “Cover me?”

It was as if someone flipped a switch in Ron and Rachel. They took a half second to realize just what was happening then flew into action. Rachel brought her newly reloaded matte black pistol up and smoothly flipped off the safety, aiming as closely to the approaching Covenant forces as she could.

Parsons took a bold step toward the edge of cover, swiftly taking a padded knee and remembering at the last second to slide on the pair of goggles attached to his helmet. Ron ignored the severe pain in his chest as he brought his suppressed submachine gun up to his shoulder and twisted around where the edge of the fallen billboard had buried itself in the street. In the time it took for the pair to be in position and covering him, Tim had just barely gotten back to his feet.

McManus flinched at the first crack of Rachel’s M6C, glancing back in surprise at the striking redhead.

“We got you covered!” Rachel urged. “Go!”

Satisfied, Tim gave an appreciative unseen nod and willed his drained legs to pump on for another few meters of hell. He made the most desperate sprint of his life powered only by the certainty that he would not let himself crush his last friends in the world. He even managed to take aim at a mystifyingly separated Grunt that had blundered its way into Tim’s line of sight.

McManus raised his hand-assembled Battle Rifle up swiftly and brought the sights perfectly into view, lined up just as the squat cannon fodder became aware of him and turned around. Tim pulled the trigger with an amount of satisfaction that was only matched by the amount of terror he felt when the rifle jammed.

Despite the Grunt’s methane rebreather, Tim could have sworn the genocidal alien was smiling. That smile lasted less than a second as a florescent, purplish mist sprayed backwards from the alien’s head, followed immediately by the echoing report of Rachel’s pistol. The body fell as though struck with a sudden thought and dropped straight backwards. Tim hardly noticed; the entrance to the store was scant meters away.

McManus ran around the dead alien and threw himself headlong through the threshold of the convenience store, slamming himself against a rack of synthenised sugar figures. As the remaining candies rained down on his shoulders, Tim reminded himself to thank Rachel Lynch profusely when he got back.

The haggard, beaten, but still remarkably professional faces of Bravo team inspected him with momentary quizzical silence, then a burly ex-Marine with blood smeared across his Private First Class chevron and rocker spoke.

The tall PFC with hawk like features regarded the horizontal student’s Battle Rifle. “Gun jammed on you, huh?”

The Harvard Junior nodded, gulping air.

“You know they got pills for that. Terrible thing to happen to a kid your age.”

Tim’s eyes narrowed. “How old are you?” He challenged. The PFC’s lips twitched as if to ask what it mattered, then he shrugged nonchalantly.

“Nineteen and two days.” He offered a hand to Tim that the three-year older McManus gladly accepted.

“But,” he said, pulling McManus to his feet, “In war age, I’m your old man.” The gung ho teenager nodded upwards with his sharp jawline and patted a stunned McManus roughly on the cheek.

“Private First Class Joe Lee, at your service. You know what the worst part of this shit is?”

Tim could only shake his head, finally catching his breath as he followed the loping Lee.

The Private First Class laughed to himself. “Technically, I’m still on shore leave.”

“S’not funny anymore, Lee,” A Marine shouted over the noise of his assault rifle. “Give the kid the rockets and get back on the line!”

“On it, sir!” Joe snapped back into business mode, reaching behind the clerk’s counter and throwing a long black case onto it. He expertly snapped it open and looked Tim in the eyes, bright white contrasting sharply with his dirt, blood, and dust caked features.

“Are you shooting this?” He asked pointedly.

“Hell no.”

“Ok then,” Lee nodded, snapping the case closed again with satisfaction, “no need for tutorial.” The burly nineteen-year-old veteran tossed the rocket launcher and ammunition case into Tim’s arms and reached back over the counter to take out his own. Lee proudly patted the intimidating heavy weapon, which Tim could not help but notice had eight tally marks scratched across it. Lee read McManus’ eyes and opened his mouth to boast before being interrupted by a sharp-eyed heavy machine gunner.

“Hunters Hunters Hunters!” The panicked cry made everyone’s head snap up and look toward the intersection, where a dull rumble of a war cry emanated in a deep bass that caused loose rubble to shake and struck cold fear into the hearts of every human with a pulse.

“Hunters?” Tim breathed, his face now devoid of color completely. “Here?”

The ranking officer in the gutted shelter stabbed a finger toward McManus. “Get the kid out of the store! Master Guns needs those rockets!”

Joe Lee urgently guided Tim out of the building, keeping a wary eye out the front of the store and through the smoke. “See ya, kid,” he said, opening a side door and signaling back at the billboard. In the darkness broken by intermittent fire, a blue light blinked twice. The PFC patted the new recruit on the shoulder.

“Keep a seat open on the Warthogs, will ya?” He asked cheerily. “I like the one behind the driver’s side.”

McManus clutched the long rocket case across his chest, bumped fists with the younger soldier, and sprinted back across the smoking pavement. Tim noticed the moment he broke cover that something was different. The hiss and sizzle of plasma screaming around him was gone. The blurs of light across his vision were gone. Still running at full tilt, Tim glanced toward the intersection and nearly fell on his face all over again.

The light and plasma fire was nowhere near McManus because there was no way to fire around them. Tim had studied the alien organisms known as the Covenant as part of his mandatory education. He could identify each species from above, below, near, far, anywhere; but the Hunter had always fascinated him since a grade school teacher described them as both creature and tank. Ms. Dakira had not exaggerated.

There were two of them, walking slowly like giant snapping turtles that had learned to walk on their hind legs. No one had ever seen Hunters that did not work in pairs, but that was not their most remarkable feature. The Hunters were not two separate creatures; they were massive, cohesive, sentient colonies of bioluminescent worms whose size was limited only in how large the colony wished to be. That size was more often than not gargantuan, easily over nine feet tall.

They inhabited a custom designed suit of armor, though it was less armor than cage to contain the subservient worms. On one arm a massive shield the size of three car doors was fused into the armor, engraved with alien symbols, smeared with blood, and bristling with sharp points intended to skewer humans foolish enough to be close to them. The other arm boasted a cannon that looked more like a radioactive jet engine than a hand, already trailing an ethereal electric green afterglow as the bonded pair trudged through no man’s land. Bullets from a dozen different weapons pinged ineffectively off the heavy metallic plates, barely registering with the rumbling beasts.

Tim McManus had just enough time to gape at them and realize they were looking right at him.

The first volley from the pair of plasma cannons flew wide behind Tim’s desperate stride, slamming into an abandoned delivery truck and throwing it end over end barely ten feet to the right of the convenience store. The flaming chassis finally came to a rest fifty feet inside the building. The force of the errant shots knocked the utterly depleted McManus off his feet again, this time unable to absorb the impact of the fall and cracking his chin against the unforgiving street. Tim did his best to scramble to his feet, dread creeping up his chest, knowing that this time he did not stand a chance of getting to safety no matter what his friends did. The intellectually gifted Harvard student never considered Joe Lee’s desire to impress his superiors.

A long arc of puffy red light flew toward the ground-shuddering creatures and ended with the road flare bouncing off the leftmost Hunter’s head, showering the organic tanks with sparks. They both reared back, guttural bass growls thundering through the ground in protest.

Private First Class Joe Lee took a steady knee just outside the safety of the convenience store as he shouted confidently over the battle.  “This better get me into the Helljumpers!”

Tim’s desire to live barely overruled his desire to watch Lee’s attack. He steadied himself with a bruised and bloodied hand as he picked himself up and pitched himself forward in an awkward run that looked more like a prolonged stumbling trip. To his left, he could hear the short concussive blast of the rocket leaving the tube. The projectile screamed through the air, barely missing raised heaps of broken concrete, and finally rose at the last second to collide full bore in the middle of the leftmost Hunter’s chest. Ron and Rachel grabbed Tim by the collar and dragged him behind the toppled billboard as bits of dark blue Hunter armor and faintly glowing splotches of paste flew through the air and smacked into hard surfaces.

“Lee, get back in the store!” Gus Reynolds yelled just as the surviving Hunter recovered and took dead aim at the burly young Marine. Lee disregarded the order and swiveled to his right, realizing too late that the hostile alien had beaten him to the punch and had already launched a well-aimed shot. The Private First Class did not have time to move or even scream. Tim stared, petrified, as Lee simply disappeared in a ferocious flash of green and heat. The kids were paralyzed, rooted to the spot while Gus Reynolds tore open the weapon’s case and McHale screamed at his men still trapped in the convenience store.

“Everyone in the store get out!” Lance Corporal McHale cried out as the Hunter dumped excess heat from the cannon and shifted its focus to the five men still bravely firing out at the enemy. “Displace! Displace!”

Once again the warning came too late. Two blasts, then two more soared through the air and landed inside the storefront, vaporizing the troops inside and detonating the spare ammunition and explosives hidden within. The neighborhood corner store burst at the seams, eerie green flame roaring out and licking up the sides of twisted metal supports. Gus Reynolds scrambled to his feet after being knocked down by the blast, gritting his teeth, eyes burning with fury.

Ron reached out weakly to stop the determined noncom but could offer little resistance as a much stronger Reynolds ran past the petrified kids and swept around the edge of their cover. Gus took an instant to steady his shaking hands, settling the launcher’s sights on the surviving bipedal tank and loosing a high explosive round before the Hunter could change targets.

All the alien could do was turn directly into the rocket’s path, flying backwards as the vengeful strike found a weak seam in the hastily patched armor and blew the colony to smithereens from the inside.

The Covenant’s suppressing fire fell away for a few moments as both the unseen hostile force and the humans reeled in shock. Ron Parsons, Tim McManus, and Rachel Lynch could only stare in slack jawed awe at the hulking Master Gunnery Sergeant, who put the launcher over his shoulder and walked calmly past them to his post by Adam McHale.

“You ever seen anything like that?” Ron asked in a hushed tone as though afraid to attract Reynolds’ attention. “I’ve never even heard of anything like that.”

The Master Guns took the brief respite to check in on McHale, who was calling in the latest setback over the COM in a mechanical, detached voice. The fact that the young Lance Corporal was staring at the funeral pyre of his team immediately brought down Gus’ victorious mood.

“All teams, all teams. This is Bravo actual. Bravo team and Charlie team have sustained heavy casualties at the rally point and we are about to be overrun by ground forces. I say again, we cannot hold the rally point. Need assistance. Out.”

Adam continued staring straight ahead as he clicked off the COM. “What’re we gonna do?” he asked, despair written across his dusty features.

“We hold the rally point.” Reynolds said evenly, laying the rocket launcher down to pick up his discarded assault rifle. Gus gladly accepted a fresh magazine tossed by the stocky Lance Corporal, who looked at his superior with thinly veiled disbelief.

“They send a second wave and it’s game over,” Adam stated, locking his eyes on Gus’. “You know that, right?”

A surprising voice interrupted the conversation just as Gus was raising a disciplinary finger. “Bravo team, Charlie team. This is Delta one actual. Respond.”

Everyone behind the billboard shared utterly confused looks. McHale hastily responded, still throwing an unsure look in Reynolds’ direction. “Delta one actual, this is Bravo actual! What the hell, guys? We thought you were dead.”

“Worry about that later, McHale! We intercepted a Covenant mortar team setting up shop half a click from you and their target coordinates look like your position. I think your hostile infantry is waiting on us to smoke you. Now verify grids with me so we can give them their big surprise of the day.”

The Lance Corporal’s eyebrows shot up in pleasant surprise while Gus Reynolds nodded along with what might have been relief.  “Don’t have to tell me twice!” Adam exclaimed, fumbling with his data pad for a second to input commands.

“Delta one actual, we’ve got a freecam up for remote forward observing. Sync with it at grid one-zero-eight, box seven. Target is fifteen-plus foot mobiles with possible vehicle support at grid one-zero-eight, box six. Danger close, over.”

“Delta one copies all. Out.”

McHale looked up at the nearly invisible floating camera hovering above the team. “Even with the freecam, they’re firing within a hundred meters of us,” he noted, looking back down at Gus. “What’re your orders, Master Guns?”

Reynolds was already helping Ron Parsons up as Rachel finished bandaging McManus’ bloodied chin. “I think the mortars missed me once today. I’m not about to tempt fate again.”

McHale waved for his last three teammates to come down from the billboard. “Fine by me,” he shrugged, “let’s get the hell out of here before Delta messes up the one good thing we got goin’ this whole invasion.”

The weary troops started their hasty retreat immediately, half of them turning every few feet to make sure the Covenant were not making an early press to pursue. The COM chirped in everyone’s ear followed by the clearly tired voice of the seemingly resurrected Delta leader. “All teams, this is Delta one actual. Be advised of mortar fire mission to grid one-zero-eight, box six. Clear the area, out.”

“On the hop!” Gus said, marching behind the stumbling kids and offering his own brand of encouragement. “I know you’re tired. We’re almost there.”

“Where’s Alpha?” Tim asked, looking ahead for any friendly forces to appear and take them away from the apocalypse. “Shouldn’t we have heard from them by now?”

“They’re on their way,” Reynolds replied with a hint of uncertainty. “Just worry about staying alive.”

“But they know where we’ll be, right?” Rachel looked over her shoulder to ask the suddenly tight-lipped Master Gunnery Sergeant. Gus only pointed ahead in response.

“Splash out,” Delta called over the COM.

“Keep your heads down but keep moving!” Gus commanded. “It’s gonna get loud!”

An echoing boom shook dust loose from the sides of towering damaged buildings and shattered any intact windows behind in the intersection. The boom of the first mortar was followed by four similar-sounding impacts and the satisfying faint crash of secondary explosions.

“This is Delta actual. Freecam registers good hits and plenty of secondaries. Adjusting fire on tubes two and four, all others will autofire for effect until stock depletion.”

“Now that’s fuckin’ sweet.” McHale said back to a jogging Gus Reynolds. “Thirty pounds of high-explosive irony falling on Covenant heads at three rounds a minute.”

Reynolds nodded back. “Thanks for the assist, Delta. We’re taking new position to wait for pickup. See you back home.”

Satisfied they had put enough distance between them and the mortar strikes, Gus signaled for the group to take cover on either side of the wide, deserted city street. The three kids joined Gus, covered front and back by abandoned parked cars. Save for the continuous hammering of the Covenant position, a tense silence had settled over the Boston streets. Feeling the three pairs of scared, tired eyes on him, Gus sighed and put his hand to his throat to assuage the newly recruited civilians’ fears.

“Alpha actual, this is Charlie actual. Be advised, we have to move the rally point six hundred meters south. Please acknowledge.”

The COM obstinately hissed static at the perplexed dark-skinned Marine. Gus’ eyebrows came together in a peeved expression. He clicked open the COM again. “Alpha team, this is Charlie actual. Do you copy?”

“I’ve got prime real estate to watch our six, so I’m eyes off for Alpha.” McHale informed Gus and the kids from across the street. “You got a visual yet?”

“Not yet—wait!” Reynolds pointed happily at a tiny pair of headlights sweeping into view far away from the surviving troops. “Looks like Warthog lights, but I don’t have a great look at it.”

“Do they usually drive that fast?” Tim asked, squinting into the distance as the vehicle approached at an alarming rate.

The bright, piercing white of the Warthog’s headlights bounced and shimmied with the vehicle’s rough approach, splaying Tim, Ron, and Rachel’s dirty, glistening faces with harsh shadows and leaving their vision with popping bright spots.

“Uh,” Ron started nervously, taking a wary step back, “The ‘Hog’s not stopping…”

“Cap?” Gus called with an uneasy tone. Tim and Rachel both took steps back with Parsons. Reynolds repeated his hail as the headlights continued to speed closer, this time veering dangerously right and issuing a thin screech of rubber on cement. All three of the kids now jumped with alarm.

Ron Parsons turned on his heel, actively searching for places to hide. “What the hell’s going on?” He asked, panicked. The Master Guns hushed him angrily.

“Jack, answer me.”

Rachel Lynch chewed on her bottom lip, remembering the near death experience with the runaway refugee truck only hours ago. She instinctively reached for Tim’s arm, pulling him away from the street and back toward the relative safety of the abandoned buildings. Gus made a frustrated grunt and flicked the safety off his own assault rifle.

“Jack! Come on!”

The speeding Warthog was now only four blocks away and appeared to be speeding up, dipping as it hit a pothole and then rearing up with a roar of turbines, squealing tires, and whining transmission; flying in the air for a full second like a predator lunging at its prey. Reynolds swore aloud and shot a burst of tracer fire above the runaway Warthog as a warning.

“Take the shot, Master Guns!” McHale hissed over the COM. “It’s hostile!”

“UNSC hostile challenge!” Gus barked angrily, free hand twisting with strain against the grip of the rifle. “Respond positive ID or you will be fired upon! Hostile challenge! Orbital!”

“Oh shit,” Ron breathed, taking unsteady aim at what was once O’Shea’s vehicle. “Oh shit. Oh shit.”

“I say again! Orbital! Respond or you will be fired upon!”

They could barely see the light play off the front “tusks” of the vehicle’s winch; the bright headlights now clearly illuminated everything around them save the occupants within. Gus fired another warning burst before emphatically waving for the survivors to take cover.

“Don’t fuck around!” McHale yelled. “Shoot it!”

“The next shots will kill you!” Gus yelled, nearly pleading with the ghost driver of the reckless speeding vehicle. “I say again, hostile challenge! Orbital! Orbital!”

“Reach!” O’Shea’s frantic shout rang in everyone’s ears. “Jesus! Reach! Hold your fucking fire and clear the street! My driver’s down and I’m steering this thing from the passenger side!”

Tim was awestruck at how calm and collected the Master Gunnery Sergeant was after hearing the news. McManus knew if he were in the same situation, facing a speeding Warthog head on and being instructed to get out of the way, that he would probably run through a wall, screaming and most likely pissing himself. The Master Guns casually turned back and headed toward the kids like a commuter on Tuesday morning.

With less than a hundred feet to go, a body suddenly slumped out of the speeding Warthog and the front end of the vehicle dipped dangerously forward to the accompaniment of screeching brakes. The drab gray military machine wobbled back and forth perilously, took a nauseating swerve to the left, then swept back across the street in a wide fishtail and a harsh rocking stop. Captain Jack O’Shea’s helmet bounced off the steering column like a rag doll and the leader of Boston’s human resistance let it rest against the wheel for a moment of silent anguish.

“Bus is leaving!” O’Shea finally groaned, twisting his body to fall out of the driver’s seat, clutching his right shoulder and grimacing as Reynolds rushed to help him up.

Everyone jumped up and ran for the vehicle as fast as humanly possible, some too tired to stop themselves and content to bump into the side of the Warthog. Tim, Ron, Rachel, and McHale made a beeline for the back of the troop transport, saddened to see two other bodies in the back, armor and flesh scorched with plasma burns. They threw the dead Marines out with as much dignity as he could, unable to spare the space in the back. Reynolds tried to wipe the congealing red liquid off the inside of the windshield but only managed to leave faint red streaks across his field of vision. O’Shea nudged his old friend in the shoulder to stop.

“We gotta go, Gus!” He said. “Worry about it later!”

“Everyone hang on!” Reynolds shouted into the back. Behind him, veteran soldiers secured extraneous equipment and held on tight to the roll bars. Tim McManus reached for where the seat belts should be and suddenly remembered the conversation with O’Shea about the baffling lack of seat belts in a notoriously top heavy vehicle. Tim threw his hands up in realization and frustration at the same moment that Gus gunned the accelerator and jerked the wheel in a lunch-losing u turn.

The momentum once again threw McManus forward and on his way out of the vehicle. Luckily, Ron and Rachel were attentive to McManus’ predicament and threw their arms around him just in time, pulling his body back just before he could be ejected from the Warthog. The powerful, unwieldy troop transport whipped around in a squeal of rubber on concrete and took off like a shot back the way it came.

O’Shea scrutinized every detail of the darkening city around them as he opened a channel on the COM. “All teams, this is the Captain,” he announced. “Everyone capable of pulling out of the AO should be clear by now. If you’re not, tag your location for search and rescue on TACMAP so we can come and pick you up. O’Shea out.”

The ruby pink of Boston’s last sunset had faded away into a moody purple, lit by crackling structure fires and the last gasps of storefront displays, billboards, and the odd traffic signal. Had it not marked the end of the world, McManus might have said it felt peaceful. The constant cool breeze blowing past his bruised and bloodied face, the relative silence of a completely deserted city, the gentle rocking motion of the chassis and zipping of wheels over street, all of these combined to do their best to put a jittery yet utterly exhausted Tim McManus to sleep. It was only after the Warthog hit a minor bump that the brown-haired recruit noticed that Rachel’s head had been resting on his shoulder. Lynch groggily shook her head.

“Sorry,” she said, sheepish smile forming in the dark. “Guess I nodded off.”

Parsons once again turned around in his seat to stare in disbelief. “You nodded off during the apocalypse,” he said, eyebrows arched, shaking his head. “Wow. Just…wow.” The sarcastic blonde sharpshooter turned back around in his seat, grumbling.

Tim nodded towards the muttering Ron, keeping his eyes on Rachel’s. “That is kinda unbelievable,” he agreed.

Rachel laughed for the first time since they had crossed the Charles River, a bright bulb of self-conscious levity bursting in front of Tim’s eyes. It was impossible to imagine that he heard that life changing sound for the first time this morning. McManus had to admit to himself that he was now addicted to it.

“I don’t know how!” Rachel said, playfully defensive. “I’m just used to falling asleep whenever I can. When we went on Pyramid Ball road trips you had sleep on shuttles and all sorts of really uncomfortable transports. I guess I’m just really good at it.”

McManus’ eyes would have been wide open if not for squinting against the rushing wind. Instead he tilted his head to the side, intrigued. “What? You played Pyramid?”

The pair braced themselves quickly as the Warthog took a sharp right turn. From what Tim could see, Rachel wore a sneakily proud expression. “Division one, First Team ‘51 All Sol,” she shrugged with her good shoulder. “No big deal though.” The stunning survivor wore the look of facetious smugness for another half second later before it went completely blank with fear.

Tim stared at her with concern, watching as her lips moved but could not produce any sound. Lynch’s eyes were huge with unblinking terror, transfixed on something above and behind McManus. Tim whipped around to face the back of the Warthog and see what was the matter. The blinding white light of the Phantom’s searchlight answered that question immediately.

The large, bulbous alien drop ship swooped down from the high smoky haze like a freighter bearing down on a dingy in fog. The telltale haunting moan of the ship’s engines reverberated along the façades of the tall buildings, buffeting the ears of the weary humans below and sending the inexperienced kids’ hands straight up to their ears.

“Holy shit!” McHale yelled, shrinking in his seat and staring at the purple propulsion discs on the Phantom’s undercarriage. “Phantom! Right on top of us!”

Reynolds did not wait for the order; the wily veteran threw the nimbler Warthog into another death-defying u turn and zoomed past the Covenant’s wide sweeping searchlight. Three-pronged automated defensive turrets swiveled along the underside of the dropship and tried in vain to track down the elusive humans, losing them around a tight street corner. Not to be outdone, the Phantom pilot responded expertly to the evasive driving, bringing the ship into a hasty ascent and then pushing the limits of the craft’s structural integrity in an almost absurd 180 degree turn.

The Master Gunnery Sergeant jerked the wheel left, gaining speed and putting precious space between them and the dominant aircraft. “I thought you said you lost it!” Gus shouted to Jack O’Shea. O’Shea craned his neck to look behind the ‘Hog from the passenger seat and swore.

“It’s not the same one!” Jack yelled back as the Phantom fired blindly above them, bringing down the side of a nearby building like an eroding sand castle and causing an avalanche of skittering bricks that almost rolled the vehicle.

“How do you know that?” Reynolds asked, barely avoiding a massive crater in the middle of the street.

“This one’s towing another Wraith!” O’Shea explained as calmly as he could. Everyone behind the two leaders bolted upright in shock and started scanning the violet fog above with more urgent purpose. The Phantom did not disappoint, once again sliding down out of the haze. This time, however, the Phantom materialized ahead of the fleeing humans and leisurely rotated to get in ideal position to block the Warthog’s escape route.

Tim could feel every muscle tense up as the hanging turrets slid smoothly into a good line of sight directly in front of them. The Warthog was charging into the teeth of the enemy drop ship at an insane rate of speed.

“Everybody hang on!” Gus yelled over his shoulder, forcing the notoriously roll prone ‘Hog into a sickening display of weaving, braking, and accelerating faster than most of them ever thought possible. The Phantom was descending gradually, careful to not get caught guessing again, perfectly content to let its auto turrets handle the insurgents.

A screeching tone blared from the center console of the vehicle. “Turrets hot!” O’Shea warned as three sets of hostile automated weapons tried to acquire the dark gray transport. Each spat out crimson and electric blue flashes of energy that boiled the pavement below and behind the Warthog, creating myriad craters and sinkholes behind, in front, and around the humans.

“Should we shoot back?” Ron shouted, shielding his face with his hands as hot concrete sprayed around him. Tim and Rachel looked back anxiously at Lance Corporal McHale, who was gripping the roll bars with white-knuckle force and staying as low in his seat as possible.

“If it’ll make you feel better!” McHale shouted in what Tim realized was fear. “Cap!” The Lance Corporal pleaded over the COM. “We can’t take much more o’ this!”

“We don’t have to!” O’Shea called back. “Look where we are!”

Tim squinted in the dusk to see if he recognized anything. All the buildings were blurry details that were only instantaneously illuminated by the turret fire, but as the Harvard Junior focused his attention ahead, he could see the dying blue flame of the Wraith tank that had been destroyed minutes ago.

“We’re going back to the Black Rose?” Tim looked over O’Shea, confused. “What for?”

Captain O’Shea ducked instinctively as a blast struck mere feet from his door. He reached into his armor and after quick search withdrew a knobby gray device that Jack held overhead like a humble athlete with the championship trophy.

“Because it’s wasteful to leave eighty pounds of plastic explosives behind,” O’Shea answered calmly, palming the detonator.

For a miniscule fraction of time, the Black Rose bar looked like it had suddenly become pregnant with light. A blinding, brilliant illumination shone out of every hole, every crack, every opening. The solid steel and brick walls themselves bulged out in gentle curves before giving birth to righteous destruction.

The mass of charges left in the bar exploded with such force that a lone bar stool that had miraculously survived the blast flew end over end above the Warthog, barely missing Tim’s exposed head. It continued its flight over two blocks and smashed itself into kindling against a building behind them. Tim, Ron, and Rachel all turned away from the giant flash of light and fire, ears ringing. McManus felt something warm slowly running down his right ear but fought the desire to confirm his ear was bleeding. Instead, he looked ahead and felt dark joy at the devastation the attack caused.

The surprise attack threw the hovering hostile ship in a rough push against the structures across the street, momentarily off lining the turrets while the pilot focused on regaining control of the dropship.

“Punch it, Gus!” O’Shea implored. “Do it now!”

Gus Reynolds grit his teeth as he smashed his foot down on the accelerator, shoving everyone backwards, chassis shuddering and creaking with strain as each separate bump threatened to flip the vehicle. The Phantom was only a block away now, hardly fifteen feet off the ground, Wraith tank hanging from its underside like a wolf still clenched to its mother’s teat.

From this distance everyone could see half the auto turrets sparking, one in particular swinging free, held only by strong wires that eventually gave way and dropped the lethal weapon to the pulverized road. The right side of the Phantom was hardly recognizable, looking as if a giant sander had been applied to the outer shell for hours. Venting coolant like an iridescent waterfall and listing dangerously to one side, the Phantom began climbing again. The surviving turrets did not wait for a firing solution; they poured forth indiscriminate alien wrath by the bucket load.

“Come on, bastards!” Reynolds roared, more to himself than anyone else, “I haven’t got all night!”

“McHale.” O’Shea did everything in his power to make his voice sound even instead of anxious. “Make ready with the launcher.”

“On it!” McHale responded, ducking a head down to grab the gray and brown rocket launcher and then following up with a strong curse word. “Last rocket, sir!”

“Phantom’s down but not out,” O’Shea instructed the eager Lance via COM, “You have to put a rocket on that dropship or we’re all dead. Don’t worry about the Wraith, just hit that ship.”

“Solid copy.”

“Master Guns, left turn at Peterborough street on my mark,” Jack’s voice took on a twinge of strain. “Wait one…mark!”

Despite a growing inability to see, the Phantom’s labored moan still pursued the fleeing humans and reminded them they were far from safe. Tim’s eyes shot from spot to spot, absolutely sure he saw the craft descending from one side, then another altogether. McHale slapped him on the shoulder before Tim went completely crazy.

“Hey,” Adam’s gruff bark snapped Tim back into the moment, “hold on to my belt here so I don’t go flying off this wreck when I’m shooting. And watch the blowback! It’s minimal, but it’ll still burn your face off if you’re right behind me!”

Tim nodded weakly, then pointed franticly over the young veteran’s shoulder as the Phantom once again dropped out of the smoke layer to hunt. The Warthog’s threat radar shrieked wildly in response, blinking several shades of angry red.

“Turrets hot!” O’Shea yelled back to the rear. “Take the shot, Lance Corporal!”

“Gimme a sec,” Adam protested, squinting through the launcher’s targeting scope. “I don’t have a lock.”

“We don’t have time for a lock!” Jack roared. “You know procedure! If that Phantom’s still on us by the time we’re in visual range with the subway, they’re not letting us in!”

As if to prove his point, the COM chirped to life in everyone’s ear with a middle-aged man’s clipped, career military voice. “Warthog tag alpha, Warthog tag alpha,” the COM crackled and fizzled, “This is conductor. We’re tracking a large airborne bogey in your sector, please acknowledge.”

“We’re taking care of it, conductor,” O’Shea stole a furious look over his shoulder. “McHale! Fire your weapon! Now!”

“I’ve got tone!” The Lance Corpral exclaimed, pulling the trigger decisively. “Rocket away!”

Everyone, except Gus at the wheel, watched the rocket’s path with equal parts helplessness and hope. The explosive projectile leaped out of the tube and immediately deployed tiny fins to aid the computer in reaching its target. At first the rocket veered sharply left and away from the Phantom, causing everyone’s hearts to drop into their stomachs. Then, just as it seemed their last hope was destined to fly off into the night sky, the rocket snapped right like a dangerous snake identifying danger, throwing itself into a tight short corkscrew before slamming into the open troop bay in the back of the dropship. Secondary explosions ripped through the Phantom and it immediately lost altitude, plunging nose first toward the harsh streets of Boston to the cheers of the humans ahead of it.

With only twenty feet left to impact, the Phantom disengaged the locks on the towed Wraith tank, blowing it downwards with the sound of a hundred pistons going off at once. The ejection gave the dropship a few extra seconds of lift, but its fate was sealed from the moment the rocket hit.

The Wraith hit the ground with the force of a bowling ball being dropped in a sandbox, colliding violently with the road and instantly destroying the tank’s propulsion system. The front support gunner’s head snapped downwards at the moment of impact, crushing the alien’s skull instantly but still leaving the main tank operator inside unaccounted for.

In front of the tank, the Phantom itself became a groaning, shrieking mess as it dove downwards at tremendous speed. Its left rear engine, a sleek, bladed turbine spewing bright electric teal that caused the air around it to shimmer and sway, blew out ten feet above street level and caused the craft to list hopelessly left. It smashed into the ground nose first, bounced like a discarded ball, then slid down the road and drove a deep trench into the concrete. As it came to its final stop, the right rear engine exploded as well, detonating ammunition stores and the main power supply, shattering the ship and tingeing Boston’s last light in a glacial blue.

“Did you see that!” McHale whooped, pointing ecstatically. “Did you fucking see that? That’s right, bitch! That’s right! That just happened!”

At that moment, the wheels of the Warthog hit a harsh bump, and Tim stared over the side of the transport to see they were now literally driving on rails. McManus could not help but compare the sound to the old timey roller coasters he used to ride as a kid. The COM jubilantly jumped to life.

“Warthog tag alpha, this is conductor. What the hell was that?”

O’Shea smiled to himself. “Conductor, McHale took out a Phantom with a rocket while in a moving Warthog.”

“Bullshit.”

“You think cap’s fucking lying?” McHale crowed, taking off his helmet and tapping the side of the dark gray cover proudly, “ That’s hall of fame shit! I’ve got visual evidence right ‘ere on helmet ca—”

Lance Corporal McHale dropped the helmet in surprise as a white-blue Wraith plasma shell dropped twenty feet away, bucking the Warthog slightly and sending the protective cover bouncing away behind them.

“Tank fire!” Adam yelled, shoving the kids down as another shell landed closer.

“Warth- tag -pha, -his is conduct-,” the disembodied voice shorted in and out, “We have -isual on the Wrai-. It’s immobile—looks like…fire from the inside. Recommend…underground now and out of sight.”

“Copy that, conductor!” Jack responded, holding a hand to his throat while clutching desperately onto the Warthog’s door frame. “We’re last in! Seal blast doors behind us! Push it, Master Guns!”

Parsons looked back in horror as the Wraith’s damaged and corrupted power cells blew it apart from the inside just after the Covenant tank shot off its last plasma mortar. “Incoming!” He yelped.

“Everyone hang on!” Gus yelled, tightening his grip on the steering wheel and staring ahead like a man possessed.

O’Shea turned completely around in the passenger seat and started smacking the helmets of the soldiers up front. “Brace brace brace!” He screamed as confidently as possible before redundantly informing the driver of their situation. “Gus?”

The inky black entrance to the subway tunnel was expanding exponentially to swallow the transport, but Tim doubted they would make it. Reynolds agreed.

“I can’t turn or we’re dead!” Reynolds shouted over the rushing wind, stealing the briefest of looks over his shoulder. “We’re not gonna make it! I hate Warthogs!”

“Heads down!” Jack yelled at the kids in the back, who were now staring, stupefied, at the incoming blue sun against the blackened evening sky. O’Shea began punching the dashboard in anger. “Go faster, you son of a bitch!”

Tim risked a glance back at the incoming subway entrance and felt dread line his stomach like heavy ice. There was no way they were going to make it, and even if they did, the splash of plasma would take the rear off the transport, Tim and his friends included.

This isn’t fair.

“Tim!”

McManus snapped his gaze down in reply to Rachel Lynch, who was staring at him with teary green eyes that still stubbornly sparkled in their last moments. The roaring rush of wind combined with the bucking, shuddering chassis of the Warthog disoriented him, but he fought against his churning guts and forced himself to look as brave as possible for his last friend.

They had marched across an obliterated and forgotten city. They had watched strangers and friends die. They had fought and survived firefights with no military training against superior hostile alien forces. They had faced paralyzing fears and crippling conditions, and they had walked away alive from every single encounter.

It was not good enough.

The Harvard Junior was once again lost for words and he hated himself for it. The last thing he could conjure from his racing mind was two words that he doubted she could hear over the deafening, high-pitched shriek of the incoming plasma mortar.

“I’m sorry.”

McManus’ heart jumped into his throat and he instinctively flinched as he felt the back of the Warthog lift up with the searing heat and azure flash of the shell hitting the tracks. Rachel’s eyes were open wide with terror and her jaw was clenched tight enough for Tim to see the veins bulging in her neck. At that instant the ‘Hog’s front wheels jumped the train tracks and the heavy duty vehicle wrenched sickeningly to one side, jerking everyone’s heads toward the middle roll bar and pounding the sides of their heads against the metal. Tim’s hearing dropped to nothing and purple, gold, red, and green stars flashed across his vision for the briefest of moments before everything went black.

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13

MINUTEMEN: THE CRUCIBLE

Chapter Fourteen: “Wind Sprints and Suicides”

Black Rose Bar
Evacuated City of Boston
October 20, 2552
Late evening

This isn’t fair.

“Tim!”

Tim McManus his gaze down in reply to Rachel Lynch, who was staring at him with teary green eyes that still stubbornly sparkled in their last moments. The roaring rush of wind combined with the bucking, shuddering chassis of the Warthog disoriented him, but he fought against his churning guts and forced himself to look as brave as possible for his last friend.

They had marched across an obliterated and forgotten city. They had watched strangers and friends die. They had fought and survived firefights with no military training against superior hostile alien forces. They had faced paralyzing fears and crippling conditions, and they had walked away alive from every single encounter.

It was not good enough.

The Harvard Junior was once again lost for words and he hated himself for it. The last thing he could conjure from his racing mind was two words that he doubted she could hear over the deafening, high-pitched shriek of the incoming plasma mortar.

“I’m sorry.”

30 minutes earlier

“How effed up is it that, all things considered, our current predicament is not the worst scrape we’ve been in today?” Ron Parsons sighed, nodding out toward the boarded up windows and the haunting howl of the approaching enemy dropship. Rachel Lynch finished gingerly reattaching the last of Parsons’ armor while Tim checked Ron’s suppressed submachine gun, handing it over after a satisfied Lynch took a step back.

“I need an honest, no shit evaluation from you,” Captain Jack O’Shea said, crossing the bloodstained and battered bar to stand a little too close to Ron Parsons. The well-built Marine took off helmet and scratched his salt-and pepper chin as he inspected the prominent entry wound in Ron’s armor. “Can you run?”

Ron looked back at O’Shea as if he had asked an embarrassingly simple math question. “Yeah,” Parsons replied, eyebrows raised. “My legs are fine.”

“I’m not talking about your legs,” Jack clarified, his tone sharpening as he slipped the helmet on and activated the face-obscuring, silvery reflective shield. “You’ve been shot in the chest. I need to know if your lungs can handle sprinting.”

Ron tried to throw his shoulders back confidently but only succeeded in wincing badly as his bruised and battered lungs expanded and caused a blossoming of anguish in his chest. “I’m not staying here,” Parsons countered in a rasping voice, “this bar sucks.”

Before Jack could press his point, Master Gunnery Sergeant Gus Reynolds put a hand on his CO’s shoulder. “Let’s get him in one of the Warthogs, then.”

“Oh hell no,” Ron said, shrugging off Tim McManus and Rachel Lynch’s supportive arms around him and shaking his head vehemently, “I’m not riding in a Warthog with doctor Trojan horse over there.”

O’Shea looked over at the dead body of Dr. Kathleen De Vere, the woman who had revealed herself to be an agent of the Office of Naval Intelligence and trapped O’Shea’s men in the bar. Jack’s dark brown eyes narrowed in a peeved expression as he regarded the corpse laying unceremoniously on a corner table. An attending Specialist monitored a ruggedized data pad as he stood over the body, which had started broadcasting a Covenant officer distress call since the moment the doctor’s vitals flat lined. Though Jack and his men had not been responsible for De Vere’s demise, she had damned them all the same.

“We’re not moving the body,” Jack growled. “As long as the Covenant think her signal’s legit we can use her to sneak away. Then they can have her.”

“Fair enough,” Ron replied, doing his best at a hampered shrug and glancing left and right at Tim and Rachel, “But I’m not gonna break the band up.”

“Ron,” Tim started, but was immediately cut off by a swiftly raised palm.

“Shut up.” Ron interrupted, peeved. “It get it; it’s nice, but shut up. The Ron Parsons pity party is now cancelled and I’m kicking you all out of the bar.”

“Technically it’s my bar,” Rachel Lynch breathed out the side of her mouth, grateful to catch subtle chuckles from Tim and Ron.

“Sir!” A soldier called from the front of the Black Rose. The focus shifted from the impromptu barside conference to the bigger problem of the hostile alien ships approaching outside. “Phantom’s slowing to deploy. Looks like they’re gonna park a Wraith tank ‘cross the street by the intersection.”

“That Wraith’s danger close—too close—for taking out the bar.” Gus noted with a brightening voice as he peered through a crack in the boarded up windows. He looked back at Jack with a murderous gleam in his eye. “They don’t know we’re here. If we can get the drop on ‘em, bet we can kill the gunner and move inside its blind spot.”

The Captain shook his head. “Forget the Wraith. If the Wraith’s that close the Phantom’s gonna stay on station and they’ll smoke us before we got halfway across the street. No,” Jack said through a clenching jaw as he slowly brought his hand up to his throat, “we’re going to need a diversion to pull the Phantom off before we even think about leaving this bar.”

Reynolds turned around and sat with his back against the front wall. “What kind of decoy you thinkin’?”

“We have to pull the security detail off the last refugee truck.”

Tim, Ron, and Rachel shared apprehensive looks. Not only was the situation looking worse every second, their commander was about to take away the one piece of protection the last Bostonians had. They could not help but stare at the bowed head of O’Shea as he made the call and the completely neutral faces of the soldiers behind him. McManus had to remind himself to stop pressing against his earpiece so hard.

“Delta, this is the Captain.”

“Captain O’Shea, this is Delta actual. Send traffic.”

“Patch me through to the refugee escort Warthog.” Jack waited for a brief moment before the COM gave a friendly beep.

“This is Delta Two,” the voice crackled over the filtered rush of wind. McManus guessed the man behind the voice was maybe thirty years old. “Go ahead, sir.”

“Need a sitrep on the refugee truck,” O’Shea instructed flatly, motioning for the troops stationed at the entrance to crouch lower to the poorly constructed boards by the front entrance. The Phantom’s bone white searchlight sweeping over the front of the bar gave them even more incentive to stay as out of sight as possible.

“Route scans all clear from here to station, we were just about to hand control over to Conductor at South Station refugee camp. Truck’s gonna make it,” the soldier replied confidently, taking a brief breath before his tone changed noticeably. “Sir, we saw the Phantom towing a Wraith inbound on your location and we have not seen it leave. How copy?”

“The Phantom’s just deployed the Wraith and it’s staying on station, Delta Two,” O’Shea replied grimly. “It’s got us trapped inside and we need a diversion if we’re going to have a prayer of leaving here alive.”

“Copy,” the digitally filtered voice said after a moment’s silence. “Delta Two requests permission to leave convoy and swing back to pull that Phantom off you, over.”

McManus exhaled, concern etched across his face as he met eyes with Rachel. “They’ll be able to get away, right?” He asked his red haired companion. “Right?”

“Permission granted, Delta two,” Jack nodded, “Don’t stay a second longer than you have to. Get the Phantom to commit and then get the hell out of there.”

“Delta two copies all. Sit tight, sir. We’re inbound.” The COM chirped off to the low-frequency hum of the Covenant anti-gravity propulsion drives outside.

Tim opened his mouth to ask the Captain about Delta’s odds but was cut off by O’Shea motioning hastily to get Lance Corporal Adam McHale’s attention. “Delta one, gimme a sitrep.”

“This is Delta Actual,” a hushed voice responded. McManus imagined the man peeking around the corner of the building at the idling tank and support gunship, “We’re in position in the alley behind the bar. I’ve got eyes on the Wraith and Phantom. Be advised, we’re still sitting on two spare rocket launchers back here.”

The Captain slapped a hand on the shoulder of Lance Corporal Adam McHale, who was gripping his shotgun the same way a star golf player would hold his driver before he swung. The eager Marine looked at his commanding officer with anticipation written across his face as O’Shea pointed deliberately at him and two other soldiers sitting on the ground by the front door.

As the Delta member finished speaking, O’Shea twirled his index finger in a quick circle then jabbed it over his shoulder at the back door. The three men bounded back to the rear with the easy lope of retrievers carrying a ball back to their master.

“Copy that, actual.” O’Shea said. “I’m sending three back to you to borrow a launcher. Keep me updated and get ready to attack on my signal. McHale, how copy, over?”

“This is McHale,” Tim recognized the tough voice over the COM, “we’re meeting up with Delta to borrow a can of whoop-ass. Uh, interrogative: where do you want us, sir?”

“I want you on the roof as soon as the airspace is clear. Find a ladder, stairs, or stack some dumpsters, I don’t care. When Delta hits the tank, I want us hitting, too. Understood?”

“Understood, sir. Eyes and spears.”

“Captain!” The Specialist standing over De Vere’s body blurted out, holding his data pad away from his body as though the device itself might explode. “Covenant are pinging the body!”

Gus Reynolds marched across the bar, jabbing an angry finger at the reporting Marine. “Hijack that frequency and answer all clear before they get wise!”

“But, Master Guns,” The fresh-faced soldier stammered, “It’s a hostile challenge. I don’t have any up to date response codes.”

“We’re running out of time,” Jack said, venom creeping into his tone as he walked purposefully to the front of the pub. “Delta Actual, what’s the status of that Phantom?”

“Still on station,” Delta’s leader whispered.

“Sir,” the young soldier with the data pad interjected once more, “They’re pinging hostile challenge again and I think they sent it in bold, if you get my drift.”

“Now we’re out of time,” O’Shea said, peeking through a slat cautiously and listening to the Wraith’s anti-gravity propulsion system rattle the hastily boarded up windows.

“What do you want me to do, sir?”

“Respond with something, anything.” Jack answered, head tilting almost imperceptibly to the side. “We’re due for a break.”

The result came faster than anyone thought as the COM chirped to urgent life. “This is Delta Actual,” the hushed tone now completely abandoned, “Wraith’s mortar cannon just went hot and it’s reversing into close attack range!”

“Time to go!” O’Shea shouted as the Black Rose came to life with nervous activity. “Master Guns, take two of yours and take the kids! Half of the Master Gunnery Sergeant’s team is with me, everyone else is folded into McHale’s command.”

Reynolds snatched up three spare magazines lying in an improvised armory along the bartop. “How do you want to designate teams, sir?”

O’Shea stabbed a finger into his chest plate, right between his Captain’s bars. “I’ll take Alpha, you take Charlie, and McHale will be designated Bravo. Lance Corporal, acknowledge designation.”

“Acknowledged, Alpha actual. Be advised, just found roof access in the alley. I’ve got a guy going up to give us a—sniper! Man down! Man down! Shit, Delta, tell me you saw that!”

Medic Harold Ibanez was running in a dead sprint back to the alleyway the moment McHale’s voice changed. He nearly collided with Jack’s outstretched palm and somber face, directing him back to his position. The latino medic did not take the stand fast order well; Ibanez turned on his heel and marched back to his position, furiously flipping over a table in the process.

“McHale, Delta Actual. One of my guys got a fix on that sniper—whoa! Enemy dropship taking fire!”

Everyone taking cover in the bar rushed for the boarded front windows like a group of schoolchildren at first snowfall. The looming purple and black Phantom dropship, complete with three mounted plasma turrets and two support gunners, had taken position twenty feet above the rooftops of Commonweath Avenue and cut off nearly every route away from the Black Rose.

Now the support dropship was veering back away from the bar and a steady stream of depleted uranium shells from Delta two’s decoy Warthog was smashing against the alien vessel’s sturdy hull. The intruder swerved to the side as if it had taken offense to the volley, leaning away from it at a perilous angle before righting itself and redirecting shields to throw the projectiles off. The hefty bullets deflected off the unseen energy barrier in a haze of purple and gold, clinking against the pavement as through they were mere currency.

Not only had the Phantom taken the bait, but the Wraith had now swiveled away from the bar to focus on the incoming Warthog. O’Shea pumped a fist and immediately put his men to work.

“OK, Phantom’s definitely taken the bait! Wraith’s firing at us, too!” The decoy Warthog called over the COM as a tremendous explosion reverberated in the background, “We’re bugging out. Shit, that thing’s huge!”

“Everyone form up!” Jack shouted, waving for his group of warriors to join him. “Master Guns, the kids are your responsibility now. Take them via alley and make sure they all get out alive.”

Reynolds pointed a very serious finger at the threesome, unmoving while everyone else jumped to life. “Go to the back exit and wait for me there,” he instructed. “Do not go outside. I’ll be with you in a second. Go now.”

“Come on!” Rachel called to Ron and Tim, waving them toward the kitchen door as the bar became a flurry of semi-organized activity.

The powerfully built Master Gunnery Sergeant turned on his heel and scratched his head at O’Shea. “What’re we gonna do about De Vere’s body?” He asked.

Jack’s voice darkened considerably. “We’ll rig it with enough charges to level the building,” he said, looking sideways at the corpse. “Leave a detonator with me.”

Despite a dislocated shoulder and a room full of big, tall Marines running in every direction, Rachel Lynch managed to duck, side step, and dodge every obstacle in her way, immediately putting distance between her and the two boys she had survived the apocalypse with. Tim looked over his shoulder at his new friend, who was already starting to grimace with masked pain.

“You all right?” Tim asked, concerned.

“Never better,” Ron gave a brave thumbs up before roughly bumping into a passing Private First Class who never looked back. Parsons turned his thumbs up into a peeved finger at the oblivious PFC. The duo gingerly made their way through the blood smeared back hallway, past the doors to the bathrooms in which one dead gangster was slumped against the wall like a passed out fraternity brother, and finally into the relatively clean kitchen where only a few splotches and sticky pools of dark red indicated that a dozen human gang members had failed to defend their clubhouse from O’Shea’s tactical wrath.

Rachel Lynch was already in the kitchen, staring at a stubborn splotch of red mist and methodically, mechanically trying to scrub it away with her hand. All she had succeeded in was spreading out the thin film of gore by the time the two young men entered. She seemed completely transfixed on the spot, oblivious to her friends’ hasty entrance.

“Did you run?” Ron asked, bemused and pretending to be out of breath. “You totally ditched us back there.” Rachel made no indication she heard him. McManus cocked his head to the side and scrutinized the stubborn girl attacking the even more stubborn splotch on the wall. Tim’s attractive features scrunched into a worried frown and he crossed the room ahead of a curious Parsons.

“Rach?” Tim asked cautiously. He received the same silent treatment. Ron Parsons walked around the middle island of stovetops and deep fryers and approached the quiet, agile redhead from behind. He missed Tim’s subtle motions to hold back and quickly reached Lynch’s side.

“Hey,” the blue eyed, shaggy blonde chef said warmly, putting a friendly hand on the shoulder of her cleaning arm. He barely had time to lean backwards as the surprisingly strong Boston College coed screamed and wheeled around, throwing an instinctually swift elbow directly toward Ron’s nose.

“Get away from me!” Lynch screamed in a high-pitched voice, as if she had just been shaken awake from a horrible nightmare. Parsons missed the blow by mere inches, stumbling into a counter and knocking over a stack of worn wooden bowls.

“Whoa!” McManus exclaimed, jumping between the kids and shooting out an arm to separate the two. Parsons collected himself quickly, throwing a confused, scared look Rachel’s way. Lynch’s perfectly proportioned features twisted into a face that looked like she might bawl, throw up, or both. Her face was already flush with embarrassment.

“Did she get you?” McManus asked Ron, visually inspecting his wounded friend for a bloody nose, black eye, or worse.

“I’m cool,” Parsons responded, eyebrows so far up they looked like they might reach his hair. He quickly composed himself and nodded over Tim’s shoulder. “Check on her. I don’t wanna get decked again.”

Tim turned around and put his hands up, urging calm. Rachel had already backed up all the way to the wall she had just been cleaning, crimson embarrassment converted to blanched horror over what she had almost done.

“I’m so sorry!” She apologized profusely to Ron. “Oh God, Ron, I’m so sorry!”

“What the hell happened?” Parsons said, picking his submachine gun off the dirty tiles.

“I—I came in here,” Rachel said, swallowing hard and doing everything she could to cure a suddenly dry mouth. She started trying to explain, but her words seemed to go faster and faster until she was nearly incomprehensible. “And I saw the—the blood, and I just couldn’t stop looking at this one spot and I didn’t see any towels or anything and I thought maybe if I just started wiping it b—by hand maybe but it wouldn’t come out and I kept wiping it and wiping it and it wasn’t even doing anything it kept spreading and—”

Tim took one more cautious step toward the clearly freaked out girl and then wrapped his arms around her in a warm, tight embrace that was returned threefold by Lynch. She finally stopped her stream of words and closed her eyes tightly, sniffing loudly and making a herculean effort to keep from crying. Parsons walked awkwardly toward them and joined the group hug. After a few seconds that seemed like an hour, they all broke off and Rachel’s face had returned to its former color. She wiped an eye and removed a smudge of sweaty dirt in the process.

“You wanna talk about it?” Tim asked, his eyes going around the room, indicating the post-slaughter scenery.

“No.” Lynch answered flatly, catching a bit of hurt in Tim’s face at the perceived rebuke. Her tone softened slightly and she raised a bloodied palm defensively. “It just seems…selfish. There’s, you know,” Rachel nodded out toward the sound of explosions, “More important stuff to focus on.”

“We’re gonna get through this,” Tim said confidently. “Just stay with us, ok? It’ll be fine.”

Rachel nodded, eyes fixed on the ground. Before Tim could follow up with any more encouragement, a deep rumble of a throat clearing snapped everyone out of their moment and toward the doorway-filling shape of Master Gunnery Sergeant Gus Reynolds. He regarded the scene through the visor of his helmet for a moment.

“I miss something?” He asked skeptically.

Parsons shrugged. “We’re playing two truths and a lie. I’m a pro wakeboarder, serve sandwiches to Harvard kids, and have a ten-inch cock. You wanna play?”

Reynolds gave a baritone laugh and walked purposefully past the group, followed by two other well-armed Marines. He opened the back door a crack and took off his scratched, dinged combat helmet and held it at arm’s length outside into the back alley. He held it there for a second before pulling it back and nodding to himself. “Coast is clear,” he assured the group, then resumed his vigil, keeping watch through the partially opened door.

The three kids could not help but notice the whiskey bottle in the Master Gunnery Sergeant’s hand. Feeling their eyes on his back, Reynolds turned around and offered the mouth of the glass vessel to the kids.

“What?” Ron chuckled darkly, using a bandaged hand to adjust his armor and poorly concealing a look of discomfort from the pain in his chest, “No cigarette? No blindfold?”

Gus’ shoulders rose once in an invisible laugh. “Think I’m gonna like you, kid.”

Parsons nodded sarcastically. “That’ll be great for the next two minutes we’re alive.”

“Ping back when you’re in position,” O’Shea’s stern voice echoed in their ears after a COM-clearing chirp. Reynolds glanced down at his slim black data pad as it began to fill with single points of blue light, indicating all teams were in position around the Black Rose.

“This is Captain O’Shea,” Jack’s authoritative voice crackled in everyone’s ear, “we’re breaking out of this area. Phantom’s on the move but we can’t get our vehicles out safely until the tank’s destroyed. Once we kill that Wraith we’ll only have about sixty seconds until the Phantom swings back around to check it out. Sixty seconds, that’s one minute to get to your rally points before the Phantom’s back on station. Delta one, you are cleared to engage. All other teams standby. Good luck.”

Gus tossed the now empty whiskey bottle over his shoulder and slipped his battered, olive green helmet over his short-cropped black hair. He inspected the magazine of his rifle once more and slapped it back into the weapon. The bar’s back door was already partially open, and the wind whistled through the opening in a high whine that contrasted sharply with the low, ground-shuddering hum of the unseen tank that waited for them in front of the building.

Tim McManus tried to ignore his shaking hands, hiding them by burying one in a pocket and the other seemingly casually draped over the barrel of his suppressed Battle Rifle. He glanced to the right and caught Rachel’s bright eyes locked on his gloved hands and realized the effort was for naught. She reached out her good arm, gave Tim’s wrist a squeeze, and nodded at him slightly. McManus took a deep breath as Reynolds clapped his hands together once and kept his eyes focused on the alley ahead.

“Delta one actual has eyes on the Wraith. Delta one-two, found the sniper yet?”

“Do. Not. Stop.” Gus said with grave importance to the kids, eyes still locked on the open door. “Don’t look back until you reach the rally point.”

“This is Delta one-two, hostile sniper acquired on the rooftop of blue restaurant across the street. Standing by.”

“You get lost, you activate your transponder and run some more until I find you.”

“Delta one-three, in position. Rockets ready, standing by.”

“Don’t linger in the open and don’t fire unless your life’s in danger.”

“Delta one-two, clear to fire.”

“Firing.”

Despite the advance notice, Tim, Ron, and Rachel jumped as a loud crack split the air above them. Gus looked back over his shoulder one last time and opened his mouth to give one more piece of advice before being overruled by a flurry of Delta’s activity on the COM.

“Hostile down. Clear up.”

“Rocket away.”

“Rocket away.”

From the kids’ position inside the bar’s kitchen, the distinct sounds of the human weapons all melded into a conglomeration of whooshes, splintering wood, back slapping concussive force, and the satisfying crunch of metal on metal that culminated in a high frequency shriek, a flash of bluish white against the bricks, and an echoing crash of the Wraith’s antigravity propulsion system suffering catastrophic failure. Tim could not help but notice the Master Guns’ grin on his face.

Captain O’Shea jumped on the COM immediately. “All teams go! Start the shot clock. One minute.”

“Don’t get separated!” Gus yelled, yanking the pin from the light gray cylinder and tossing it in a hard underhand throw into the alley. “Stay with me!”

McManus was shocked at how fast the much larger noncom was. Despite hours of hard fighting in a city that was literally falling down around their ears, Reynolds showed no signs of fatigue, getting a good first step and launching himself into the tight, desolate alley behind the bar. Tim immediately slipped on a small, slick pool of blood and scrambled on all fours to leave the kitchen, only getting a moment to glance to his right as the other teams sprinted out in tight three man groups toward unseen Warthogs. McManus could have sworn he heard a muffled laugh from Ron but pushed the thought from his mind, focusing only on using the strength left in his climber’s body to catch up with the rapidly shrinking form of Gus Reynolds.

“Hurry!” Rachel called after Tim, falling in stride with the sprinting Harvard Junior. The athletic young woman did not waste a minute as they gained ground on the leader, taking Gus’ lead as he used a pile of discarded loading pallets to hurdle an overturned dumpster. The group leaped over the obstacle with excessive force, adrenaline supercharging their tired and muscles and sending Ron Parsons into a stumbling fall as he hit the ground. The lithe blonde sharpshooter cried out in pain and immediately bit his lip to stifle any further whining, cringing as Rachel and Tim took an instant to help him back up.

“Ok!” Ron wheezed, falling back in with the small squad. “This sucks worse than the bar!”

McManus’ senses were now completely overloaded. Between the staccato bursts of weapons fire, the autumn breeze whipping up foreign scents of a city left to die, and the horrible rumbling avalanche of bricks, steel, and glass signaling yet another building’s collapse, Tim could hardly bring his eyes to focus as his loose helmet bumped roughly against his forehead and fell in and out of his vision. In a fit of frustrated rage, McManus took his free hand and ripped off the offending protective covering, tossing it behind him with no small amount of satisfaction.

He could hear his ragged breath over the pounding of his boots, and his chest felt like a blast furnace after so many miles of sprinting, jumping, and hiding. He had almost forgotten about the chorus of urgent bursts of soldiers’ voices in his headset, a reminder of the scene being played out behind and around the small group of survivors.

“Tim!”

In the midst of the chaos and swirling gray smoke filling the streets, McManus had not thought of the possibility that enemy troops might have joined the battle. That possibility suddenly became a reality as the head of the Marine running directly in front of Tim disappeared in a wet burst of bright green and pink. The brain’s very last synaptic firings and the body’s forward momentum kept it moving for another half stride before it toppled forward and revealed an entire alleyway of incoming fire.

Streaks of green, purple, and blue light hurtled down the alley at the suddenly exposed humans. Only Ron thought to actually fight back, fiery orange tracers flying downrange and buying the survivors just enough time to react. Gus Reynolds hustled to cover, breaking left and taking position behind the corner of a retail store’s shallow loading bay.

“On me!” He roared, expertly looking down his sights and returning fire at the advancing ominous silhouettes. Even through the smoke, McManus could see a few irregular shapes suddenly collapse out of view. Tim slid on his knees to an overturned dumpster on the other side of the alley and did his best to shoot in the right direction while the Master Guns called in their situation. “Alpha, this is Charlie actual! We got hostiles in the alleyway blocking our route!”

“Solid copy, Charlie actual! Tank must have been waiting for backup, they’re all over the place. Stay alert!”

Through the rising, swirling mist of the smoke, a new color flew through the haze; a bright dazzling pink encased in what looked like tiny crystal shards. Tim could not help but stare at them as they whizzed by him at incredible speed and gave off a curious high frequency sound. The former student felt inexplicably transfixed at the curious projectiles until the series of crystals suddenly veered off their straight path and directly into the left leg of a soldier still in the middle of the alley. He cried out in surprise and pain as the pink curiosities passed through his thin leg armor and embedded themselves in his thigh. McManus could only watch, jaw slack, as the enchanting objects then exploded like flash bulbs, tearing open the unlucky Marine’s leg and dropping him to the ground as he clutched the gaping wound.

“No!” Tim instinctively yelled, drawing Ron and Rachel’s attention away from Reynolds and back to the center of the alley. Without thinking, McManus ran back to the screaming soldier, firing his weapon haphazardly at the Covenant.

“Don’t!” Rachel screamed, eyes open wide in terror as she tried to be heard over the deafening barrage. “Come back!”

“Shit,” Parsons spat, running out into the crackling ionized air. Ron did his best to ignore the hairs standing up on the back of his neck as the plasma bursts flew hot and heavy around him. Errant shots smacked against exposed brick and the superheated materials instantly melted the walls, dropping sizzling pieces to the smoking concrete and filling the air with an acrid burning smell.

The injured Harvard chef ducked as a bolt flew much too close to his head, trying to keep his balance as he threw himself toward his newest and probably last friend in the world, who had managed to successfully stand the fallen soldier up under his shoulder and was making hobbling progress back to the squad.

Ron ran to the other side of the wounded man and helped make the desperate, stumbling rush to safety. Both kids did their best to tune out the Marine’s anguished groans, focusing instead on the five remaining feet to safety and a very angry looking Master Gunnery Sergeant. Tim’s ears were ringing already and his lungs felt like paper bags as he completed the journey, nearly dropping his charge with exhaustion and relief. He looked over his shoulder in astonishment at the charred black plasma burns on the walls and street, wondering just how the hell he had managed to survive that short moment of insanity.

Parsons collapsed against a railing and tried to catch his breath through the stabbing pain in his chest. McManus tried to ease the suffering of the wounded soldier, who was moaning through a clenched jaw and looking down at the horrific looking injury in near shock. Tim jumped as Reynolds slammed a hand down on his shoulder, focused rage written across his face.

“You trying to get yourself fucking killed?” He roared. “Get inside this building! Do it now!”

Rachel took the lead, raising her matte black M6 pistol as she scurried the short distance to the rear entrance. Two double doors stood obstinately in her way, their opaque white glass obscuring her view of the space inside. The Boston College junior, unable to know if the doors were locked and unwilling to waste precious seconds fumbling with knobs, did her best to look down the iron sights and squeezed the heavy trigger of the weapon several times. Lynch tried to anticipate the kick of the weapon but her throbbing shoulder protested the strain with eye watering pain.

The first shot spat out of the barrel and passed clean through the right door, spreading tiny white spider webs through the glass. The former division one pyramid ball player gave the briefest of gasps as agony rippled through her shoulder and back, then focused all her energy on bringing the sights back down on the door. Another round smashed against the thick glass door but could not shatter the barrier.

With only three more feet to go, Rachel grit her teeth and pulled the trigger twice more, but the door refused to yield. Her sparkling green eyes opened wide in protest and her mouth opened to yell out a curse, but before the word could pass her lips she felt something pass by her long red hair, followed immediately by Tim McManus’ urgent cry of, “Outta the way!”

A large gray brick flew over Rachel’s shoulder and crashed through the door, bringing the stubborn opaque glass straight down in a clinking heap of wintry white. Lynch looked over her shoulder and past errant strands of hair as McManus flew past her and put his shoulder into the last remaining chunk of glass, tripping and sprawling out over the floor as his momentum betrayed him. Rachel hustled to help her friend up, helping Tim to his feet as Ron and Gus carried the wounded ex-Marine into the wide open space of an athletic shoe store.

The very last promotional sneakers fell off a towering display as an explosion ripped through the alley behind the squad, throwing tiny pieces of debris inside the store. Parsons wheeled around and took shaky aim at the open door, pausing a moment before shooting the Master Guns a wary glance. The powerfully built noncom glanced up at Ron as Reynolds eased his wounded comrade into a safe corner.

“I tossed a TR-9 mine behind us,” Gus explained, reaching into his vest and pulling out a canister of biofoam, “but keep an eye on the alley just in case. Elites are tougher bastards than the news tells you.”

Ron kept his weapon pointed at the smashed rear entrance while Tim and Rachel slowly crawled toward the miraculously intact windows of the shoe store. The duo gingerly stepped over benches and finally took cover behind a large damaged display case. Above them, a dramatic holographic display of a star Boston Red Sox player flickered in and out. Rachel banged a fist against the side of the combination shoe case holo display and the image spliced out of view.

“O’Shea, Reynolds.”

Jack’s voice crackled to life over a burst of weapons fire. “This is O’Shea,” he shouted impatiently. “You’ve only got 30 seconds. Why aren’t you moving, Gus?”

“Dunbar’s KIA. Stark’s hit,” Gus responded, squatting in front of the wounded man and ripping open a package of socks. “Needler caught him in the leg and I can’t move him.”

“If we’re not moving, we’re digging graves.” Jack’s voice took on a hard edge. “You can’t stop. We’ll come back for him once the area clears. You take the kids and you get out of there now.”

Tim, Ron, and Rachel all turned somberly toward the doomed man. Jack had just given him a death sentence and they could not bring themselves to turn away from the scene.

“No!” The wounded soldier pleaded as Reynolds finished wiping away the perspiration. Stark tried to get up with a heart-breaking amount of resolve, but without a working left leg to support him, the effort only resulted in him slouching farther down the wall and gasping through the pain.

Gus shook his head sadly at the ex-Marine. “Understood, sir.” Reynolds locked eyes with the petrified Stark and let his expression soften almost imperceptibly.

“You listen to me,” Gus said with as much gravity as he could. “You stay out of sight and stay alive. I swear I’ll come back for you. I swear it.”

Stark’s eyes fell from their frozen lock with Reynolds’ and moved towards his holstered sidearm. Gus slapped him across the face and shook him roughly.

“Don’t even think about it, Marine.” The Master Gunnery Sergeant growled darkly before he shoved the first aid biofoam container into the soldier’s chest. With that, the hulking trooper stood up and motioned for Parsons to join him at the front of the store with McManus and Lynch. The battle outside had not abated in the slightest, and Gus glanced at the glowing watch on his wrist nervously.

“What’s the clock say?” Rachel asked tensely.

Reynolds only shook his head and leaned cautiously out of cover to take a look at the street ahead. “Same thing it always says,” Gus grunted. “We’re behind.”

“Charlie Actual, this is Alpha Actual,” O’Shea announced over the COM. “Gus, shot clock’s expired. You need to get out of there now.”

Reynolds exhaled with frustration. “Charlie’s oscar mike, I’ve tagged Stark’s location for SAR on TACMAP. I promised him, Jack.”

“Understood, actual. We’ve secured our Warthog and we lost men, too. No more distractions. See you at the rally point.”

Tim winced as pain radiated through his shoulders like venom running through his veins. The former Harvard student had to force his clenched shoulder blades to lower and willed his exhausted mind to focus on the task at hand. He had to block out the fits and starts of urban warfare going on all around him while staying alert enough to know if the sounds were getting closer or louder. He blinked hard, clearing dirt and sweat from his eyes and rubbed them vigorously to clear his vision.

The sharp crack of a M6C pistol fired behind him shattered that tenuous concentration and caused the two young adults beside him to jump in shock and check themselves for an entry or exit wound. Gus Reynolds only hung his head in resignation.

“Don’t look back there,” he muttered, silhouetted by the last ruby rays of light that snuck through the smoke and dust. “Cancel my last,” Reynolds said with as much composure as he could. “Scrub search and rescue. Stark’s KIA.”

Gus’ glanced at his three companions, expressionless behind the blank faceshield but slouched like a man who had had enough for today. “Listen to me,” he instructed coldly. “If something happens to me and I can’t move on my own, you’ve got to leave me behind, understood?”

Tim, Ron, and Rachel all nodded simultaneously. Reynolds nodded back at them.

“Time to leave,” he said, standing up and pointing his well-loved assault rifle out toward the much wider city street. Ron, Tim, and Rachel made the mistake of standing up with him, hearing the warning over the COM a moment too late.

“Mortars!”

The word did not even register with the three young adults before a blurry, faintly purple shape streaked out of nowhere and smashed into the street, blowing the windows in with barbaric force that felt like a molten fist to the stomach. The mortar blast threw the three unprepared kids backwards and slammed them into another display case before unceremoniously dropping the gasping kids to all fours. They did not have the luxury of catching their breath before they all felt the vise grip of the Master Gunnery Sergeant on their collars like a protective lion moving his pride of cubs.

“We gotta go!” Reynolds yelled after the kids, pushing Rachel out the door as Tim and Ron took off in an all-out sprint across the street. The team left the relative safety of the enclosed sporting goods store and canyon-like confinement of the alleyway for an all-out warzone that was plucked straight from Tim’s nightmares.

It was as if the street itself was fighting the stubborn clutch of human survivors. One moment a patch of clear concrete offered safe passage to the rally point, the next it suddenly exploded in a flash of purple-gold and hurled tiny jagged chunks of concrete 360 degrees at the exposed runners. Only a momentary shriek announced the mortar’s imminent arrival; the Covenant’s projectiles were flying in so thick and fast that the shrieks seemed like a macabre forest scene with deadly crickets chirping only once before obliterating the urban trees. Smoke choked the group’s throats and the force of each successive blast bounced them around like unfortunate pinballs.

McManus could not help but look back over his left shoulder at the defeated Wraith tank sitting obstinately in the middle of the intersection like a pouting toddler. Its hard purple shell was cracked in jagged pieces and bright blue plasma fire consumed the heavily armored vehicle’s deadly cannon. The roaring fire belched dark violet smoke nearly twenty feet into the swiftly darkening evening, bathing the city street in flickering azure and sending a sickly citrus smell meandering along the wind.

As the group crossed the middle of Commonwealth Avenue the fire reached the cannon’s ammunition and secondary explosions ripped the vehicle apart from the inside with the force of a firecracker inside a Lego house. The concussive force of the blast caused the entire group to stumble and nearly fall. As Tim regained his balance he noticed a screeching, wrenching sound getting louder from behind the stunned foursome. His eyes opened wide in shock and his voice refused to work as a large chunk of the tank’s engine block bounced and tumbled down the concrete at them at fatal speeds.

“Move!” McManus shouted breathlessly, shoving his two friends roughly in the back and diving out of the path of the projectile. Reynolds saw the smoking, twisted hunk of metal an instant too late. The Master Gunnery Sergeant did his best to leap out of the way, leaving his feet in an impressive athletic display that nearly made it.

Just as it looked as if the heavily armored soldier would actually clear the obstacle, the engine block struck a buckled piece of concrete and suddenly changed direction. It skipped along the ground like a stone across a lake and smacked hard against Reynolds’ armored legs.

“No!” Tim blurted out, reaching out uselessly as the impact spun Gus 180 degrees in the air before dropping him hard to the street with a heavy grunt. Despite the mortar fire coming down around their ears, McManus stared at the body of Reynolds for a full second, horrified at the thought that their protector had just been killed right in front of them and flat out panicking about what they could possibly do now. Relief flooded Tim’s body as the powerful veteran stirred.

“Hey,” Ron Parsons noted, looking quizzically up at the sky, “the mortars stopped.”

“—is Delta one actual!” The COM burst to life in the kids’ ears while they rushed to the fallen Master Guns. “Be advised, Phantom’s back and it has acquired us! We’re going hot—!” The COM line died just as quickly as it had been born.

“Where’d Delta go?” Ron asked nervously as they scrambled around a groaning Master Guns. Tim and Rachel looked at their friend with faces that said they could only assume, and the assumption was not good.

“This is Bravo actual.” McHale’s voice immediately followed. “We’re two blocks from securing the rally point. Be advised, we skipped around fifteen plus foot mobiles with vehicle support moving north. How copy, Alpha?”

“This is Alpha actual,” O’Shea answered. “I copy fifteen plus foot mobiles and vehicles heading north. Alpha is diverting to engage the Phantom, Bravo actual; I want that rally point clear for loading when we get there. Get it done.”

“What the hell did I tell you?” Reynolds demanded as Tim and Ron helped the bigger man up.

The stern faced Master Gunnery Sergeant grimaced further as he put his full weight on his right leg. Rachel Lynch’s eyes widened as she noticed the prominent dent in the titanium leg armor.

“You told us we couldn’t stop moving,” Ron offered, passing the noncom the gray MA5C Assault Rifle he had dropped on impact. “You never said in what direction.”

Gus looked like he was deciding between punching the wiseass civilian and laughing out loud. He did neither, opting to resume running albeit at a much slower pace and with a noticeable hobble in this stride. “We’ve got to keep moving to the rally point,” Gus shouted, eyes scanning the approaching rooftops with unease. “Even if McHale thinks the Covies won’t come near the rally point, they’re can’t hold out if a force that size finds them.”

Tim cleared a deep impact crater in the middle of the street. “And we can?” he asked, catching up with the impeded Reynolds.

“We can certainly help,” Gus offered, taking a sudden right toward an abandoned and thoroughly looted coffee shop. The foursome stacked up in a single file line as Gus entered the shop first, sniffing once to take in the last lingering scent of coffee beans. He swiftly glanced through and around flickering holographic displays of impossibly happy people with perfect teeth enjoying steaming beverages, twitching once when a sputtering cappuccino machine gurgled its last breath and tumbled to the ground in a tinny crash. Tim slowly walked backwards to cover the group, turning around quickly as he heard the crash of Gus Reynolds kicking in the door to the back receiving room.

“Charlie, this is alpha Actual,” O’Shea called over the COM, hasty shouts echoing in the background. “Be advised, we’re playing hit and run with the Phantom so it might be a few before we reach the rally point. Gimme a sitrep.”

“Charlie’s still a few blocks from the objective,” Gus breathed, weapon sweeping over the area ahead as he ran through the alley, “We’re taking alleys for now, will update you once we reach Bravo.”

“Uh, Alpha actual, Alpha actual. This is Bravo actual.” McHale’s voice had changed considerably over the course of only a few seconds.

“This is Alpha actual. Send traffic.”

“Bravo’s reached the rally point. There’s, um, sir…you’re not gonna believe what I’m looking at here, sir.”

“I’m looking at a hostile Phantom dropship, McHale. Spit it out!”

“Sir, I think I’m looking at the Pelican that got shot down earlier over the harbor.”

The three civilian kids and their veteran guardian nearly stopped in their tracks. Each of them shared separate looks, none of them thankful.

“Are you positive?” O’Shea asked deliberately.

“Tail number pings ONI, sir, but that’s as far as I got. I tried to scan for IFF tags and the Pelican fried my data pad with some kind of electronic interference. I’ve never even heard of Pelicans doing that, sir. You heard of any spook Pelicans that fry friendly tech?”

“I’m not going to take time today to wonder what ONI’s putting in their Pelicans, Bravo Actual. Do you have any other pressing news to share?”

Static ruled the line as McHale paused. When he finished speaking, the foursome stopped in the middle of the alley altogether.

“Yes, sir. Uh, I know how this is gonna sound, but there’s no sign that a missile crashed this bird.”

Tim wheeled around as if a voice from his past had just called his name and he put a gloved hand to his furrowed brow. He tried as best her could to replay the scene from earlier in his mind. He saw the Pelican deploy chaff countermeasures to defeat a surprise missile attack, but the second anti-air attack had apparently destroyed one of the dropship’s main engines and sent it plummeting into the city, which had set in motion most of the particularly nasty parts of Earth’s last day.

“But everyone saw it get hit before. How is that possible?” Tim asked as he caught up with the group.

“If a missile took out this bird’s engine, I wouldn’t even be looking at it right now. But it’s there. It’s charred halfway to hell, but it’s there.”

Ron’s eyes widened and he shook his head. “This day makes absolutely no sense.”

“Alpha copies all. Secure the crash site and prep wounded for evac if you can. Charlie actual, sitrep.”

Gus Reynolds’ pace had quickened significantly and Tim’s breath was now becoming ragged, his chest was a dry, wheezing chamber of burning air. He almost tripped as the larger, more powerful armor clad warrior took a surprisingly sharp left and started skipping in a sidestep through an even narrower alley. Rachel Lynch picked up the pace, grabbing the edge of the alley’s entrance with her good hand and using it to halt her momentum and effectively throw herself after the leader.

“Taking a shortcut,” Reynolds’ voice sounded odd off the walls of close brick and inside Tim’s ear, “should be at the rally point any—”

“Kiowa, get down!” McHale suddenly yelled over the COM. “Bravo taking enemy fire at the intersection! I say again, hostiles at the rally point! We’re getting overrun!”

Chapter 15: The Rally Point

I’m afraid the pictures that accompany my thoughts on the exhibition arent too great.  The main reason that the pictures are all off centre and everything is that I’m not really used to using my Blackberry for taking pictures and i’m not too sure how to make sure the subject matter is in the centre of the picture. But oh well, they’ve the best i’ve got as i didn’t think to bring my proper camera.

As it was my last day in Southend for a while (I’m back at University now) on Friday I decided to spend a few hours in London. As far as I’m concerned, although I probably don’t have any authority to make a claim like this, London is one of the best places in the world, so I’m pretty lucky to be able to reach it 40 minutes after leaving my house and only ten quid down. I had been meaning to go to the Raymond Pettibon exhibition at Sadie Coles HQ ever since I heard about it a few months ago. After a couple of botched attempts and with the closing date looming, I ‘braved’ the snow.

The gallery itself is a short walk, past the American Embassy at Grosvenor Square, from Marble Arch tube station, and is surrounded by pretty expensive looking shops selling rugs and shit and a few designer places like Mark Jacobs. Whilst it’s not an unusual place for a gallery as such, the nature of some of the work on show made quite juxtaposition between celebrating splendour and a more cynical view.

Pettibon started out life as an artist in the LA punk scene, producing fanzines, and this clearly still influences his work today, although it’s also ‘characterised by… historical and stylistic dissonance. Pop-cultural influences intermingle with those of Goya and Blake; cartoonish exaggerations and conflicting perspectives are juxtaposed with subtle tonal variations; and the cacophony of transcribed and reformulated texts- high brow and low brow- confirm Pettibon’s meandering panoramic historical perspective’. I wouldn’t claim to be anything approaching knowledgeable about art, quite the opposite, especially when the art in question concerns whether a urinal is art or not, but what was striking about Pettibon’s work is how such a vast range of inspirations and influences are thrown together, creating a cohesive image that is as effective to look at as it is brilliant.

Of course, the main reason I’m aware of Pettibon and the main source of my interest, is his relation to Greg Ginn and association with the 1980’s LA hardcore scene, most notably BLACK FLAG. He has also provided artwork for several other notable bands such as SONIC YOUTH, THE MINUTEMEN and other SST bands. The iconic black and white ink drawings that became a staple of the hardcore/alternative scenes took up the downstairs half of the exhibition, with the upstairs dedicated to more recent work, still distinctively Pettibon, but this time painted.

It’s with BLACK FLAG that his importance for me really stood out, producing some of the best and most iconic artwork and backdrops for flyers that I have ever seen. His importance in creating and influencing the imagery of hardcore music should not be understated. He designed the ‘bars’ which I and countless others have inked into my skin. His work forms the backdrops for all the flyers for shows that I look at and wish I could have experienced. He has influenced myriad other punk artists and images, shaped and continues to shape much of the visual aspects of the genre and associated aspects. Most importantly though, they look fucking cool.

His artwork became synonymous with the music of Black Flag. More than just being the flyers/album covers, they were the perfect accompaniment to the music, the music sound-tracking the art, and simultaneously the art creating a visual aspect to the music, but with both very much having a life and message of their own. Black Flag have pretty much always been more than just a band to me, what they mean and what they stood for, to an extent, is down to the image that surrounded the band. Not in a ‘I like their jeans way’ but just how they were a relentlessly dedicated, fully fledged and functioning entity, beyond the music itself, which as an aside is some of the best music ever recorded. I think this is why when I see his work, I feel something more than when I look at other artists work. It really has the power to inspire emotions within me and can espouse something that I love a lot and has helped shaped me as a person. I suppose this is something people who are well versed in art feel more frequently. It’s hard to describe exactly, but just to look at his art transfixes me.

The gallery itself was pretty interesting. It basically was just completely open plan, with a window taking up the entire ‘front’ which made walking past it pretty strange, as it sits alongside the various other shop fronts and as a result looks quite odd. As I have already said, upstairs was taken up by around 30 or so examples of more recent painted work and downstairs featured the more familiar work, with around 15-20 A4 sized drawings spread across two walls of the sparse and spacious gallery.  I had never seen any of the art on display before, including the 80’s stuff and it’s always cool seeing more of his black and white stuff, especially when they all meet such a consistently high standard. The pictures were instantly recognisable thematically and also stylistically, all of them fairly crude but powerful images, accompanied by text. The 80’s stuff were probably my favourite part of the exhibition due to the familiarity and links with 80’s punk, hardcore and ‘zines, but I enjoyed all of the art on display. A few of the paintings upstairs particularly caught my eye, especially the collages, which had so much to take in. Some of the paintings even looked like Pettibon’s earlier work, just with dashes of colour added. Most was framed, but some was simply pinned to the wall.

I would recommend you go and see this as my pictures or description don’t come close to doing the exhibition or art justice, but it ended yesterday, so you are probably too late. I hope me talking about it makes up for this a little bit.

Contrary to what ProTools fanatics might tell you, visionaries are hard to come by these days. During an era in which it’s incumbent upon artists to market and promote themselves. During an era in which selling out has become something of a moot point.

The thing about Imaad Wasif is, he doesn’t even seem of this era. As if life were but a dream, the musician appears to have transcended time and space. But in reality, as it were, he’s paying much more heed to the present moment than you or I.

“I’ve lived in my head for so long,” he told me late last year. “I’ve been reading a lot about this concept of building fortresses of solitude around yourself. If I’m working very intensely on music, I’m very closed off, but I have no problem entering the world when I need to. … I keep defined spaces between the time that I work, so that it’s not really tainted by anything else. A lot of things I focus on involve space and keeping an awareness of the present moment.”

For a glimpse into the Los Angeles musician’s complex mind, look no further than his trance-inducting junior record, The Voidist, which came out a few months ago on Tee Pee. Hypnotic from start to finish, it’s a mystical journey with a through-line of haunting psychedelia and even some portions that might qualify as “pop” in a bizarro world.

And as intriguing as the music is the man behind it. Wasif is hooked on reading books about esoteric philosophy, and although he doesn’t subscribe to any particular dogma, he does seem particularly attuned to that school of thought. To him, the deeper he gets into esoterica (and sometimes occult works too), the clearer he comprehends “universal threads” that thinkers have been writing about for centuries – timeless strains of thought that can be reassuring to someone who worries his mind doesn’t work like anyone else’s.

“I was so confused growing up in terms of identity – probably even gender, to a certain degree,” revealed Wasif, who was born in Canada and also spent chunks of his childhood in California and India. “[I felt] an inability to connect to anyone – including my family, to a certain degree.

“I don’t think I was even aware of my own physical body until later in my childhood,” he continued, getting expansive once again, as is his wont. “I feel like I was operating on this almost spectral, emotional level. [I've] always been wondering why I felt like such an alien.”

Like any other kid who tries to forge friendships through music, Wasif took in some of the legendary “generator” parties Southern California’s Inland Empire has become famous for – some of the same ones Josh Homme went to.

“I didn’t really have a connection to any of those musicians beyond the music, really,” Wasif stipulated. “I was going to see bands like Kyuss and Dwarves at this place called the Nudist Colony. [But] it was a completely amazing time for me, discovering that music … getting my first taste of punk rock and Minutemen and Dinosaur Jr.”

Before lighting the fire of his solo career with 2006’s Imaad Wasif, he found camaraderie with his bandmates in noisy combo lowercase and indie-rockers alaska! Also in the early ’00s, Lou Barlow – who has sung a thing or two about loneliness in Dino Jr. and Sebadoh – picked up on Wasif’s scent and tagged him to be part of his New Folk Implosion gang. They’ve teamed together regularly ever since.

From there, Wasif found himself caught in an even brighter limelight, when Yeah Yeah Yeahs welcomed him into their fold. Wasif’s plate stayed full last year, as he participated on YYY’s It’s Blitz!, Barlow’s Goodnight Unknown and the “Where the Wild Things Are” soundtrack, an indie-all-star release that also found members of Deerhunter, Liars and the Raconteurs rubbing elbows.

Which brings us to The Voidist, Wasif’s third solo outing – although it isn’t a purely solo record. On the effort, he’s supported by Melvin Dale Crover, Greg Burns of Red Sparowes note and others.

“The chemistry is what I feed off,” he said, “energy that can really just sustain you and then also completely change your perspective on things. That’s what I feel like the essence of a true musician is: to have that connection.”

Even with all those alliances, though, Wasif still finds himself battling “a great fear of falling into ego. … It’s not about me projecting what I want on people … and [controlling] the universe. The idea with music is stripping it all away. … It’s about connecting to raw, pure idea – energy, emotion – and making that be a sort of primal gut instinct, and to have that be the underlying essence of music.”

For someone as cerebral as Wasif, music can not only be a solution to ego-centrism but also an antidote to the forces of darkness themselves. As you’ve no doubt noticed by now, he does think in terms as grand as those.

“[There's] a natural human tendency to let darkness cast over the light,” he said. “And ultimately, you have to strive to reach the light.”

Assets:

Bad Penny MP3 download: “Priestess“

—

Go here to check out Double Dagger’s installment of “Meet and Greet.”
Go here to check out Cougar’s installment of “Meet and Greet.”

MINUTEMEN: THE CRUCIBLE

Chapter 14 PREVIEW: “Wind Sprints”

“This is Captain O’Shea,” the authoritative voice of the Captain crackled in everyone’s ear, “we’re out of time. Phantom’s on the move but we can’t get our vehicles out safely until the tank’s destroyed. Once we kill that Wraith we’ll only have about sixty seconds until the Phantom swings back around to check it out. Sixty seconds. That’s one minute get to your rally points before the Phantom’s back on station. Delta, you are cleared to engage. All other teams standby. Good luck.”

Gus tossed the now empty whiskey bottle over his shoulder and slipped his battered, olive green helmet over his short-cropped black hair. He inspected the magazine of his rifle once more and slapped it back into the weapon. The bar’s back door was already partially open, and the wind whistled through the opening in a high whine that contrasted sharply with the low, ground-shuddering hum of the unseen tank that waited for them in front of the building.

Tim McManus tried to ignore his shaking hands, hiding them by burying one in a pocket and the other seemingly casually draped over the barrel of his suppressed Battle Rifle. He glanced to the right and caught Rachel’s bright eyes locked on his gloved hands and realized the effort was for naught. She reached out her good arm, gave a supportive squeeze of Tim’s wrist, and nodded at him slightly. McManus took a deep breath as Reynolds clapped his hands together once and kept his eyes focused on the alley ahead.

“Delta Actual has eyes on the Wraith. Delta One-Two, found the sniper yet?”

“Do. Not. Stop.” Gus said with grave importance to the kids, eyes still locked on the open door. “Don’t look back until you reach your rally point.”

“Delta One-Two, hostile sniper acquired on the rooftop of blue restaurant across the street. Standing by.”

“You get lost, you activate your transponder and run some more.”

“Delta One-Three, in position by front door. Rockets ready, standing by.”

“Don’t linger in the open and don’t fire unless your life’s in danger.”

“Delta One-Two, clear to fire.”

“Firing.”

Despite the advance notice, Tim, Ron, and Rachel jumped as a loud crack split the air above them. Gus looked back over his shoulder one last time and opened his mouth to give one more piece of advice before being overruled by a flurry of Delta’s activity on the COM.

“Hostile down. Clear up.”

“Delta Actual, firing.”

“Delta One-Three, firing.”

From the kids’ position inside the bar’s kitchen, the distinct sounds of the human weapons all melded into a conglomeration of whooshes, splintering wood, back slapping concussive force, and the satisfying crunch of metal on metal that culminated in a high frequency shriek, a flash of bluish white against the bricks, and an echoing crash of the Wraith’s antigravity propulsion system suffering catastrophic failure. Tim could not help but notice the Master Guns’ grin on his face.

Captain O’Shea jumped on the COM immediately. “All teams go! Start the shot clock. One minute.”

“Don’t get separated!” Gus yelled, yanking the pin from the light gray cylinder and tossing it in a hard underhand throw toward the open street. “Stay with me!”

McManus was shocked at how fast the much larger noncom was. Despite hours of hard fighting in a city that was literally falling down around their ears, Reynolds showed no signs of fatigue, getting a good first step and launching himself into the tight, desolate alley behind the bar. Tim immediately slipped on a small, slick pool of blood and scrambled on all fours to leave the kitchen, only getting a moment to glance to his right as the other teams sprinted out in tight three man groups and leaped into their respective Warthogs. McManus could have sworn he heard a muffled laugh from Ron but pushed the thought from his mind, focusing only on moving as fast as possible to catch up with the rapidly shrinking form of Gus Reynolds.

“Hurry!” Rachel called after Tim, falling in stride with the sprinting Harvard Junior.

The agile Lynch did not waste a minute as they gained ground on the leader, taking Gus’ lead as he used a pile of discarded loading pallets to hurdle an overturned dumpster. The group leaped over the obstacle with excessive force, adrenaline supercharging their tired and muscles and sending Ron Parsons into a stumbling fall as he hit the ground. The lithe blonde sharpshooter cried out in pain and immediately bit his lip to stifle any further whining, cringing as Rachel and Tim took an instant to help him back up.

“Ok!” Ron wheezed, falling back in with the small squad. “This sucks…worse than the bar!”

McManus’ senses were now completely overloaded. Between the staccato bursts of weapons fire,  the autumn breeze whipping up foreign scents of a city left to die, and the horrible rumbling avalanche of bricks, steel, and glass signaling yet another building’s collapse, Tim could hardly bring his eyes to focus as his loose helmet bumped roughly against his forehead and fell in and out of his vision. In a fit of frustrated rage, McManus took his free hand and ripped off the offending protective covering, tossing it behind him with no small amount of satisfaction. He could hear his ragged breath over the pounding of his boots, and his chest felt like a blast furnace after so many miles of sprinting, jumping, and hiding. He had almost forgotten about the chorus of urgent bursts of soldiers’ voices in his headset, a reminder of the scene being played out behind and among the small group of survivors.

“Hostiles spotted on Comm Ave!”

“Bravo sees foot mobiles on Newbury! They’re swarming in!”

“Tim!”

In the midst of the chaos and swirling multicolored smoke filling the alley and streets, McManus had not thought of the possibility that enemy troops might have joined the battle from other directions. That possibility suddenly became a reality as streaks of green and blue light hurtled down the alley at the suddenly exposed humans. Gus Reynolds put his head down and hustled to cover, sprinting left to take position in a store’s loading bay before bellowing at the group over the cacophony of battle.

“On me!” He roared, firing blindly around the corner at the advancing ominous silhouettes in the smoke. “Cap, this is Master Guns! We got hostiles in the alleyway blocking our route!”

Through the rising, swirling mist of the smoke, a new color flew through the haze; a bright glowing pink energy that seemed trapped inside tiny crystal shards. Tim could not help but stare at them as they whizzed by him at incredible speed and gave off a curious high frequency sound. The former student felt inexplicably transfixed at the curious projectiles until the series of crystals suddenly veered off their straight path and directly into the left leg of a soldier still in the middle of the alley. He cried out in surprise and pain as the pink curiosities passed through his thin leg armor and embedded themselves in his thigh. McManus could only watch, jaw slack, as the enchanting objects then exploded in glass-like shards, tearing open the unlucky Marine’s leg and dropping him as he clutched the gaping wound.

“No!” Tim instinctively yelled, drawing Ron and Rachel’s attention away from Reynolds and back to the center of the alley. Without thinking, McManus ran toward the screaming soldier, firing his weapon haphazardly toward the Covenant and sliding on his knees to reach the writhing victim.

“Don’t!” Rachel screamed, eyes open wide in terror as she yelled over the deafening barrage. “Come back!”

Besides introducing me to Ryoji Ikeda, Miles also shares a love of one of the greatest records of all time. Thanks for the review Miles! (If you want to review something for ducksbattlesatan drop me a line at noiseisnice@gmail.com – only rule is – nothing lame)

Double Nickels on the Dime is pretty damn perfect. Odds are you’ve heard of this by now but if you haven’t heard this behemoth of an album you really owe it to yourself to go out and get it. With this Double Nickels, Minutemen produced one of the most ingenious, creative, and charming rock albums of the 80s. The album is sprawling too, covering way more styles and subjects than most punk bands would. I know a lot of people who were intimidated by the amount of songs on this. It varies by a couple tracks depending on which version you get, it’s always a little shocking at first, but always brilliant. It’s unbelievable, 44 songs in 70 minutes, but what’s even more amazing is that there really is almost no filler on this album. I can’t think of a single moment on this album where I felt a song sucked, they all kick ass. In a movement that got pretty stagnant in the 80s, Minutemen are a punk band that is incredibly versatile. “Anxious Mo-Fo” immediately shows this, the jazziness of bass lines, to the bluesy guitar solo at the end are unique for a punk band, and these traits shine throughout the entire album. It would be stupid to try and describe all of the songs on this album, but they’re all awesome. There’s a great sense of humor throughout the whole album that keeps it enjoyable throughout, and it helps make some of the more serious moments on the album feel that much more powerful. The shift from the amazing “Viet Nam” into the gentle Spanish guitar of “Cohesion” is completely unexpected, but it works somehow. Get this album if you don’t, and if you have it think about the last time you gave it a spin, check it out again. This is the kind of album where your favorite song changes every time you hear it, and with so many damn songs you’re going to find new things to love after countless plays.

These have all been my favorite song off Double Nickels at one point or another; I think everybody who listens to this album accumulates a list.

Dr. Wu

Corona

Don’t Look Now

Viet Nam

You Need the Glory

West Germany

***Start Securing The Voting Process NOW*** Comment: The Wizard @ Free Republic

Posted on Tuesday, December 22, 2009 5:33:01 AM by The Wizard

Now is the time to start securing the voting process,

because the enemies of America are already on the march to corrupt it and make it impossible to elect un-corrupt congress critters….

Worrying about health care now is one thing, but the biggest challange we really have, the one no one is talking about, is the voting process that uses SEIU, ACORN and other corrupting elements, (Poll site abuse by the Black Panthers) to make sure these enemies of America and democracy can never be removed…..

AMERICA YOU NEED TO WAKE UP and realize this is WAR

How much clearer must it be….I call on those Minutemen of old, and true partiots to start protecting the voting process and the courts who we are expected to get justice from because the enemies of America are hard at work with a Liar in chief in the oval office and his minions bought and paid for in the congress…just look at Reid and Peeeelosi…are these the people you want running your congress????

Just sayin’ is all.

Mike Watt, American bassist

I’ve been reading an article this cranky guy wrote about his problem with something called:

Camel case is the insertion of a capital letter in the body of a word rather than at the beginning. The last straw for him and the reason for writing the article, apparently, was a phrase or brand name he came across recently that employed not one, but two insertive capital letters. The author does not reveal the identity of the dromedary-cased phrase, ostensibly because it incenses him so much that he doesn’t want to acknowledge its existence.

He makes the case that without spaces between words, wegetconfusedandhavetoreadeverythingoutloud, and when we do that, we’re basically walking around muttering brand names (the most common camel-casers). I believe, however, that a CamelCasedPhraseIsNearlyTheSameAsAPhraseWithSpacesBetween
WordsAndThisGuyNeedsToFindSomethingElseToGetCrankyAbout. Besides Irishmen and computer programmers, I think I have Mike Watt of mINUTEMEN behind me on this. Maybe even e.e. cummings. Ah, look; it appears that the author has already turned his crankiness to steamboats. Thank you for seeing the light, CrankyAuthor.

Dolla

Nick Walker

Askew.

Askew with our car Betty Bee.

Mon.

Mon.

Mon.

Tatiana.

Dunce.

Dunce.

???

Pose.

Augor.

Ser2.

Shepard Fairey loves Meat Puppets and Minutemen like we do.

Shepard Fairey.

Shepard Fairey.

Daryll Peirce on the wall with Galo and The London Police.

Daryll Peirce with an airplane in the sky.

Daryll Peirce on the wall with Galo and Jim Darling.

(Click here for the main Primary Flight site.)

Same year, new season.  Tonight the Michigan State Spartans are hoping to hand the North Carolina Tar Heels their first defeat in a rematch from last April’s NCAA Title Game.  It will be another early season test for both teams.  After their loss to Florida last weekend, Michigan State bounced back the next day to defeat Massachusetts, but has dropped to #9 in the polls.  North Carolina is #11.  Should be an excellent game (I hope).  Go Green!

the title of this is not meant to guide you

the title of this is…

the rain beats down is a cliché

but it happens more often than you’d think

without the pre-requisite irony

smug postmodernism

or the angular haircut of false angry young man

in too tight t-shirts

• minutemen: tour spiel

Nineteen Eighty-nine was a miserable year to start teaching political science.  I mean, between Tiananmen  Square, the Fall of the Wall and the revolutions that swept Eastern Europe  it was  almost impossible to stay on syllabus.  (And, yes,  we of the professoriate are such a myopically focused breed that staying on syllabus, come hell or high collapse of communism,  is our greatest goal in life.  Except, of course, that we almost never manage to accomplish that simple task….).  Most of my students these days were not even alive when the wall fell. When I first started teaching I asked myself “How do I explain a political world to students who weren’t around for Nixon?”.  Now they weren’t around for Reagan—or the Soviet Union and the Cold War.   Listening to all the celebrations and reminiscences of the Cold War and its end in the media the past week or two has come with a sense of nostalgia, therefore, for people of my generation.  Oddly enough, of all the history and factoids about the wall discussed on CNN and NPR one in particular–one particularly relevant,  I feel, for someone living in San Diego on the nation’s southern border—was the real, immediate human toll the wall claimed. 

Historians estimate between one hundred and two hundred people died ttrying to go over the Wall in its twenty-eight years, one hundred to two hundred people who gave their lives from a chance at freedom, at liberty and at a better life, plain and simple.  Over the last fifteen years, meanwhile, estimates of the number of people who have died attempting to cross over from Mexico into the United States  range from two thousand to six thousand.  That is a death rate ten times greater than the Berlin Wall’s—twenty times greater in a yearly average of mortality.

And what did those two to six thousand people die for? A chance for greater freedom, greater liberty and at a better life, plain and simple. 

In the scheme of human history the United States stands out as the one place  that thousands of people have died trying to get into.  That is the greatest distinction between this society and all the despotisms and tyrannies that have dominated so much of mankind for so long.  The day people stop dying to come here is the day American Exceptionalism dies as well. Which is something all of us should keep in mind whenever America’s attention drifts back from healthcare, war and recession to more prosaic matters of hundreds of people dying each year on our own border, our reverse Berlin Wall.

In my more neofascist moments I ask myself, if we really want to build a lean, mean American fighting machine that can take on the world, who do we want living here?  A bunch of whining faux patriots screaming  that since they were born here by random genetic luck they actually deserve the blessings of liberty more than anyone else who wasn’t born here, even if they themselves have done nothing of note nor paid no sacrifice of value to get those blessings?  People like most of those beer-bellied, baseball cap wearing faux Patriot Minutemen sitting on beaten up old lawn chairs beside beaten up old  RVs scanning the border for illegal aliens while chugging Coors.  (Side note: when I see people camping outside of nuclear power plants  in protests for weeks on edge or sitting by the border of binoculars, I’ve got to ask:  Don’t these clowns have jobs and responsibilities?”.  But I digress.)

Orrrrr,  if you want a strong, exceptional America would you rather have a citizenship composed of people who were willing to cross hundreds of miles of scalding desert or hundreds of miles of shark-infested waters on driftwood rafts, risking body and soul to do so? Forget “Send me your tired, poor, huddled masses yearning to be free.”  The real motto of this country for three centuries has been “Send me your risk takers, your courageous, your dreamers willing to lay it on the line for a better life.”

So how about this: let’s take everyone  in America when they turn eighteen and drop them ninety miles off Florida or smack dab in the middle of the California desert and, if they make it to shore or to LA alive , we meet them, shake their hands and say “Welcome to America,  Citizen.” Or at least the Minutemen.  (Now THAT would be a great reality show:  “Survivor: American Citizenship Edition.”)

 Or at least let us acknowledge that those two to six thousand people who’ve died on our southern borders are every bit as much a testament to and martyrs for the same concepts of hope and freedom as those brave souls who perished going over that hideous wall.

1. Minutemen – Double Nickels On The Dime
2. Hüsker Dü – Zen Arcade
3. Black Flag – Damaged
4. Dinosaur Jr. – You’re Living All Over Me
5. Sonic Youth - Sister
6. Meat Puppets – II
7. Saccharine Trust – We Became Snakes
8. Bad Brains – I Against I
9. fIREHOSE – if’n
10. Descendents – Milo Goes To College

NP: Califone – All My Friends Are Funeral Singers