As I Walk These Broken Roads (37 page)

* * *

Phillips had noticed the fire extinguisher bolted to the wall immediately upon entering the platform. As s
oon as he saw it things clicked;
he knew what Wentworth was planning, but
he didn’t have
a chance to say anything
before
the man’s round had screamed through the smoke and into the container of pressurized gas. It had been all Phillips could do to dive for cover as it exploded, sending shrapnel everywhere.

Now two of his men were dead, a third dying. He’d grabbed the machine gun off the dying one and vaulted down to the tracks. He’d fired for a good five or six seconds, raking it back and forth across the tunnel, before releasing the trigger. Exposed as he was he didn’t dare turn on the flashlight to see if he’d hit anyone. They’d need to regroup and keep going.

Steele
had dragged the dying gunner to cover and was administering first aid, while the other three took up covering positions. Phillips could already see that the first aid would be useless; one of the dead had been their medic. To their credit, none of his troops looked phased. Two, soon to be three, of their brothers were dead, but they’d deal with their emotions later. Right now there was work to be done.

They regrouped quickly, though it took longer than Phillips would have liked, then arrayed themselves along the tunnel and started moving. Ahead the next platform glowed, a garbage can fire had been kicked over and the chamber was easily visible. They jogged, not wanting to waste time, trying to deny any advantage to Wentworth and his cohort.

At the last platform there’d been had tracks running along either side; here, the tracks came together and there were two platforms.
The kicked-
over barrel was on their left, but he decided to hedge his bet and split their force – three on the left, three on the right. They climbed up while he covered them. They were still cautious and sharp, f
luid, taking the area in stages, stay
ing behind whatever cover they could find. The boar
ding-
area was clear. Their quarry would be above, by the ticket booths.

* * *

Raxx remembered this area. The stairs came up on either sides of the tunnel, and the platform was huge, shops littering both side of the rotunda. Above it was a semi-circular balcony, leading towards the exits, and looking down on the subway stairwells. They were up on it now, crouched in the shadows with their weapons trained. Wentworth had called it the fatal funnel. This was where they were going to end it.

The minutes stretched on. It was dark. Only the barest hints of red, flickering light reached them. Finally they heard sounds from below. Wentworth’s hands were sweating, he opened and closed his right before putting it back on the pistol grip. Phillips was being cautious.

A glint of black in the stairwell. He and Raxx opened fire. The gong of a grenade launcher. Raxx was already running, as planned, after firing a short burst. Wentworth dove to the side, rolling onto his stomach and bringing his rifle up. A piece of shrapnel pinged off his helmet as he started firing back down into the stairwell. Raxx had circled around the balcony and was going down the service stairs. Without exposing himself, the grenadier lobbed a second grenade. This one exploded against the ceiling. Wentworth ducked again. This time he couldn’t tell what showered his body, bits of
concrete
or shrapnel, but he still seemed to be okay. He rolled back from the edge and played dead.

“Move!”
came the shout from below. The Section tried to bypass the stairwell
as quickly as possible, but t
he troop guarding their six was too slow. By this time Raxx had snuck down the service stairs, and was crouched at the back end. His shotgun chugged as he held down the trigger. The muzzle flash lit his face white, casting shadows on his eye sockets and making the hairs of his goatee s
tick out like a thousand threatening needle
s
. His piercings glowed viciously.

A
s
Raxx fired,
Wentworth stood up and started snap-shooting into the stairwell. Raxx backed off and Wentworth switched to fully automatic. That’s when he saw the movement on the second stairwell. He switched his point of aim, but it wasn’t enough. “Raxx, get down!”

The Mechanic never heard him.

He fell backwards, the strength going out of his knees and his weapon flailing, as the newspaper box behind him exploded into plastic shards
, under a barrage of fire from the second stairwell
. He
hit
the ground, limp.

Hot lead built up in Wentworth’s eyes to match the seeping from his leg. It was just too much. He hadn’t expected the second stairwell
– how had he missed the second stairwell? –
and now Phillips had traversed it, taking cover in the far corner. It was too much. Exchanging fire with his old brothers – with
Steele
– and then the death of his only friend –

An idiotic idea occurred to him. His head was already swimming with vertigo. It wouldn’t matter, then. He rolled off the mezzanine
into the empty air
.

The world swu
ng
sickeningly. There they were, crouched, two meters apart, weapons still trained on Raxx’s corpse. He aimed the rifle between his legs and fired – the soldier with the rifle fell.

The concrete struck him; shocks through his body.

Phillips was holding a machinegun, still frozen in surprise. Wentworth was seeing double. Phillips reacted.

They pulled their triggers simultaneously. Phillips’ shots went wide. Wentworth’s didn’t. The four round burst pushed his weapon upwards, leaving a trail of punctures on Phillips’ body. The machinegun flew from the man’s hands, shot several more rounds, then stopped. It hit the ground with its ammo belt jingling.

Their fire echoed
up and
down the corridors in heavy pulses
, fading
. Then there was silence.

Wentworth bent his knees, and tried to stand up. His body ached. There were no stabbing pains, though. With any luck he hadn’t broken a bone. With ones hand under him he managed to sit up. He tried to stand – his right leg was numb, stiff. He blinked away tears, unsure if they were for his leg or for his friend, and forced himself up. Rifle tucked into his armpit, he stumbled over to the bodies of Phillips and his soldier.

They weren’t a threat anymore. Off behind him, Raxx wasn’t a threat
,
either.

He stumbled over to the first stairwell. One of the grenadiers lay there, his body silent, weapon fallen down to the lower level. Taking a deep breath he moved over to the other stairwell, the one Raxx had pelted with his full-auto burst. The stairwell where he’d killed people. Raxx’s final action.

Two more bodies. They were
lying
on top of one another.

He saw the glint of an eye and dropped. A brief muscle movement from one of the bodies, firing a shot from a long gun. His rifle barked in response, on target to the threat. The enemy’s round missed him as his own split open a forearm.

A high pitched shriek. He looked down at the face, a rictus of pain, as she tried to hold her shredded arm. It was
Steele
.

He
put down
his rifle, and moved down the stairs, leg still numb, sliding his ass from step to step. By the time he reached her she’d quieted, though her breathing was laboured. The steps were soaked with blood.

He looked at her. Her eyes were frantic with pain, but deep within them, there she was, looking back. He gasped a breath. “You were a hell of a kisser,” he said

“Yeah,” she panted back, cradling her pink and white flesh, “You weren’t so bad yourself, Iain.”

Her eyes hadn’t changed much.

“You know you
were
my
first
, Rach.”

“Yeah... you
were my first too
... that night.”

“Yeah. That was a good night.” He moved swiftly, before she had a chance to protest. He pulled out his pistol and shot her. Her eyes canted backwards, as if looking at the wound
in her
forehead
. Then she fell forward and was still.

He breathed out a shuddering breath. It was hard to believe. “They’re all dead...”

All of them. Hot tears... Rachel
Steele
lay in front of him, shredded and pathetic. The reflected firelight diffused idiotically. Her rictus was too wide, and her neck’s angle was
all wrong
. He kept thinking about the pitcher-and-a-half of beer that Phillips owed him. He
lifted his goggles and
wiped salty wetness, and thought about the Mechanic’s sacrifice.

Silence and bodies.
Steele
was dead. Raxx was dead. His one-time lover, and his only friend
left
on E
arth. “They’re all dead...”

“Yeah, they are.”

His pistol snapped up. He didn’t have the strength to hold it with both hands, his left
was
steadying
him on the stairs, but his aim didn’t waiver.

“Whoa, relax man, it’s me.”

He blinked a couple times before lowering the weapon. “How the hell are you still alive?”

Raxx grinned, “Well, my momma always said; when somebody says duck, you’d best damn-well duck, boy!”

* * *

Master Corporal Shaffer was sucking air and coughing up blood. The dressing on his chest had come loose, and air was entering
the
cavity and collapsing his lung. It hurt with a deep, low pain. He just couldn’t hold the dressing in place anymore. The tourniquet tied around his arm was keeping him from bleeding out, but it had also made his hand go numb.

Part of him was detached, morbidly
fascinated by
how much pain he was feeling. Each breath felt like a knife stabbing him in the chest, his arm tingled as if a frost-fire were consuming it, while his uninjured legs felt warm and fuz
zy. Beneath him the cement was
cold. It was odd, he thought, how the pain was making his eyes bulge open. His good hand kept trying to grab something, anything, but it was too weak. He could barely lift it.

He couldn’t remember how long he’d been here. He couldn’t tell if the ambient glow was from the fire he’d seen earlier, or if it was just the red haze of pain. Suddenly the light changed. Yellow lines swept across him and a face swung into view. Sergeant Iain Wentworth. Behind transparent goggles the man looked down sadly, a pity that Shaffer felt he deserved. His accomplice stood behind him, indifferent and wrapped in shadows
, with several weapons slung across his back
. They’d looted the rest of
the
Section. The
others would all
be dead. “Traitor…” he said.

Wentworth’s lips moved, but his words travelled as if through deep water. “I’m no traitor. It’s the CO and his officers who are traitors. They betrayed all of us.” He continued speaking, but the details were lost, and Shaffer didn’t feel like arguing. Then he said something else; he was offering to end it. Shaffer’s wounds were going to kill him, he said.

“No…” his voice croaked. He could barely speak, barely think. If his life was over then it was over, but before he died he was going to suck up every last bit of it. This might be all he had left but he’d make the most of it. “Light…” it was difficult to speak. “Sun…” Wentworth and his friend looked at each other. They spoke but he couldn’t make out the words.

Putting down the looted kit, they picked him up by the shoulders. It hurt, but everything hurt, so he didn’t mind.
Between them, t
hey carried him up to the surface.

It was funny, he thought, how he wasn’t angry at Wentworth for doing this to him. He hadn’t forgiven him; Wentworth was still his enemy.
He’d carry that to the grave – t
he thought almost made him laugh – but still
,
he felt no bitterness.

A memory came to him then. His first girlfriend, what was her name? She was in the Service Battalion when she died. He remembered how it felt the first time he’d slid his hand up her shirt and cupped her breasts through the training bra. They’d kissed for hours but he’d been too nervous to touch the nipple with his fingers, the hard nub had been pressing into the palm of his hand while his fingers played with the straps.

By the time Raxx and Wentworth reached the surface Master Corporal Schaffer was dead.

The sun had returned.