The Other Side (11 page)

The
red cascade of taillights ahead of me signals the end of my getaway attempt. Two armored personnel carriers barricade the highway, forcing everybody to exit at Union Avenue.

I'm soon surrounded by hundreds of All-Blacks. The majority usher civilians from buildings. Dozens more direct traffic with machine guns or batons, turning us until we're headed north. I search for escape paths, but APCs and tanks block the major intersections, cop cruisers the smaller ones.

Though I'm but another black car in a black sea of activity, I feel like I'm the centerpiece in a giant funeral procession. And it's not just the soldiers peering through the windows of my Prius hearse. Other drivers, their passengers, the growing herd of pedestrians. All of them can see
me; most of them probably know me. The knit cap tugged low over my ears and the sunglasses obscuring half my face are insufficient shields to the thousands of eyes out there.

Our funeral crawls past tightly packed buildings that crowd the road. I keep my chin tucked to my chest, partly to obscure my face, partly to examine the emap on my lap. I look for an alley or a covered parking lot to hide in.

“Remain on the path,” a bullhorn-amplified voice yells.

“Failure to comply will result in a heavy fine.”

“Follow directions. Move along. The faster you comply, the faster we finish this exercise.”

I peek up and see several college kids in Urbana-Champaign sweatshirts sitting on a bus bench, arms linked. Three A-Bs gesture at them with batons. An argument ensues. It ends quickly, with the soldiers arresting them.

I look around, notice more people in handcuffs. I wipe the sweat from my palms, crack my window. Behind the sound of sirens and more bullhorn commands, I hear people chanting antimilitary riffs, which the A-Bs ignore as long as everybody follows their orders.

Those who don't follow orders are brought to heel with batons, pepper spray, and handcuffs. A few people have attempted to slip free during these dustups. So far, nobody's made it.

I need a bigger distraction. . . .

Waiting for my opportunity, I watch another scuffle break out on the sidewalk. An A-B clocks a sitting Mohawked man until he stumbles to his feet; a second cuffs him. The bullhorn bellows for order, warns people to behave. Half a block ahead, soldiers quarrel with a group that refuses to vacate a Starbucks.

Somebody shrieks behind me. In my rearview mirror, an old man dressed in a hideous pinstripe red suit swings his cane at A-Bs herding him and others from an Italian restaurant.

The nearest A-B kicks away the cane and puts Old Man in handcuffs. The two women accompanying him, his daughter and granddaughter, I'm guessing, attempt to backtrack to retrieve his cane. Soldiers intervene.

“Remain on the path!” the bullhorn orders.

Granddaughter argues with an A-B, Daughter smacks another one. They're handcuffed, too.

Without his cane, Old Man has trouble keeping up, and on the far side of the causeway that separates the restaurant from a clothing shop, he collapses onto a bench. When he ignores an A-B's order to rise, the soldier jerks Old Man to his feet, grabs hold of an arm, and drags him along at a hitching gait. Old Man grimaces and yelps, but the soldier doesn't care.

Others do. They shout curses at the A-Bs. Several form a
wall, blocking the way.

The bullhorn crackles. “Move along or you will be prosecuted!”

The protesters remain steadfast. A soldier draws his pistol and raises it overhead. When nobody budges, he fires a warning shot. A second soldier pepper sprays them. More A-Bs charge in with batons, but none of those from my vicinity.

Time's running out.

I look at Old Man, who's slipped free of his A-B escort during the commotion. He's leaning against the wall of a storefront, hands on his knees. He's flustered, short of breath, and not at all deserving of what I'm about to do to him.

I whisper an apology, then shout, “Watch out! Old Man's got a knife!”

The nearest A-B whacks Old Man with a baton, sending him to the ground. The surrounding protestors ignite and swarm the soldier. Several more attack his buddies. The A-Bs directing traffic race over to help.

I pull to the side of the road, snatch the map, and slip out the car door. In a low crouch, I scuttle between vehicles, working my way back toward the causeway that splits the restaurant and clothing shop. Behind me, gunshots erupt, these from machine guns. Someone cries out.

Everything escalates from there. I can't see anything
from my position between two SUVs, but I can hear it all. Car alarms and panicked honking and feral shouts intermingle with dragon sirens and bullhorn yells and trilling gunfire.

And above everything, the screams, though I'm not sure all of them are real.

I break cover and dash into the causeway. There's a micro park to my left, a few benches to my right, but nowhere to hide. Ahead of me, an access road separates the causeway from an empty parking lot.

I scurry forward, am almost to the road, when I hear voices coming from around the corner. I back into the shadows of the restaurant facade and press myself against the wall. Two A-Bs go running by, the sun reflecting off their scale-covered helmets.

Keeping a tight grip on my Beretta, I edge to the corner. I can see a building adjacent to the parking lot. It's either an apartment or a dorm complex. If it's the latter, it'll have a dragon shelter, which means the A-Bs won't search it. One gigantic, flashing problem. A cop cruiser blocks the end of the access road, no more than twenty feet away from the building.

I peek around the corner to check the other direction. The road curves out of sight, but that's where those two soldiers came from.

The riot's dwindling. A couple of stray gunshots still
echo, a few moans penetrate the whir of sirens, but that's it.

“. . . are aware that several people responded to this drill inappropriately,” the bullhorn speaker is saying. “Anybody found hiding will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. Return of your own free will, and we will be forgiving. Remain on the path. Do not make us tell you again.”

I'm about to freak out when I notice the five-foot-high brick wall ten or so feet to my right. It's behind that Italian restaurant. Dumpster!

I push myself over the wall on my second try, am thrilled to discover that the Dumpster's enclosed on all sides. I tuck the Beretta into my waistband, lift the Dumpster lid, and make myself cozy in days-old food discards.

Soon I hear a male voice and two sets of approaching footsteps. I sink lower, keeping one hand on my gun, the other over my mouth.

As they come closer, I discern words. “Yes, sir.” Pause. “No, sir.” Pause. They pass in front of the Dumpster. “Right away, sir.”

“What's up?” another voice asks.

“Cap says we gotta hump uptown.”

A groan. “More babysitting?”

“Ground support.”

“Good. You see that damn trust-fund hippie who tried to get his swag on with me? Put his ass in place.”

“Yeah.”

“Little punk bastards.”

“They do think it's a drill. . . .”

Their footfalls dwindle. They continue to talk, but I'm no longer paying attention.

“They do think it's a drill!”

If it is a real attack, where are the dragons? Where are the dragon jets? Where're the fire and the death? I don't know, but they must be coming this way. And if they're coming this way, to a city like Chicago, with its advanced dragon defense system, that can mean only one thing.

Oren and his Greens.

I want to flee, want to become light and speed far away from the scent of putrid tomatoes. But I can't. Not until the soldiers and cops have evacuated the area.

I prop open the Dumpster lid with a to-go box to let some light in. As I examine my map for the best route out of this nightmare, I listen to the thrum of cars and the echo of bullhorns, I listen to the dragon sirens, but mostly I listen for the dragons.

When
Mom died, I figured that was the end of her life. But Keith, her army copilot for several years, visited often, providing Sam, Dad, and me with hundreds of new memories.

Like the time she briefed her flight crew an hour before they launched on their mission to Denver. The city was under siege by a fleet of Reds. Straight-faced, she handed out
Playboy
s and ordered everyone to “alleviate their nerves.”

That was the first half of the story, one of Sam's favorites. One of Dad's, too. But right now it's the second half of the story that most resonates.

When they arrived in Denver, not much was left but ashes.

“Destruction and death everywhere you turned,” Keith said. “But the worst things were the dragon sirens. Many
of them still blared throughout the city. But they sounded different. . . . Humanity's got an echo. In Denver, that echo was gone.”

It seemed profound to my fifteen-year-old mind, humanity echoing, though I never fully understood what he meant. And up until a couple minutes ago, a part of me wondered how that could be worse than thousands of scorched corpses.

Now, with the bullhorns and the vehicles gone, and nothing but the sirens blasting into forever, I hear the emptiness. And as I crawl from the Dumpster and climb over the wall, I understand.

Here, on the vacant streets of a massive metropolis, I'm the only person left on the earth.

I emerge from the causeway, expecting to find blood and bodies from the riot—the precursor to the apocalypse. I am relieved when I discover only rubber bullets and a few other silent hideaways scurrying for vehicles. Citations flutter beneath windshield wipers, but I don't see any boots on tires. Must not have had time.

I warn the people about the impending attack.

“They would have run something on the emergency alert system,” a man says.

“The A-Bs would have told us,” another says, though at least he glances skyward.

“If you thought so, why didn't you go to the shelter?” a
woman asks, then sucks hard on her cigarette.

“Shelters might not be safe,” I say. “Get out of Chicago.”

I sprint back down the street, find the Prius. I hop in and floor it. A few blocks down, as I'm about to make a left turn and head west until I can't anymore, I spot five people handcuffed to a long bike rack on the sidewalk. If not for the red suit among all the black, I probably wouldn't have noticed them.

Old Man's laid out, unmoving. Daughter and Granddaughter tend to him. The other two, wearing Urbana-Champaign sweatshirts and bruises on their faces, are rattling their handcuffs. When they see me stopped in the intersection, they wave for help.

Shit.

I park the car and hurry over.

The shorter boy gives me a tremulous smile. “Wouldn't happen to have a hacksaw with you?”

I ignore him and nod at Old Man. “Is he okay?”

“He's unconscious,” Daughter says. “We tried to call 911, but our signal's down.”

“Bastards went straight gangsta on his head with their bully sticks,” says the other boy. “Thought he had a knife. Dude's rockin' a cane. He was in freakin' handcuffs.”

“I'm not sure if this'll work, but I've got a gun,” I say, which draws worried looks from the women and impressed ones from the guys.

“A lady packin'. I like that. What dorm you at?” Shorty says.

“Quiet. Hold still.” I place the muzzle against the chain that connects his handcuffs to the bike rack.

Shorty's smile evaporates. “On second thought, maybe I'll wait for the scale chasers to come back.”

“This isn't a drill,” I say. “I overheard a couple soldiers talking. Dragons are coming.”

Shorty nods several times, excited for some reason. “No wonder they were so amped. Never seen them like that about a drill. Freakin' scale chasers.”

“K-Dawg was saying something about a cover-up,” the other boy adds. “He heard some background chatter on the military channels. . . .”

“You're wrong,” Daughter says. “They wouldn't leave us here.”

“Classic scale-chaser misdirection,” Shorty says. “Rumors were starting. They wanted to put a damper on it. Tied us up to prove it is a drill.”

“So they'll come back for us, right?” Granddaughter asks, glancing at Old Man.

“For sure,” Shorty says.

“Look around you. They're not coming back. Hold still now.”

“No, no, they'll come back. They wouldn't ditch out on
us,” Shorty says, pushing at my leg. The others agree with him.

There's no time to argue. I remove my cap and ruffle my hair until they can see the scar from the CENSIR.

“The military doesn't give a damn about you,” I say, amazed my voice comes out strong.

I wait for Shorty to recognize me, but it's Granddaughter who speaks up. “You're that executioner girl from K.D.”

Now they're all squinting at me. Realization dawns on Shorty's face. “What the hell are you doing in Chicago? You part of this attack?” Again, the idiot sounds more excited than worried.

The dragon sirens cut out for a message.

“Thirty Greens inbound from Milwaukee. Headed south at full flame. Seek shelter immediately.”

The sirens pick back up again, halting every few seconds to repeat the warning.

“Thirty!” Granddaughter's face drains of what little color it had.

“Milwaukee's ninety miles north of here,” Daughter says.

“How fast do dragons fly?” Shorty asks, all excitement gone.

“Lot faster than you,” I say.

Shorty extends his cuffed arm as far from the bike rack as it'll reach. “What are you waiting for, dragon girl?”

I shoot. Shorty lurches to the ground with a cry. As the gunshot echoes through the emptiness, I examine the links. The bullet didn't leave a mark, except for the one on Shorty's face from shrapnel spray.

“Try again,” he says, eyes on the sky, unaware of or unconcerned about the blood running down his cheek.

The others slide down the rack as far as they can. I back the gun away a foot. Shorty covers his face with his free arm.

Three empty clips later, the handcuff links are barely dented, dozens of gunships and drones are flying in to form a perimeter around downtown Chicago, and Granddaughter's crying. She goes hysterical when I tell them I'm going to get a bigger gun from the car. “You can't leave us. You can't leave us!”

“I'm not leaving you,” I say.

I'm turning around when Shorty clutches at my ankle with his free hand. “Don't leave. Please.”

“I'm not leaving. I promise.” I pull free and scurry to the Prius.

I start the car. Their pleas turn to yells and their yells turn to shrieks as I roll away. I crank up the radio, which plays the emergency message on every station. A block away. Two blocks. Three. They're beyond sight now, but I can still see their eyes, still hear their voices. Louder than everything.

“You can't abandon us here!”

“Please!”

“Don't let us die!”

A block later, the emergency message updates. “Greens incoming. Seek shelter.”

I keep the accelerator floored. Buildings and stoplights blur by. I'm nearing ninety when the opera of war ignites. Missiles scream toward the heavens; artillery and explosions provide the accompanying drumbeats.

I glance north, toward the cacophony. The military doesn't seem to be firing at dragons. They're creating a giant black cloud in, around, and over downtown Chicago. Gunships and drones circle the expanding nebula.

A honk pulls my attention back to the street. A car's speeding right for me. As I swerve out of the oncoming lane, the driver flashes his lights. There's a concrete barricade several blocks ahead. Soldiers patrol the other side. A few notice me and raise their machine guns. Doubt these contain rubber bullets.

I hit the brakes and cut the wheel a sharp left onto a street that stretches to the horizon, but it's also blocked by a barricade. No soldiers, though. There are a few cars in the area, parked haphazardly, doors flung wide. I screech to a halt and leap out of the Prius.

I glance back. The blackness has swallowed Chicago, extending inland from Lake Michigan and reaching high
enough to block the afternoon sun. The artillery and missiles continue to fire into it. The drones have disappeared, and the gunships dive in and out at regular intervals.

On the other side of the barricade, I search for a car, find a Ford Explorer at the second intersection. The driver door's open, the thumbprint scanner that controls ignition has been smashed. Wires dangle from beneath the steering column. I click a couple of bare ends together, but I have no clue what I'm doing.

I'm sprinting toward the next abandoned car when I hear the roars. I look over my shoulder. A gout of blue fire erupts from the black haze, chasing a gunship. A Green the size of a semi bursts into the open and corkscrews left in hot pursuit. The helicopter banks up to avoid the flames, only to be incinerated by a second dragon exiting the cloud.

More gunships fall, more dragons emerge. Five, ten, fifteen . . .

They spread out, descend to rooftop level, their carpets of flame unrolling in parallel swaths, igniting everything they touch. At full speed, they will reach me in a matter of minutes.

I reach the car, an older model. Someone has already shattered the driver's-side window, ripped the visors loose, and trashed the storage compartments. I spend too many seconds looking for keys anyway.

I'm exiting the next useless car when I hear a rumble of rolling thunder. A flock of dragon jets blisters by overhead. A hundred, maybe more.

The Greens roar and move to engage. They send a tidal wave of fire hurtling across the sky. The jets counter with an armada of missiles. The sky splits apart in a thunderous explosion, forcing me to shield my eyes.

When the light settles, eight dragons remain, but they're retreating north. The jets pursue.

No, I am no dog to cower with tail between legs.
The guttural voice is loud and angry inside my head. The largest Green does a sharp backflip, then incinerates two jets and rockets past the others.

You cannot leash Thog!
he declares between torrents. He swerves up, down, sideways, crashing through buildings, slicing through trees, on a flaming roller coaster of destruction ever southward. Toward me. Toward Old Man and his family and those two college boys.

Jets chase Thog, but he's too erratic for their missiles.

Thirty dragons were too much.

But now there is only one.

I run. Back between the concrete slabs of the barricade and into the Prius. I'm making a three-point turn when Grackel enters my head.

Do not do this, Melissa.

“I have to,” I say, gunning it.

You do not even know if they are in danger.

I honk the horn to the rhythm Mom used on her final ride. Thog doesn't notice. Grackel somehow does.

Do not discredit your mother's memory with this foolishness, human. She wanted to save you.

“Then she would understand. As should you,” I say aloud, and send her my mental picture of her broken tail.

That was different. I knew I would escape,
Grackel says.
I am old, you are not. Do not do this. Please.

“Kill emotion, dragon,” I say fondly. “Look after Baby for me.”

Thog weaves in and out of view between two high-rises, then drills through a third, which collapses behind him. He must have lost his rider, which makes him blind in all this blackness.

I resume honking.

Where are you?
Thog sweeps his head back and forth in wide arcs, his scythe of fire slicing across three city blocks.
Where are you? Talk to me, you treacherous human!

I don't understand what he means by that second part, but I oblige and orient him to my location.

Thog tightens his wings and accelerates for an attack run. I take the nearest right, honking and providing directions the entire time. He appears in the rearview mirror, a
flying freight train of annihilation. His gold-eyed headlights hone in on me; the flames come.

Fiery tongues lick at the car. Sweat soaks me. If I can keep Thog on the straight long enough, the jets can lock in and bring him down. Old Man, his family, those two college boys will be safe.

And I will die. For the first time in forever, I am at peace. I know what I'm doing is right.

Go left!
Grackel screams.

Her voice so startles me that I obey on instinct and jerk the wheel that way. But I'm going too fast. As the car flips, I notice a couple of things.

Foremost, another Green in front of me.

Second, the banshee wail of a nearby missile.

The world becomes a tumbling mess of blacks and Greens as vicious roars thunder all about.

Then it ends.