Paulius sighted in, breathed out and squeezed the trigger. The woman’s head snapped back as her body fell forward — dead before she hit the ground. The man saw this, slowed. Paulius squeezed off another shot. The man spun right, left hand clutching at his shoulder.
The big diesel roared again. Engine 98 drove over the fallen roll-up door and smashed past the bus.
Paulius spun to the right, aimed and fired. The man coming from the east doubled over, fell face-first onto the snowy sidewalk.
Paulius sprinted for the fire truck, which was already turning left onto Chicago Avenue. He hopped up on the rear b.u.mper, then scrambled into the hose-lined bed. He stayed low, picking targets as he went.
So many of them … coming so fast …
He didn’t need to give Bosh instructions. The man had been given one clear objective: get back to the others as fast as possible, don’t stop for anything.
Paulius dropped two more bad guys before Engine 98 turned north on Mies van der Rohe Way. He faced forward. The cab’s roof topped out at his sternum, giving him excellent protection from the front while still providing a full range of fire.
He heard Bosh’s voice in his headset: “Commander, you might want to hold tight. It’s about to get violent.”
Up ahead, Paulius saw a line of cars set up b.u.mper-to-b.u.mper, blocking the street. He ducked down, wedged himself between the back of the cabin and the water cannon’s metal post. On the inside wall of the pa.s.senger-side tool box that ran the length of the bed, he saw a red fire axe held firmly in a bracket. If he ran out of ammo, it might come down to using that.
Bosh floored the gas. Engine 98 responded, picking up speed. The wide, flat, front metal b.u.mper hit first, bashing a BMW to the left and a Ford truck to the right.
“Ho-leee s.h.i.t,” Bosh said. “You see that f.u.c.ker fly?”
Paulius rose, looked for targets — there was no shortage, as Converted popped up on either side of the road, in building windows, just about everywhere he looked.
Aim, fire. Aim, fire.
The fire engine clipped the front of a UPS truck, spinning the delivery vehicle in a full three-sixty.
Aim, fire. Aim, fire.
The engine whined as Bosh shifted gears. He tried to weave through the obstacles as well as he could, but there were just too many cars. Engine 98 smashed into an old Buick, tearing the rear end clean off.
Aim, fire.
It was working. They were just a few blocks away from the clothing store.
Paulius thumbed his “talk” b.u.t.ton, hoping the short-range comms would work this far out.
“Klimas to Roth. Klimas to Roth, over?”
Roth’s voice came back almost immediately: “I read you, Commander.”
“Pack ’em up, Roth. Extraction in three minutes!”
BIG AND DANGEROUS
Steve Stanton’s fingers squeezed tighter on the cell phone.
“A fire truck? McMasters, what the f.u.c.k are you talking about?”
“Spotters reported it just now,” McMasters said. He was at a garage closer to downtown, preparing another group to flee the city. His voice sounded like he was about to hyperventilate. “The spotters said a guy in a Cubs hat was driving, but I think it’s a soldier who survived the attack.”
Robert McMasters was normally a smart man. He’d kept the city’s power running, kept the water pumps working, made sure that Chicago didn’t flood. He’d kept the city functioning mostly as it had before the awakening. But while he could handle problems that involved inanimate objects and mechanical systems, he clearly didn’t do so well when the situation involved men with guns.
“Emperor, did you hear me? A fire truck! They’re trying to get away!”
“Be quiet,” Steve said. “I’m thinking.”
He set the phone against his shoulder. He glanced around the munic.i.p.al garage where Brownstone, G.o.d rest her soul, had gathered sixty vehicles. Doctor-General Jeremy Ellis stood there, looking afraid for his life as he always did. Jeremy was organizing thirty-one cars, eighteen trucks, three city buses, four motorcycles, and even three snowplows for the exodus. The snow-plows’ big, heavy scoops would let them rip right through the endless abandoned cars, allowing Steve’s people to spread south, east and west.
A fire truck was also big, also heavy … heavy enough to smash through the thinner roadblocks. But if it was just a couple of soldiers, and they were clever enough to have lived this long, why wouldn’t they just walk out instead of letting a city know where they were?
… because a fire engine was also big enough to carry pa.s.sengers.
… and because Cooper Mitch.e.l.l’s body still hadn’t been found.
Steve put the phone back to his ear. “Where is this fire engine?”
“Heading west on Walton,” McMasters said.
Steve looked at Ellis. “Get me Jeff Brockman, and three more bulls. And guns, get me some guns.”
Jeremy nodded and ran off to comply.
“McMasters,” Steve said into the phone, “I want that truck stopped. Send everyone. I want it destroyed!”
THE MOTIVATIONAL SPEECH
Tim Feely had never fired a weapon in his life. Now his life might very well depend on the M4 rifle he held in his hands.
At least it was more efficient than a chunk of concrete.
He stood at the top of the wide stairs, watching Roth carry Ramierez down to the ground floor. Ramierez cradled a sleek, black shotgun, his weak fingers barely gripping the stock and the pump handle.
“Move him easy,” Tim called. “Be as gentle as you can.”