Never far gone, p.16
Never Far Gone, page 16
“Looks good. Place this in the binder when you get up there,” I say as I hold out the folded paper between my fingers. Even with the glove on, I think I got a paper cut from how quickly he grabbed it. “Thanks, buddy, take the night off afterward. When was the last time you even slept?” I ask with sincerity.
“Sleep is overrated, sir,” Abdul declares with conviction as he places the hand-written invoice into his dark blue denim jacket pocket. “I’ll rest when we’re able to do so without needing to keep a gun in sight,” he says as he graciously bows his head before turning toward the rear exit of the Consulate. With my attention back on the men sent on the collection run, I give them an appreciative nod, nonverbally thanking them for their help, as I follow Abdul’s lead and step off toward the office to get some rest myself. However, my desire for relaxation evaporates instantly as I hear it.
Crash.
It’s sudden, but it takes me a while to realize what I just heard: a vehicle collision. After a second or two, the sound of spinning tires immediately puts everyone who is posted outdoors on alert. Then the radios start going off.
“This is Overwatch. We’ve got vehicular contact approaching the west gate!” is all that is said before my pistol is in hand. In a militaristic manner, Abdul uses one of his hands to grab my shoulder while retracting a handgun from his holster using his other. He swiftly moves in front of me, and we collectively begin inching toward the commotion as the crew assisting with the truckload stops what they are doing before rushing to aid the married couple stationed near the gate. The duo in question are now getting into defensive positions. As we pick up the pace and begin running toward the gate, I use my teeth to pull off my glove again before using my now-exposed fingers to pull the hammer back on the 1911. What the fuck is going on?
“Get back!” I bark out loud for everyone inside the building to hear. Given the relatively small size of the rear courtyard and the various vehicles parked throughout it, I hear my command echoing throughout the air as I step closer to the rear gate. Perching my body alongside the southwest exit leading to the auditorium, about seven feet from the gate, I use the staircase railing to steady my aim once I align the iron sights towards the decade-old SUV hastily approaching us. The driver of the vehicle can barely keep a straight line.
15 feet. 10 feet. 5 feet. Boom!
The SUV hits the side of the gate just hard enough to stop the vehicle in its tracks but not hard enough to tear it down. When I think I have heard enough for one day, the horn goes off near the same spot the cargo truck did just minutes prior. There is one significant difference, though: this one doesn’t stop.
“Move. Move,” I hear Abdul instruct as his men and I lead the way toward the gate. The metal panels welded onto the fence obscure our view of the assailant in the vehicle, and I drag it open with one hand as my handgun remains raised in the other. As the group of about four men surround the SUV, I swing around and position myself near the passenger-side headlight of the vehicle. The unnerving sound of the horn continues to pierce my ears with every step I take toward the vehicle.
“Get out! Now!” I yell at the top of my lungs as I faintly hear the unmistakable sound of rounds being chambered into the firearms of the men around me. As the weapons are pointed at the driver, who seems to be slumping over on the horn, I see Corver and David peering around the gate using my peripherals. My left hand goes up, signaling the men to hold their positions as I cautiously step closer. Then another. Once in front of the SUV, I slam the bottom of my fist on the hood to get the driver’s attention. It doesn’t seem to work.
Come on…
I circle with my pointing finger while those near me rotate around the vehicle and approach the driver-side door. The blood spatter over the rear passenger-side window is obscuring my view of the second occupant. Still, I can faintly make out what appears to be stained blonde strands of hair and the unresponsive silhouette of a female in the backseat as I make my way around the vehicle.
Refocusing my attention to the threat at hand, my sights align with the driver’s head as I yank their door open, half expecting it to be locked. Instinctively, those closest to the door take a step back almost immediately. The noise is unbearable and brings much more attention to the area than we need, given that the sun is now out.
It’s only when Igor calls out to us as he points down the block, closest to the Overwatch Convoy, that I begin to pick up the pace. Ignoring the sporadic group of Specs nearly slipping on the slush below as they sprint in our direction, I glare up and nod to Corver as I pull the disheveled and seemingly injured man off the steering wheel he was leaning against.
“Contact rear!” I hear Corver yell out as gunfire begins to overwrite the brief silence that followed once the horn stopped. As nearly everyone in the vicinity turns to address the threats approaching the Consulate, I see Francis cover Kerrie as she pulls out her radio.
“Overwatch, take ‘em!” I hear Kerrie shout into the microphone. Without a moment of hesitation, bright muzzle flashes are coming from the train car overhead as the men in the Overwatch Convoy begin to provide support from above. Some of the Spectrals are hitting the floor violently as the street becomes littered with blood, corpses, and bullet casings. Not wanting to waste any more time, I turn my attention back to the unconscious man in the SUV.
Wait a minute…
“Christ, it’s Montero…” I hear David let out as he stands directly behind me, his rifle pointed at the floor as he seems to be frozen in shock from what’s going on. He’s right. Jorge Montero is one of the first people we brought in during the winter, and he’s sitting before me with blood spilling from multiple gunshot wounds and what appears to be a variety of lacerations.
Are those… cuts?
“Crap! Here, take it!” I holler as I hand David the stainless steel .44 magnum revolver resting on the dashboard. When I feel its wooden grip disappear as the gun is forcefully yanked out of my hand, I holster my weapon and hastily pull the 6-inch Benchmade from its sheath on the side of my belt. I don’t even bother attempting to undo the seatbelt that is sloppily twisted along his body, indicating he put it on in a rush. Instead, I cut the restraint entirely before placing the knife back where I retrieved it from and dragging him out of the car.
I got you, buddy…
Seeing me struggle to carry the nearly 200-pound man with a weapon in my hand, I can feel the weight on my shoulders being alleviated as someone grabs his other arm to speed up the rescue.
“Close in! Lock the gate behind us!” I yell as many of the Thrivers around me begin backing away from the street and toward the rear courtyard. I nearly twist my ankle as I slip on the slick floor, nearly dropping Montero in the process. As the gunfire dies down, I hear the all-too-familiar metal scraping along the concrete floor, and I slightly turn my head to see three people pushing their bodies along the gate to expedite the process. I guess it works on time because I hear the gate’s latch fall into place, followed by what sounds like aggressive pounding on the metal panels that were recently welded onto our perimeter fences.
As Corver runs over and replaces me as Jorge’s guide, with my panting becoming more and more apparent with every stride, I swap places with him and snatch the radio hanging on his backpack before issuing a command to the convoy. “Overwatch, let them get through,” I say as the sounds of bullets ricocheting nearby echo. The constant thudding coming from the other side of the gate seems to dissipate following every distant gunshot that rings out slowly.
The men carrying Jorge, who are a few paces ahead of me now, lay him down in the back of the open bed of the cargo truck. The previously musty smell in the truck is, instead, replaced with the metallic odor of blood oozing from Jorge’s wounds. What’s unnerving is that those are only the wounds I could visibly see.
“Find Jonah and have him get the sickbay ready,” I instruct to those nearby as I take a knee beside Jorge, referring to one of the only medical professionals residing in the Consulate.“I don’t give a fuck who does it. Just get me a goddamn sleeping bag and an IFAK, now!” I yell out as Corver, and I attempt to stop the bleeding by applying pressure.
The movement of the truck bouncing as a few Thrivers abruptly jump from the vehicle to get help only makes my efforts at stopping his blood loss less effective, and I catch myself before I have time to let out any more profanities. With such immense pressure being applied to Jorge’s wounds, I can only assume the pain that followed is what throws him into a frenzy of panic and confusion that seems to frighten me more than any of today’s most recent events. Without warning, Jorge flings his arms around frantically as he tries to sit up and back away from Corver and me.
“Jesus, wha-! It’s alright! It’s alright, hey! It’s us… you’re home… it’s us, calm down…” Corver reassures as the man beside us takes more time than he should to situate himself in his new surroundings.
“What the hell happened?” I ask in a manner that resembles an instruction rather than a concerned inquiry. At that moment, I can see the fear in Jorge’s eyes, even as he continues to look at my companion kneeling beside me. As Jorge continues to ignore me completely, I glance down to see his fists nearly turning white from how hard he’s clenching them. After several seconds of repeatedly calling his name to get his attention, my heart sinks once it hits me.
Jorge was one of eight Thrivers who departed from the Consulate last night en route to one of the home improvement stores along Route 87 in Yonkers. They were supposed to be back this afternoon with building supplies and equipment so we could continue our fortification of the Consulate. They took two vehicles in preparation for a big haul, but the maroon SUV Jorge miraculously drove up in was not one of them. Also concerning is that the Armory’s Inventory Ledger didn’t contain a .44 Magnum like the one he had lying on the vehicle’s dashboard, meaning he must have either found it or, worse, taken it from another person.
“Montero, where are the others?” I ask as Corver looks up at me with concern. As my head is gradually filled with more questions than answers, I immediately begin losing patience and grab Jorge’s face before forcefully positioning it in front of mine to address him directly. Even with me hovering mere inches from his face, he seems to be looking through me instead of at me, so I smack him in an attempt to break him out of his state of paralysis. “Where are they?” I repeat in a louder tone.
“T- They…” is all Jorge manages to get out before he attempts to cover his mouth as he ferociously coughs up blood, some of which got on my shirt and face, but I am too focused on trying to decipher what he’s trying to say to care. Corver and I prop him up along the relatively clean reloading bench to ensure he didn’t choke on his blood. Jorge spits near some of the equipment on the floor before looking at me and attempting to converse again. I know he’s strong, but he’s fighting to keep his eyes open in his weakened state.
“They’re still at the… at the store,“ he mutters before violently coughing again.
Oh my god…
“Get me in touch with the 87 crew,” I command as I turn to whoever is standing outside the truck behind me. While still kneeling, Montero yanks on the sleeve of my jacket and nearly pulls me to the floor in a desperate attempt to regain my attention. I’ll never forget what I saw in his bloodshot eyes as they began watering: regret.
“I don’t think anyone got out, boss. Hell, I- I’m not even sure I did, either. And Violet…“ he whimpers before releasing his grip on my jacket and letting his arm fall to the ground with an audible thud. He begins to cry as he recalls the events in his mind. I realize now who the woman in the back of the car is.
“You need to tell us what the fuck happened in Yonkers,” I repeat, this time getting agitated from the lack of communication.
“Th- there were other people, and they were waiting for us… I- I don’t know who fell first, but… Miles, they were everywhere. All I hear is one yelling ‘kilogramo’ and another calling out ‘cuedra.’ I don’t even know what that means,” the injured man says in broken Spanish as blood continues to trickle down his mouth and stain the white goatee he had maintained over the past couple of months. He doesn’t seem to notice or care about his horrifying appearance.
“I’m sorry, man. I know… I know some of those people have little ones in the house-“ Jorge says as his voice continues to crack.
“Hey… shh shh shh. We’re not going to worry about that right now,” I say as the noise of the doors slamming against the wall makes me jump a little in my vulnerable state. The sound of various footsteps approaching the three of us fails to comfort me as I turn around to see a First Aid in the hands of the younger kid who arrived in the truck earlier. I nearly snatch it before dumping the contents on the floor of the truck bed and grabbing as much gauze as I could find. I bring a finger to my lips as I glance back down at Jorge, then show him my palm. I need him to remain as still as possible.
I don’t know how long it took… ten minutes? Half an hour? Who gives a shit, anyways? When it comes down to it, the military taught me two very important things: how to take a life and how to save one. After a while, Jorge is as stable as could be given the limited medical resources at our disposal. The seemingly inhuman shouts of agony coming from the man I barely knew in front of me will forever be embedded in my brain, yet he passed out after we sanitized his wounds. Placing my fingers, which are stained with relatively dry blood, along his wrist, I give out a sigh of relief once I feel his faint pulse.
“Let us take him upstairs to Dr. Estevez,” I hear one of the men say as the group approaches the truck. I can’t get my eyes off of the bloody shirt we cut off of Jorge, lying as lifeless on the floor of the truck bed as the men in Yonkers. My men. I suppose Corver gives the Thrivers around me a non-verbal command that I cannot see because I know they won’t act in this situation without my consent. Yet, they begin laying out the sleeping bag I had requested to carry him to sickbay nevertheless.
One second, he’s lying unconscious in front of me. The next, I’m left alone, kneeling in a shapeless pool of red that my nose has no doubt become accustomed to inhaling. I guess I was there for a while because my legs were asleep even as I struggled to stand. As I lower myself out of the truck, trying not to fall, Corver comes to give me a hand. Without much thought, I fling it away out of either guilt or anger; I couldn’t differentiate the two right now. Once my feet hit the wet concrete below, Corver grabs my arm as I begin losing my footing.
“Get off of me!” I shout out instinctively as the sudden contact throws my emotions into overdrive. I regret it the moment I say it, realizing he is only trying to help. Rather than apologize, I try changing the subject. “How many people did they get a hold of from the 87 crew?” I murmur loud enough for only him to hear, eyes glued to the floor. Even with my eyes on the ground, I can feel everyone nearby staring at me.
“You don’t want to know the answer to that question…” Corver says quietly with some hesitation. The feeling of my right hand becoming increasingly numb as I gradually tighten my grip on the Kimber only serves to heighten my anger with each fleeting second. Without uttering a word, I lift my head high and turn to face the rear of the Consulate.
“I’ll be back…” I say as I begin heading toward my office. I only make it a few steps before I hear Corver contesting my decision to walk away. As soon as he grabs my shoulder, I find myself forcefully swinging a fist behind me and connecting with the man’s chin. I now understand why they call it blind rage because I didn’t even realize I had a gun pointed at his head until he had his palm positioned in front of my barrel while kneeling on the ground.
Control…
“I… I’m sorry… I- I need to get this done…” I say as every subsequent word becomes quieter than the last. I re-holster the Kimber, the sounds of gasps from the nearby onlookers more evident than the thumping inside my head, and begin slowly backing away before I see Corver’s gesture of surrender transition to a single finger, signaling me to wait. Once he regains his balance, he spits before talking.
“My brother. I think my brother is there…” he says.
What? What the fuck are you talking about-
“He mentioned the word kilogramo. My older brother’s name is Graham. Graham Whitlock,” he says as he catches on to my suspicion. “Look, calling it a long shot is an understatement, but I want to head up there,” Corver declares as he stands up straight. “My brother used to live upstate as a truck driver so that that bitch could be anywhere in the country, but I can’t let this chance slide,” he says. Deep down, I knew that if he was right, and Corver did have a relative who participated in the massacre of nearly a dozen innocent people, he would ultimately end up grieving for another person today. Do I want him there for that?
“If what you’re saying is true, and he’s there, you may find yourself wishing he wasn’t…” I say as my eyes connect with his while I move closer. I can feel the hot air from his nostrils hit my face as I stare at him without so much as a blink. From the look he’s giving me, he knows I’m not bluffing. Without so much as another word, I begin stepping backward. After a few paces, I pivot around and begin making my way to the PA System in the office.
“Get your shit ready! We’re heading out!” I yell out without looking back. At that moment, the last thing he hears is the sound of the metal doors slamming behind me as I enter the Consulate.
