Jake found himself jogging. Each pound of his feet made the Browning dig against his shoulder. The thing was frigging heavy.
Then everything changed as two drones appeared in the sky. They looked like giant, angry wasps dropping down out of the black cloud. They must have been enemy craft, because machine guns opened up in the noses and rockets whooshed from under their wings, slamming down with fierce explosions. Concrete flew and so did humans, some tumbling in grotesque somersaults. Other Militiamen began screaming in agony and falling over, spurting blood. One poor sod tried to shove his guts back into his ripped stomach.
Jake hit the ground, throwing the machine gun ahead of him so it wouldn’t land on his body. He crawled for what must have once been a building. It was a jagged scar of masonry now, a tombstone of a memory of a better time. His squad remained with him.
“What do we do now?” the tallest one asked, the corporal and nominally in charge of the M2 Browning.
Crouched behind the tongue of a wall, Jake looked up as he kept hold of his helmet. The two drones had left, or at least he couldn’t see them anymore. Maybe the operators figured they’d done enough here. Looking back, Jake saw some Militiamen running away down the street they’d just come up. None of them had their weapons. There was a litter of M-16s and grenade launchers on the ground. A few of the officers and NCOs ran, too. They weren’t blowing their whistles either, just sprinting as if they wanted into the Olympics. On the street groaned the dying, a few shrieking horribly and held onto their ribs or their groins. The dead lay silent, making it much easier to take.
“Should we help them?” the corporal asked.
Before Jake could answer, someone else shouted, “Chinese!”
Jake looked over the masonry. His eyes bugged outward. Chinese soldiers in body armor sprinted through a cross street, with their equipment jangling. The enemy had nasty-looking assault weapons. A few wore visors, likely battery-powered with a schematic of Castle Rock. The wash and illumination of flames on their backs make the enemy soldiers seem like demons of the Inferno.
“Up there!” another Militiaman shouted.
Jake looked up. An Eagle flyer darted overhead. The Chinese commando fired a grenade from a shoulder-launcher. The projectile landed with an explosion thirty feet away, and two Militiamen tumbled over. Didn’t anyone know how to hide?
“We have to get out of here,” the tall corporal told Jake. Dirt streaked the man’s cheeks and his eyes were huge.
“Yeah, soon,” Jake said. “Help me set up the machine gun.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“We’re screwed,” Jake told the corporal. “Our battalion just did a bunk and the rest are too scared to fight back. That leaves us.”
“We should run.”
“We should kill Chinese bastards,” Jake said, remembering the ones who had hanged Americans in Rio National Forest.
“I’m out of here,” the corporal said. His name was Charles and he used to be a philosophy student. His neck was far too long. Right, right, everyone called him Goose.
“Listen, Goose,” Jake said good-naturedly. “If you run, I’m going to shoot you.”
“What?” Goose said. “You can’t threaten me. I’m a corporal and you’re a private in my squad.”
“Watch this,” Jake said, drawing a sidearm. He touched Goose’s forehead with the barrel. The corporal had lost his helmet.
“How does that feel?” Jake asked.
“Please,” Goose whispered. “Don’t kill me.”
“Set up the machine gun and do what I say,” Jake told him. “That way you live.”
Goose nodded wildly.
The other Militiaman of the machine gun squad watched with wide eyes.
“Hurry it up,” Jake said. He peeked up to scout the situation. More Chinese ran through the cross street, setting up to come here from an old bakery. He could seem them hiding in there, likely figuring out what they were going to do next.
“See the edge of our little wall over there,” Jake said, pointing to the left.
“I see it,” Goose said.
“Slide the gun there and get ready to feed me more ammo. The Chinese are going to cross at the junction, coming straight for us.”
“Set it up there,” Goose repeated. As he did, the Chinese infantry started firing at them from the bakery.
Jake looked behind. Groaning and wounded Militiamen hurried off the street. Most ran away. A few braver, tougher soldiers fired back. Some of the fleeing died with bullets in the back, falling over like sick old men.
A whistle blew. One of the officers had stayed. Seconds later, a