Omega Days (Volume 1) - By John L. Campbell Page 0,21

held upright before her. The barrel was smooth and cool against her palm, and she ran her eyes down its length. Games, movies and television had given her more of an education in the structure of an assault rifle than she realized, for she understood a lot of what she was looking at, even if she didn’t know what it was called. The barrel and the muzzle were easy enough, and the opening at the end was smaller than she would have expected. A rubberized grip under the barrel was there to steady it, and this was a scope on top, with a red lens. Did that mean you could see in the dark with it? She didn’t know. There was where the clip went in, and behind it was the trigger and the pistol grip. She hefted it, surprised that it didn’t weigh more.

“Six-point-three-six pounds,” said Taylor.

Skye glanced at him. She hadn’t realized he was watching her. “It’s light.”

“Not so light when you have to grip it by the barrel and hold it extended at arm’s length. Then it gets heavy awful fast.”

“Why would you have to do that?”

Taylor shrugged. “Mostly in basic, as punishment for being a screw-up.”

The sergeant turned in his seat, and Skye saw that his name patch said Postman. “On the topic of screw-ups, keep your eyes on your sector, Taylor.” The young soldier grinned at Skye and went back to watching out his window.

Skye looked at Taylor. He was handsome, not Abercrombie model handsome, but with a rugged appeal. She decided he was maybe twenty. Then she went back to looking at the rifle, no longer afraid of it and curious. There were a couple of small levers near the clip – the magazine, she corrected herself – which would probably be a safety, and a way to take out an empty magazine. The whole rifle had a smooth, solid feel to it, despite being made mostly of plastic. Could she handle it if she had to? She decided she could, if she had someone to teach her. She glanced at Taylor’s profile, and then the image of her dad being pulled down hit her hard. Guilty tears burned in her eyes, and she committed to herself that she would learn how to use it, so she could kill them. Kill them all.

The radio spoke, and Sgt. Postman responded. He told the driver to turn left ahead, checked a plastic-coated map he was holding on one knee, ordered a right and then another left. He pointed. “Right there. Right in the intersection.”

The Humvee came to a smooth stop, and the call of “Security out” had doors opening. Everyone got out except the driver and the man in the turret. Dreadlock man tried to follow, but the corporal in the driver’s seat looked back. “Stay put.”

The man glared at the corporal and then sat back, sighing dramatically. “Ain’t this some pretty shit.” Skye decided she didn’t like him. She didn’t know why.

Out on the pavement, PFC Taylor stood next to his sergeant. The intersection was free of vehicles, but they quickly saw that an accident up ahead had backed up cars behind it. Doors stood open, the vehicles abandoned. Somewhere beyond them something burned, making a column of dark smoke. The side streets held only cars parked along the curbs.

“Morning rush,” said Taylor. “There should be more cars in the streets.”

The sergeant nodded. “Yeah, but other places are jammed so tight you can barely walk. Why should any of it make sense?”

“Copy that,” said Taylor.

Three blocks to their right, an open-topped military truck with six wheels and a canvas cover – a “six-by” – sat in an intersection of its own, men in camouflage moving around it.

“That’s First Platoon. They’re setting up blocking positions.”

Taylor looked at him with a raised eyebrow. “Blocking positions? Does the brass think these things are going to mount some sort of offensive? They’re scattered and completely disorganized.”

“Do you see any stars on me, Taylor? I don’t know what the fuck they think. Our orders are to hold here and watch for civilians until we get instructions.” He elbowed the PFC. “But the next time the generals sit me down and ask me how to run their wars, I’ll be sure to voice your concerns.”

“Good. Don’t forget.” Taylor’s eyes crawled over parked cars and doorways, then up to rooftops. They were now in a more commercial part of Berkeley, an older neighborhood with ground floor shops and apartments above. “What do