15
The cavernous room must have once been an arena of some sort, Andrews thought—perhaps a hockey rink. From the light of dozens of flickering torches that surrounded the rink, he could see that where there should have been a sheet of ice, there was instead desiccated earth dotted with sharp metal stakes. The bleachers surrounding the pit were filled with scores of wildly screaming survivors, ranging from filthy, scrappy men and women to twisted monstrosities—those who had been born with severe physical deformities, likely courtesy of the radioactive aftermath of the Sixty Minute War. He didn’t understand how they had survived for so long. There were over a hundred people present, and they cheered and howled like crazed animals as Andrews and Spencer were dragged and thrown into the pit. Spencer cursed as he landed on his injured arm while rolling out of the fall, and he wound up lying on his side, cradling his wounded limb. Andrews hurried over to him and pulled him to his feet as the crowd began to pelt them with all manner of debris.
“Come on, Spence! On your feet!”
Once Spencer managed to stand, Andrews dragged him to the center of the pit. He tried to shield Spencer from the pieces of wood and stone that were hurled at them; most missed by a wide margin, but occasionally one connected.
“Man, this rates a solid ten point five on the ‘Holy Shit’ meter,” Spencer said. “What the hell are these f*ckers going to do to us now?”
“Nothing good,” Andrews said. As he looked around the pit, he knew what was likely to happen. This was in fact an arena, just not for the sport it had been built for. Andrews and Spencer were going to be the entertainment.
At the far end of the rink, he saw Law mount a gangway that led to a decaying broadcast booth. Behind him, Leona was dragged along by two burly men. Her hands were bound before her. She looked down at them, and her eyes met Andrews’s. Her expression was one of utter terror, and Andrews knew she had good reason to be frightened. Back at Harmony, Leona was considered beautiful. Here, in this shattered city where people still lived but humanity was dead, she would be a prized asset, perfect breeding stock. She would be passed from man to man until she could no longer provide what they needed. After that? Andrews wasn’t sure, but he had no doubt she might spend years wishing for death.
Law held up his hands, and the jeering assemblage fell into a sudden, respectful silence, watching him with a mixture of religious reverence and bloodthirsty anticipation.
“It’s been almost two years since this facility was last used, when survivalists from the north threatened our sanctuary with their tainted ways. And now, these two will meet their end in exactly the same manner!”
The crowd exploded into a barrage of cheers. Andrews could barely hear Spencer over the raucous din.
“Did he just say something about survivors from the north?” Spencer shouted.
“Yeah—I guess we were right, the Northwest might not have been hit so hard,” Andrews shouted back.
“A shame, man. I would’ve liked to have gone up there, maybe see some real pine trees and Mount Ranier, or something.” Spencer ducked as a dusty brick flew past his head.
Law held up his hands, grinning like a madman. When the crowd quieted itself, he looked down at the two men.
“The rules are simple, gentlemen. You fight until you are killed. Then, your carcasses will be divided up amongst my Family. After all … a nutritious meal is hard to come by these days.” To the crowd, he said, “And now … it begins!”
As the crowd erupted yet again, Law continued walking to the old broadcast booth. Leona was dragged along after him, and the small group stepped inside. Law took a seat before the booth’s open window, sitting up there like a demented Roman emperor settling in to watch gladiator games.
“You know, now would be a great time for Mulligan and the others to roll in and save the day,” Spencer said, fear evident in his voice.
“The only thing Mulligan’s saved in his entire life is a bad attitude.” Andrews turned in place as he scanned the cavernous room, hoping to get an idea of what was going to happen next.
Surprisingly, he did see what was going to happen next. A towering man leapt into the pit opposite them. He was even bigger than Mulligan, standing almost seven feet tall. He was extremely well-fed; his muscles rippled beneath scabbed, knobby skin, and just one of his thighs was almost as big as both of Andrews’s. But all was not perfect; the man’s right arm was a misshapen club of calloused flesh, and his left eye was missing, perhaps ripped out long ago in some past contest, leaving behind a scarred, empty socket. Completely bald, the huge warrior turned toward Andrews and Spencer and smiled hungrily, revealing rotting, black teeth.
“Missing an eye and a bum arm,” Spencer said. “Maybe things are looking up. The guy’s worse off than I am.”
“Don’t get too cocky, Sergeant,” Andrews cautioned. “He’s still going to be one tough customer. Keep to his left when you can, hang out in his blind spot.”
“Hooah. What about you?”
“I don’t have a busted arm. I’ll try and tire him out, then we’ll figure out how we’re going to take him down.”
If Spencer replied, Andrews didn’t hear him. The crowd’s cheering swelled, and the giant bellowed and charged before the two men had an opportunity to ready themselves for his attack. Andrews shoved Spencer aside and darted to his left, hoping to attract the giant’s full attention before he zeroed in on Spencer, who would be the easier target. He needn’t have worried; the giant was apparently looking for a fight, so he charged directly at Andrews, his club-arm held high, his mouth open wide as he released a guttural war cry. Andrews stopped short and waited for the disfigured warrior to close on him, his fists held out before him as he adopted a fighting stance. That encouraged the brute, and he pounded toward him with reckless abandon, his big feet stomping into the dry, packed earth of the arena, bearing down on Andrews like an out-of-control freight train. At the last moment, when the warrior was nearly on top of him, Andrews fell to his hands and knees. Unable to stop, the warrior tripped over Andrews and slammed face-first into the dirt, sending up an explosion of dust. The impact was strong enough to knock the wind of out Andrews and he floundered about on his back, frantically trying to take a breath while attempting to gather his feet beneath him and press his advantage. He rolled over onto his belly and pushed himself to his knees, his movements slow—too slow. The giant was already recovering from his spill, and he awkwardly levered himself to his knees with his good arm. Andrews saw Spencer moving in, racing to tackle the brute before he could get to his feet.
“Spence, no!” Andrews croaked, but his warning was lost in the cacophony of the cheering crowd.
Spencer ran right into the warrior, slamming into him with his shoulder like a linebacker. He practically bounced off the larger man. The warrior howled and swung at him with his good arm. Spencer tried to duck under it, but the warrior was surprisingly fast. He took the swing right across the head, and the blow sent him sprawling across the arena’s dirt floor. The crowd exploded with thunderous applause. The warrior grinned and hauled himself to his feet, stepping toward Spencer.
Andrews leapt toward him and delivered a powerful snap-kick to the giant’s side, throwing as much of his body weight into the attack as he could. The warrior lurched sideways with a sharp grunt as Andrews’s boot made solid contact with his ribs. Nevertheless, the warrior spun with uncanny speed and struck Andrews in the chest with his clubbed arm. The force of the blow was incredible; Andrews was literally lifted from his feet and went flying through the air. He landed on the hard-packed arena floor and rolled right toward one of the sharp metal stakes. The sharpened metal sliced open his temple as his head bumped into it. Andrews cried out and pressed his hand to the wound. When he pulled it away to struggle back to his feet, his palm was slick with blood. The crowd went wild at the sight of his injury, and dozens of natty survivors jumped up and down in the bleachers, shrieking in delight.
The warrior turned back to Spencer as he charged back toward him. He grabbed the front of Spencer’s uniform in one big hand and swung him around like a rag doll. Spencer tried to twist away, but to no avail—the giant’s grip was too strong. With a roar, the warrior lifted him into the air and hurled him away, as if the crew chief was no more substantial than a newborn infant. Spencer tumbled as he arced toward the arena floor, coming down squarely on one of the twisted metal stakes. The stake’s sharp tip erupted through his chest. Spencer shuddered, then tried to get up. Dark blood spread across his uniform blouse. Heart blood, Andrews knew.
Oh my God.
Satisfied that Spencer was no longer a threat, the warrior pivoted and charged toward Andrews. Andrews grabbed a handful of dirt as he rose to his feet and hurled it into the giant’s face. The warrior recoiled, rubbing at his eye with his hand while blindly lashing out with his clubbed arm. Andrews ducked under the first few swipes, then kicked the man-thing right in the groin. The warrior screamed and doubled over, sinking to his knees. Andrews stepped in and caught him with a fast uppercut that landed with such authority that the giant’s jaws slammed shut. Andrews pressed his advantage, punching the giant in the face again and again, ignoring the pain that blossomed in his hands. The crowd booed, furious that their champion was taking a beating so soon after downing one opponent. The warrior’s head rocked back and forth from the fury of Andrews’s blows, until it finally toppled over onto its back, bleeding profusely from a shattered nose. With a gurgle, it spat out bloody saliva and pieces of broken teeth. Andrews reared back and brought up his right foot, intending to stomp on the giant’s face, but a hurled brick struck him in the back of his right shoulder. He went down with a cry, stumbling across the giant’s body. Feeling the shift in the tide, the giant lashed out with his legs. One of his huge feet caught Andrews under the right arm, and he was sent rolling across the arena floor. He came to a rest next to Spencer’s spasming body. Andrews pushed himself to his elbows and, for a brief instant, his eyes met Spencer’s. Despite the bloodied stake piercing his chest, the crew chief was trying to sit up, to get back into the fight. The light was fading from Spencer’s face.
“I’m okay,” Spencer said, smiling. Blood bubbled from his mouth and nostrils, and then he died.
Andrews heard the giant warrior grunt as he pushed himself to his feet. He looked at Spencer’s body as it slowly relaxed, settling back onto the stake that had claimed his life. The crowd roared its approval, and Andrews knew the warrior must have been making his way back to him. Andrews felt a fire begin to burn in his chest, and he shoved himself upright, leaping to his feet. Hot rage fueled him, and he whirled to face the oncoming giant, ignoring the throb in his shoulder where the brick had struck him. He was surprised to find the warrior’s approach was slow and measured—no more charging, no more howling. Andrews had put a hurting on him, and he knew the warrior, despite his greater size and strength, was going to take his time. He had learned that Andrews was no pushover.
That suited Andrews fine. He was going to make the warrior suffer every moment until one of them was dead.
***
The tremendous din of the roaring crowd led Mulligan and the others to the arena like sharks following a trail of blood. The array of torches that illuminated the great ring caused their night vision goggles to wash out, so Mulligan whispered into his headset and ordered everyone to remove them. They had more than enough light to operate by, and with the vast majority of the opposing force focused on Andrews, the group could move with unexpected freedom.
He and Choi planted their charges on two stout I-beams that the big sergeant major judged were primary load-bearing components for the civic center. While eight pounds of C4 might not be enough to bring the house down under normal circumstances, it was his hope that the accumulated stress of surviving a nuclear attack, earthquakes, and changing weather might have weakened the structure enough so the blast would cause at least a partial collapse. As they made their way back to where Laird and Kelly waited with Rachel, Choi motioned to the arena, where Andrews and the impressively huge warrior continued their battle. Spencer lay motionless near the arena’s center, surrounded by a pool of dark blood.
“Hey, shouldn’t we do something about that?” Choi asked, not even bothering to keep his voice low due to the volume of the crowd.
Before Mulligan could respond, a filthy young man hurried out of a dark corridor, carrying a torch. His hair was long and matted, forming a natural set of grubby dreadlocks that hung down over his sallow face. The man stopped when he saw Mulligan and Choi crouching down only a few feet away. His mouth dropped open, and for a moment he gawked at them. Then he spun around and made to run back the way he had come. He didn’t make it. Mulligan reacted instantly, grabbing a handful of his dirty, oversized shirt and yanking him off his feet. The man dropped his torch and struggled; his shout was cut short by Mulligan’s knife sliding into the back of his neck. The man kicked once, then went limp. The odor of urine made Mulligan’s nostrils twitch, and he dragged the body to an abandoned refreshment stand. He hurled the corpse behind the concession counter.
“Damn, man! I thought we were going to give these people a chance!” Choi said, his eyes wide with shock.
Mulligan pointed to the arena, where Andrews and the big warrior were circling each other while the riotous crowd hurled all manner of debris at Andrews. “Yeah, like they did with Spencer? That plan’s off the table. Use your head, boy!”
Choi considered that, then nodded. “Roger that, Sergeant Major.”
Mulligan spoke into his tactical headset as he hurried down the corridor that ringed the arena. “Laird, this is Mulligan. Over.”
“Go ahead, Mulligan. Over.”
“Charges planted, and we just had to service one target. We’re heading back to you now. Get ready to move out when we arrive. Party in thirty. Over.”
“Good copy.”
Mulligan abandoned stealth for speed and set an aggressive pace. They were living on borrowed time—even though there were no signs of firearms among any of the survivors, he knew that at least four assault rifles were somewhere in their possession, along with a multitude of bladed weapons that could be just as deadly if wielded by experienced hands. Though he would have liked nothing better, Mulligan’s goal was not to get into a protracted fight—they had a greater mission to accomplish, and that meant the team from Harmony Base had to avoid becoming decisively engaged.
When he and Choi linked up with Laird and the others, he found they were still crouching in the darkened hallway that fed into the main corridor surrounding the arena. Laird was oriented toward the bleachers, M416A3 assault rifle at the ready; it was outfitted with an M320A1 forty-millimeter grenade launcher under the barrel, a double-action device equipped with its own pistol grip that allowed for more precise fire. Kelly Jordello’s assault rifle was in a similar configuration, and she covered the rear of the hallway. Rachel Andrews had a vanilla assault rifle with no additional modifications, as Mulligan hadn’t had the time to school her in the grenade launcher’s use. She was in the center of the formation, and when Mulligan saw her staring at her husband fighting for his life down below, he wondered if he hadn’t made a tactical error by not leaving her in the SCEV.
Mulligan motioned for Choi to stand guard while he squatted down beside Laird. “All right, it looks like Spencer’s down, and Eklund’s in that booth about fifty meters downrange. I want to go for her first, because I’m pretty sure things will get loud when we do, and that should pull some of the heat off Andrews. What do you think, sir?”
“Agreed,” Laird said immediately. Either he had already formed the tactical picture by himself, or he was willing to do anything Mulligan suggested, as he was the expert. Mulligan didn’t care which; he was just glad they weren’t going to get into another debate.
“We have to help Mike!” Rachel hissed.
Mulligan fixed her with a seething glare. “We will. You stay here and hold this hallway, because we’ll need it for our retreat. Are you ready to pull the trigger and ice some of these stinking f*ckers, Andrews?”
She nodded immediately, with no hesitation. Mulligan liked that, but he had to be sure she was ready.
“They will likely come this way, or come up from behind you. You’ll be on your own, and you might have to kill women and children. I’m going to guess that when you open up, they’ll fade and try to get away from you. But you’ll probably have to kill some of them. Are you sure you’re ready for that?”
“Yes. I’ll kill anyone I have to, Sergeant Major,” Rachel said, her voice strong.
Mulligan pointed at her rifle. “Safety off, keep the weapon indexed until you have to shoot like I showed you. When it becomes necessary, put your booger hook on the bang lever and squeeze it. Shoot for the center mass, and do not hesitate—taking a second to think will only get you killed, and that just makes things harder for everyone.”
“Yeah, getting killed would be a matter of importance to me too, Mulligan. Anything else?”
Have to admire the can-do attitude on this one. “Negative. Good luck, and if things turn south, contact us over the radio.” He turned to the others. “Follow me. Remember your tactical spacing, and let’s move fast.”
He rose and started down the main corridor at a good clip, his rifle shouldered and held at the ready. Choi followed, then Laird, with Kelly bringing up the rear. They adopted a staggered formation, two hugging the right side of the corridor, two staying to the left. They moved at a jog and Mulligan dreaded every step, wondering if he was going crazy trying to pull off a rescue like this when the stakes were so high. He knew he had no choice, though. Even if the others could be convinced to cut their losses and resume the mission, Rachel Andrews would flat out reject the notion of not attempting to rescue her husband. And she had leverage—she was the one who had to decide which core supports were good enough to take back to Harmony. Returning with items that were damaged or the wrong size wouldn’t help anyone back at the base.
They made it to the broadcasting booth’s door without incident. Surprisingly, it was unguarded, even though Mulligan thought they must have known he had escaped. Had they thought he would just flee into the wasteland? That was a tragic miscalculation on the part of the city survivors, but he doubted they had to deal with incursions into their territory very often. Fine by him—their ignorance made his life easier.
Mulligan motioned Choi forward. “You get the door. Laird, you’re in with me. Orient right when we go in, I’ll go left. Jordello, rear guard. Everyone set?”
“Hooah,” Choi said.
“Good to go here,” Laird responded.
“Roger,” Kelly said.
“Do it, Choi.”
Choi reached for the door and turned the knob. Nothing happened. He tried again, turning it the other way. It wouldn’t budge. He turned back to Mulligan.
“It’s locked, Sarmajor. How do you want to play it now?”
“Get the f*ck out of the way,” Mulligan snapped. Choi obediently stepped aside, and Mulligan walked up to the door and kicked it with all his might. And this time, damn if the door didn’t truly snap right off its hinges.
***
Leona was seated right next to Law, staring down at the pit below. Andrews and the hulking warrior clashed, kicking, punching, and charging. It was obvious the giant had strength on his side, but Andrews had skill and maneuverability. He was able to wind his way through the field of stakes sticking up from the arena floor with greater agility than the warrior, and he would close, strike, and retreat before the warrior could respond. And the giant warrior was tiring. His huge torso was slick with a sheen of sweat that gleamed in the torchlight, and even from her distant vantage point, she could see the warrior’s chest heaving as he pulled in great breaths. Beside her, Law fidgeted and muttered, clearly agitated as he remained fixated on the fight. He had been initially elated when Spencer had gone down, an action that had brought Leona to her feet with a shocked cry. Law had laughed at her, reveling in her distress as one of her foul-smelling guards forced her back into her chair. He groped one of her breasts at the same time, gripping her painfully. She tried to shrug him off, and that made Law laugh even more.
But now, the gigantic warrior’s assured win was no longer quite as certain. Leona could see that the deformed giant didn’t have the same endurance as Andrews. He had probably never fought a well-nourished combatant before, much less one that had been formally trained in both down and dirty hand-to-hand combat as well as some of the more refined martial arts. Not that Andrews was in the best of shape, himself. He had clearly been beaten during his abduction, and he’d already suffered at the hands of his opponent; the cut on his temple was still bleeding, and a trail of blood had dripped across the front of his uniform. The giant was slowly herding him out of the center of the arena, which meant he would be at some peril from the crowd, who continued to try to pelt him with all manner of debris. But the tide of the battle had changed, and Law had become sullen and impetuous. Leona enjoyed his discomfort immeasurably.
Then the door behind her exploded inward.
Law was out of his seat in an instant. He charged through a side door as small arms fire filled the broadcast booth. The filthy degenerate who had groped her went down like a sack of potatoes from a single bullet to the head. Leona threw herself out of her chair, coming to rest on the cold concrete floor next to the man’s still body. Two more shots rang out, and the second man guarding her crumpled. From her vantage point on the floor, Leona could see his right foot twitch erratically for a moment before a deep stillness settled over him. She realized she had just watched two men die—and she couldn’t have felt happier.
A moment later, she was roughly hauled to her feet. “Eklund, you all right?” Sergeant Major Scott Mulligan asked as he produced a knife and sawed through the rough twine that bound her wrists together.
“The one that got away … he’s psionic!”
“Yeah, okay, whatever,” Mulligan said, and to Leona it appeared he had just decided she’d lost a ton of marbles.
She struggled to discover some frame of reference that Mulligan could understand. “Listen to me! He has mental abilities—he can cause you to feel pain just by looking at you! And he’s absolutely insane, he thinks we’re some kind of war party!”
“Good to know,” Mulligan said. “Thanks for the hot tip.” With that, he grabbed her by the wrist and hauled her toward the exit. Jim Laird fell in behind her, and from outside the booth, Leona heard a raging furor begin to build.
***
The gunfire sent a wave of shock through the entire crowd, and for a long moment, they seemed to forget all about their champion and his struggle with Andrews. The warrior himself turned in the direction of the shots, which came from somewhere behind him. Andrews looked past the giant’s shoulder, and he saw commotion in the broadcast booth. Law bolted out of the cubicle through a side door and ran down a corridor without looking back, his arms and legs pumping. Through the booth’s window, he saw someone haul Leona to her feet. It was Mulligan, and beside him, Laird stepped toward the opening and lifted his rifle to his shoulder, ready to fire on anyone or anything that might turn into a threat.
Dude … get this over with!
Andrews grabbed a nearby metal stake and pulled with all of his strength. Only its point had been sharpened, so he was in little danger of slicing open his palms and fingers, but the picket was stuck deep into the earth. He was elated to feel it give, bit by bit, until he had pulled almost three feet of rusted metal out of the dry earth. Holding the implement like a pike, he charged toward the warrior just as he started to turn back to him. He rammed the stake through the giant’s neck, feeling the rusted metal grate against cervical vertebrae as it passed through soft tissue and tougher tendon. The giant shuddered with a gurgling cry as blood fanned into the air from a severed artery. He tried to fling Andrews off, squirming and thrashing like a wounded beast. Andrews hung on, pushing the stake even further into its neck. A gout of blood spurted across his hands and arms. The gigantic warrior shuddered once again and fell to his knees with a choking shriek. Andrews wrenched the stake from side to side, causing as much damage as he could. The warrior silently fell face-first to the arena floor, his limbs twitching as life fled his body. Andrews stood over the fallen brute and stomped on his head, again and again, throwing as much strength into each strike as he could. When the giant finally stopped moving and a pool of blood began to spread beneath his shattered skull, Andrews got control over the seething rage that filled him.
Spencer…
Several survivors leaped into the pit as Andrews moved to Spencer’s side. He grabbed Spencer’s wrist, seeking a pulse; finding none, he pressed his fingers against Spencer’s jugular. He couldn’t feel any trace of movement, and he looked down at Spencer’s face. In death, the crew chief’s expression was slack, as if dismayed by his demise.
Automatic gunfire ripped through the advancing survivors, dropping two of them. The rest shrieked and fled, forgetting all about Andrews as more bullets slapped at their heels. Several more stumbled and fell to the ground, writhing in agony from leg wounds. Andrews looked to his left and saw Rachel standing in the bleachers, a smoking assault rifle against her shoulder. The survivors nearest her shoved and jostled each other as they struggled to flee from the madwoman with the rifle. Rachel ignored them and leapt into the pit. Picking her way around the stakes, she raced over to Andrews and threw her arms around him.
“Thank God,” she whispered into his ear. “Thank God, thank God …”
Andrews hugged her back. “Good to see you again, babe.”
Mulligan loped up a moment later. He spared Spencer’s body a quick glance, then pulled Andrews and Rachel apart. “Listen, this is touching and all that, but you’d better move your butts before you wind up giving the rest of us the celestial eyeball!”
He pushed them toward the side of the arena, where Laird waited, clutching his assault rifle nervously. He helped them climb into the bleachers while Mulligan stood guard behind them. As Andrews clambered up the side of the rink, he noticed a small group of people sticking to the shadows across the pit from them. They did not flee.
“Mulligan, see those guys across the arena?”
“Got them, Captain. So long as they stay there, I’ll let them live.” When the Andrewses were clear, Mulligan turned and pulled himself onto the bleachers. Once he had joined them, he grabbed Rachel’s arm. “You were supposed to hold the hallway for us!”
“I decided to save my husband, instead. Have a problem with that, a*shole?” Rachel shot back.
“Save this for later,” Andrews snapped. He took the assault rifle from Rachel and looked at Mulligan and Laird. “We need to get the hell out of here.”
“We sure do,” Mulligan said. “We wired this place with demolitions—the sooner we can clear it, the sooner I can set off the charges and add some more confusion to the mix. We don’t want to be around here when that happens.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Laird said. “Let’s go!” He led the group back to the hallway, which was secured by Kelly and Leona. Down the corridor, several figures loomed in the flickering shadows cast by the torchlight. Andrews slowed when he noticed them, but Mulligan pushed him roughly from behind.
“Go on, I’ve got them!” the NCO snapped. “Laird, get them moving. Go for Four, it’s closer. I’ll hold these f*ckers back for a bit, then I’ll catch up with you. If I don’t show in ten minutes, resume the mission!”
Laird looked back at Mulligan with narrowed eyes. “You’re saying we should leave you, Sarmajor?”
“I’m saying you should finish what we started.”
“We’ll hold station for you as long as we can, Mulligan,” Andrews said. “Don’t screw around, just buy us enough time to get to the rigs.”
“You can count on that, Captain.” Mulligan raised his rifle to his shoulder. “Now shake a leg!”
Andrews nodded, and he pushed Rachel ahead of him as he and the rest followed Laird into the inky darkness of the hallway.
“Mike, here,” Kelly said as she fell in behind him. She handed him a pair of night vision goggles, which he immediately powered up and slipped on over his head. He adjusted the monocle slightly, then shot her a quick thumbs-up. He could see perfectly, thanks to the light-intensifying technology of the NVGs. From behind them, Mulligan’s assault rifle cracked out three rapid shots. Andrews didn’t look back. The hulking senior NCO had their back, and he could take care of himself.
***
Mulligan watched as the group of survivors at the end of the corridor slowly picked their way toward him. He wasn’t concerned about them just yet, since they were still a good distance away, but he had to question their intelligence. Who tried to sneak up on a guy holding an assault rifle, especially when their concealment was virtually nonexistent? He decided to illustrate their folly by firing three shots at the individual in the lead—two more than absolutely necessary, but he wanted to send a strong message that couldn’t be misinterpreted. He was rewarded by two of the survivors going down. One of them lay still; the second one, who had been behind the first, writhed and screamed in agony on the floor.
“That’ll learn ya,” he said to himself as he reached into a cargo pocket on his uniform trousers. He pulled out the remote detonator that would trigger the charges at the other side of the arena and armed the device with a flick of his thumb. All he had to do now was press the trigger, and—
He lurched as something struck his M416, sending pieces of metal flying through the air. A second object slapped him in the chest an instant later, and yet another exploded against the concrete wall beside his head, pelting him with small pieces of shrapnel that cut open his face. He heard three reports from a firearm, then a fourth. Something went snap! as it blasted right past his head. Mulligan stumbled away and fell to his knees, thankful for the kneepads he wore. At his age, busting a kneecap would be bad news, though not as bad as being shot. He rolled away from the wall—and the hallway—and brought his rifle around. Sure enough, another group of survivors was closing in on him from the opposite side of the corridor, and one of them held a captured M416A3. Mulligan made to shoot the rifleman, but his own rifle was inoperative; he was disgusted to find that a chunk of the upper receiver had been damaged, right where the bolt carrier group was located. The result was that his assault rifle had been converted into a rather expensive club.
Motherf*ck!
The makeshift rifleman opened fire again as he quickly advanced, grinning as he squeezed off round after round. The man had Mulligan dead to rights, and the only thing that saved Mulligan from being killed was the man’s decision to fire while moving. As such, his aim was atrocious, and bullets pocked the concrete floor all around Mulligan as he frantically backpedaled. At the same time, he was being driven away from his escape route.
With no other choice available to him, he pressed the trigger on the detonator he still had in his right hand. He was rewarded with a tremendous thunderclap that seemed to blossom into existence right behind him; a heartbeat later, whirling shrapnel flew through the air as several torches were extinguished by the ensuing shockwave. He watched as several pieces of lethal debris slashed through the group of survivors. The gunman trying to kill Mulligan was almost beheaded by a spinning piece of metal that ricocheted off the corridor’s concrete wall and buried itself in his neck. Plunged into inky darkness, Mulligan heard the creaks and groans of overstressed superstructure fill the air, loud enough for his ringing ears to register. The charges he and Choi had placed had done their job. The roof of the civic center was giving way, slowly collapsing. Great pieces of metal and thick, twisted girders fell behind him, striking the floor and the bleachers with thunderous impacts that kicked up a huge cloud of dust. Mulligan snapped his NVGs over his eyes and struggled to his feet, bolting for the hallway, weaving his way past falling debris. He had almost made it when something large and heavy struck him in the head, driving him to the floor and knocking the NVGs off his face.
Blackness engulfed him.