A Guardian Angel (31 page)

“Short of
blowing a hole in the wall,” the lieutenant replied, his voice
trailing off at the look of deep contemplation on his commander's
face.

The gunshots only
increased in frequency. The noise sent a horrid shutter down Rosa's
spine. Every discharged round could be one of her men dying. The more
the sound filled her ears, the more it felt like nails on a
chalkboard. She wanted to run away from it, to not think about it.
She raised her head in a decisive movement.

“Tell our
guys to start checking bodies,” Rosa commanded. “We need
to get a sergeant's key badge ASAP.”

“Yes, ma'am,”
the young man replied, nodding. With a quick glance over his
shoulder, he ran off toward the bulk of the militia.

Rosa prayed that a
sergeant could be found.

Some small measure
of confidence found its way into Barney's attitude as he watched his
commanding officer fight from behind the cover next to him. The old
man was well trained, and not even a drop overconfident. Careful
grace surged through the sergeant's veins, guiding his aim and
enhancing his senses.

Sergeant Winestock
saw Barney watching him from across the way.

“You've got
two of them flanking you, Slechta,” the old man yelled as quiet
as he could. He reloaded his M4 as he spoke. “I'll suppress
them. Get ready to take your shots.”

The thought that
blanketed Barney's consciousness was one of fear. His body trembled
and sweat made his skin itch as it forced its way out of his pores.
Ill-prepared. That's what they'll call me,
Barney thought.
At
my funeral.

“You got
this,” Sergeant Winestock nodded to him. “Ready?”

The metal of the
rifle in Barney's hands was cold to the touch, but still his hands
were sweaty and shaky. It seemed like the gun was getting heavier and
heavier as he became more aware of it, concentrating on how his
muscles were going to move to lock the rifle into position. He drew
in a heavy breath, warm and numbing, then nodded to his commander.

Sergeant Winestock
counted down with his fingers, dropping digits down from three. In
what seemed like the blink of an eye, both men stood up on their feet
and raised their guns. No time passed between when the weapons
stopped moving and when the bullets began flying. The militants
jolted as each round shredded through them, then dropped to the
pavement without so much as a yelp. Blood stained the ground.

Both of the Decree
soldiers ducked down behind their respective covers. Barney felt
relieved; felt horrified. His breath seized during the moment and
rushed now to be caught. Blood pounded through his temples. When he
turned his head and looked over at the Grandfather, a reassuring nod
was relayed to him. For the time being, Barney felt safe.

Breaths were drawn
in slowly and strategies were fluid as Barney found sturdy legs. He
fired his gun with all the deliberation he could. No great marksman,
but his mind was calm. Again, he glanced over at his commanding
officer.

Deep concentration
was on the old man's face. He held his body tight like a fist,
crouched behind a short stucco wall. Barney became worried when he
saw the distant and surreal form dashing up to them. Sweat began
beading out from his eyebrows. It stung when it leaked into his eye,
but he continued to watch as Sergeant Winestock popped up and took a
few shots. They were well placed, but Guillotine danced away before
the old man even finished squeezing the trigger. The sergeant began
to perspire.

“He's got no
gun!” Sergeant Winestock hollered over to Barney. He looked
back over his shoulder to the rest of his men. All but one of them
was locked in combat with the Knights. Bullets zoomed through the sky
like hornets, crisscrossing in a elegant jumble. Dust broke out and
up in the air like fireworks, cracking aloud with the impact of lead.
Sergeant Winestock looked back over at Barney, the only head that
faced him. Worry dripped from his own expression.

At the same time,
both mercenaries fired at the frightening hulk racing toward them
with a machete. Guillotine moved as if he put on a performance. The
metal shot past him. The bullets seemed to bend around the man,
refusing to hit him. One of them sunk into the side of Guillotine's
hip, but still he ran.

Terror burned the
lining of Barney's veins.

All Sergeant
Winestock was able to do before being run through by Guillotine's
blade was turn to Barney with an expression of hopeless shock.

Barney's legs threw
him away from the picture, though it burned on the insides of his
retinas. His legs pounded like pistons over the black street. His
eyes shook in horror and made it difficult to see where he went. He
didn't care where he ran, though. Away was his only destination.

He kept low, trying
to remain uninteresting to the combatants. Shots were fired over the
rise in his spine, but none hit him. Everything around him erupted
with noise and undecipherable movement. Nothing made sense as he saw
it. His eyes only looked in front of him, but his mind didn't have
the available resources to identify the images that he rushed past.
Heart pounding and breath suspended, Barney escaped the scene.

Peeling off into an
alley on his right, Barney's breath felt humid and hard. His legs
started beating in a more relaxed rhythm. The world outside his eyes
dimmed and brightened in slow pulses. His own exhalation was the only
sound in the mercenary's ears when he stopped sprinting. Knees
shaking, Barney leaned over himself with the fear of passing out. He
had already suppressed the scene and his thoughts strove only to keep
him alive.

Footsteps got
closer, got loud enough for Barney to hear over his own panting. His
respiration seized in fear but his body stood petrified to the spot.
His gun felt impossibly heavy. His arms were feeble. A rifle cocked
behind him, much closer than he imagined his pursuer to be.

He stood still and
waited. He veiled his eyes in flesh and lingered to die. But death
didn't follow.

“Sergeant?”
a woman's voice asked.

Barney stood in
silence for a handful of seconds with his back to the woman. He
turned his face over his left shoulder. The Knight was a younger
woman with taught and pale features. Her eyes were wild with
adrenaline as her gun shook in her hands.

“Sorry?”
Barney asked after a brief pause of thought. His voice had startled
her.

“Are you a
sergeant?” she asked. Her voice was pained. “You're
retreating.”

“I'm not a
sergeant,” Barney replied with light words. His fatigue
reflected itself in his tone.

The air was thick
with deliberate thoughts. Barney imagined that he could feel the heat
of her thoughts radiating from behind him.

“Drop your
gun,” she said.

Barney looked back
at her again out of the side of his eyes. He grabbed the metal and
lowered it. He could hear the Knight tense up, grasping onto her own
firearm like a frightened critter. Barney's rifle was tossed to the
ground. The air around the pair of them felt heavy.

“My sergeant
was killed,” Barney's dismal voice carried back to her.

“Where?”
she interrogated him.

He could see a glow
of worry in the woman's eyes. They seemed to dart ever so slightly as
if making frantic escape attempts. He knew that this was important to
her. “Why?” he answered.

She raised the gun
in front of her eyes, lining up Barney in the iron sights.

“Alright,
calm down,” Barney pleaded in as soothing a voice as he could
muster. “I'll take you.”

“Tell me
where it is,” she insisted.

“I can't
remember,” Barney turned around to face her. She raised her
weapon again, but lowered it when he stopped moving. “It was
back on the corner somewhere.”

The Knight was
silent for a minute while she thought. Sweat ran down Barney's face,
but his breath was cool and calm. He held still. The woman turned her
eyes back up to him. “Lead,” she instructed. She waved
her gun out toward the street, gesturing him to move.

The sound was
muffled from within the alley, but it boomed to a bone pounding
volume once they left it. Few of the people that Barney had scurried
past during his escape remained standing on their feet. Knights
pushed straight to the door of the Decree Tower, where the
mercenaries defending it were worn for supplies and tactics. The
small number of them left huddled behind the most loose definitions
of cover. Seldom did they expose themselves to take shots at the
small herd of militants as they moved closer and closer to their
position. Broken forms decorated the street in a scattered pattern.
Voices buzzed in the air like the hum of electricity.

Guillotine slid
along the tower wall toward the remaining merc-cops from the side.
The mercenaries were unaware of the large man's approach. The
pressure that the militants placed on them occupied their attention
away from the attack. Barney wanted to call out to them, warn them
that a monster lurked behind them. Instead, he looked away and chose
to ignore their fate.

“Keep low,”
Barney's escort commanded. “If anyone sees you, you'll be
shot.”

Barney kept his
gaze outward as he followed her instructions, scanning the faces.
Paranoia summoned images of them turning toward him, taking notice of
him. Waves of icy blood washed over him, but he persisted.

The area where he
had left the Grandfather looked little like it had just a collection
of minutes before. It looked like what Barney imagined No Man's Land
looked like. Blood, flesh and ragged cloth were all scattered on the
ground, their sources gruesome to behold. Barney found his commanding
officer, a bloody heap in the street. He was only able to recognize
the remains by the sergeant's beard.

“His keys,”
the woman said. “I need his keys.”

Barney bent down.
His hands shook as he rummaged through the soggy pockets of Sergeant
Winestock's uniform. In no time, his digits hit the keys. The Knight
crouched next to him, her weapon raised to his head. Her eyes scanned
over every movement he made.

He continued
searching through the pockets.

Something moved in
the corner of Barney's eye, a quick, dark form. The Knight noticed
it, too. She turned her head to watch a crow fly up past a lamppost,
circling above. At that exact moment, Barney gripped Sergeant
Winestock's combat knife under his knuckles and rammed the blade
straight into the woman's temple.

He grabbed the keys
and ran.

This time when he
ran, it was straight to the tower. He clutched onto the sergeant's
keys, cold to the touch. One of them must open a door somewhere along
the building. Once he could get inside, he might have a chance of
being safe.

Barney sneaked low
while he ran, used anything over knee-height to conceal himself from
the busy combatants. He swore to himself under his breath, wishing he
had grabbed the woman's gun before he had left. There was a small
squad of Knights who had almost complete control of the concrete
steps, advancing ahead of him.

Far off to the
right of the building, just out of the corner of his eye, Barney
spotted orange Decree uniforms. Three mercenaries had fallen back
with little to no attention from the militants and disappeared around
a corner to the tower's garage. They were gone faster than they had
appeared.

A Knight turned
away from the door at the top of the concrete steps. Barney hit the
ground, almost certain that the man had seen him. As quietly as he
could, he pulled a dead body over him and hid his face down onto the
street. Footsteps crunched behind, deafening loud in Barney's fearful
ears. There was no sound for a dozen seconds except for the pulsing
of blood rushing past his temples. The footsteps moved. The slow
scratch of shoe on asphalt dragged like the sound of a creaking door.
For a moment, Barney believed that the militant had moved along and
that it was safe to come out. Just before he moved, the loudest, most
ear shattering gunshot exploded next to his ears.

“Hey!”
a voice called from further up the stairs. “Stop wasting ammo
and get up here!”

Time crawled before
Barney heard the Knight step away and rejoin his comrades.

Barney got up,
throwing the carcass the Knight had shot off of him. He ignored the
fresh blood that speckled his uniform and started moving along the
right. Barney continued turning a cautious eye toward the militants.
They continued a search around the building, spreading apart. Barney
made his way toward the garage.