Slaughterhouse

FIFTEEN.

Throttle wide open. Engine torque and temperature gauges stuck in the red. Rotor bearings screaming from the load. Helicopter has only a few minutes of life left before the engine shuts down. So much laughter, it’s tough to keep the Huey booming along in a straight line, so that’s why they flew in a trail formation. No chance of an accident.

Flying through clouds of smoke. Below, downtown Worcester burns, its streets filled with beautifully gutted bodies, rivers of shattered glass, destroyed vehicles, mountains of debris. The city’s office buildings look like deboned monsters, reduced to nothing more than charred corpses. Clearing the smoke, the airport can be seen, its VOR still active, leading the flight of four Hueys to it like bloodhounds chasing down a strong spoor. The airport looks pristine. Untouched.

That would change.

Another aircraft appears, rising from behind the airport terminal building—a Black Hawk. It hovers for a moment, then noses over and flies away. Two more rise, hover for a moment, then turn away from the incoming helicopters.

Everyone laughs.

It’s time for some fun.

Time to kill.