Bloodless

69

In the shelter of the old war monument, Commander Delaplane had set up a makeshift emergency command center, commandeering Senator Drayton’s campaign bus to do so. He was gone — gone for good — and his people had all fled. But the bus was exactly what she needed, fitted out with a police scanner, radio, fast internet, and several flat-panel television screens tuned to news channels. It also had an independent source of power, necessary now that pockets of the city had been plunged into darkness.

What she was witnessing was incredible, unfathomable — and so she’d tried to push the disbelieving part of her mind away for the time being and concentrate on the tasks at hand. The grandstand had gone up like a bonfire and was still burning furiously. The park was now mostly clear of people, at least those still alive and mobile; left behind was a vast scene of horror, with the wounded crying out in pain and the dead left trampled in grotesque positions on the grass and surrounding walkways. Yellow beams from portable torches or flashlights winked here and there. Some EMTs had arrived and were struggling to do basic triage, but they had few ambulances or equipment.

The problem was, people couldn’t escape the historic city center except on foot. The narrow streets leading away were jammed with abandoned cars, blocks and blocks of them, many ablaze. Most of the EMTs and fire crews were unable to get through. In addition to the hordes of tourists in town, thousands of people had been bused in for the rally — those very buses parked on side streets causing blockages of their own. People were desperate to take shelter somewhere, anywhere. Her radio crackled with reports of restaurants and hotel lobbies flooding with humanity. And the hellish creature was flying around in a fury, killing indiscriminately, bashing into buildings, and knocking down power poles and streetlights.

She and her officers were desperately trying to get an orderly evacuation underway, but the scene was proving too chaotic. She’d never seen anything like it. Many people, including some of her own officers, were literally losing their minds.

A news helicopter had appeared with a camera crew, flying along the southern end of the historic district. She could see the simulcast on one of her television screens in the bus. They certainly had stones — or were just plain stupid. When the monster spotted the chopper, it went straight for it as it might a rival, talons extended. Grabbing a shotgun from the weapon cache, she ran outside the bus just in time to see the chopper spiral down from the sky, crashing just beyond Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard. A ball of fire rose up over the rooftops, enveloping the West Broad Library in smoke and flame.

Delaplane stood outside the bus, shouting largely ineffectual commands into her radio. The monster, having knocked the helicopter from the sky, was now cruising the length of Whitaker Street, flying low. She heard an eruption of gunfire from the direction of the Methodist church. Two people were clinging to a ladder bolted to the steeple, firing at the brute. From this distance she couldn’t be sure, but it looked like the two FBI agents. Christ, they were brave. The monster, annoyed by the gunfire, swooped back around, smashing the steeple with its wings and sending it toppling into the street. Then it clawed at the church’s façade, violently flapping its wings in a fury. Many people had taken refuge in the church, and now they came streaming out like ants from a burning log.

She got back on the radio. “Where the hell is the National Guard?” she screamed. “We need more firepower!”

The hopeless dispatcher said the guard couldn’t get through; the streets were jammed.

“Have them get out of the damned vehicles and hoof it!” She paused. “Put me through directly!”

A few seconds later, a Guardsman from Operations got on the line. What she wanted wasn’t possible, he said; it was against protocol to abandon their backup firearms, ammo, and equipment in the vehicles.

“Fly them in on choppers, then!”

The man told her that Black Hawks, loaded with troops and missiles, were being scrambled and would be in the air in fifteen minutes.

The eerily calm voice infuriated her. “Fifteen minutes?” she said, hoarse from yelling. “I want them now! And where the hell are those MRAPs you said were on their way?”

They were, she was told, trying to clear passageways from the interstate through to West Gaston Street and from the Truman Parkway through East President to Bay, but both routes were blocked by deserted vehicles and were taking time to clear.

“Bring troops up the river, then!”

They were working on that, she was told, but it wasn’t a simple thing, and—

With a curse, Delaplane cut off the transmission, holstered the radio, and turned to the officers who had responded to her call. Only twelve. But they were all good men and women — and they were awaiting her orders.

“Listen up!” she said as she looked down the line. “The National Guard’s on its way. But we can’t wait. Until they get through, we’ve got to take this bitch down ourselves. You all ready?”

There was a ripple of silent nods.

“That’s what I like to hear!” She raised the shotgun, ratcheted a shell into the chamber. “Lock and load!”