Chapter Thirteen
Civil War, Military Coup De Tat
It was comforting and warm in the fire station. Especially when they finally got the fire going, cased inside an empty and upright oil drum. They all stood warming their cold hands over the tall licking flames. The pilot, his two gunners, Logan and Lizzie. She had found a fireman’s jacket and returned Logan’s. It was, surprisingly, a nice fit.
They had holed up in the main garage of the fire station. It was a cavernous and grey place with a single fire engine left behind in the darkness. It sat there motionless with its ladder propped over the top and its hoses reeled around in the middle.
It was a radiant red color and stretched to an impressive twenty or so feet long. The tires alone were almost half her size. The cabin, itself the size of a long estate car with both front and back seats, faced forward to the enormous metal shutter.
The fire from the overturned oil drum licked the darkness gently and teasingly. The truck beamed a lovingly washed red in the flickering light. Logan and the two gunners pulled a long wooden tool bench over the bare concrete floor over to the oil drum fire. That made for a nice bench to sit on with enough space to fit them all on and more besides.
It was just high enough to lose themselves in the warmth of the fire but still see over to the windows at the far side of the garage. The windows had been barred, quite professionally, with thick blocks of wood. Three thick planks over each of the two windows which left only small gaps where glass was still visible behind. The fire officers had made the place pretty safe but had ultimately decided not to stay.
The pilot had instantly reported that New York had been flattened. Only a few buildings were left standing on the outskirts of the city but the rubble was still falling and the sky blackened beyond sight. No surprises then.
There would have been no one left alive. No chance at all. Even if there had been there would be no hope of finding them. Not on the resources of one helicopter, a few grunts with limited ammo, and a tank.
‘The fire’s going out.’ Lizzie stood up from her little side of the wooden tool bench and peered into the oil drum. She was coming down with a headache and felt colder than she should with the thick black fire jacket she had on. She didn’t want to cause a fuss or look weak in front of the guys so she said nothing.
She hadn’t eaten right in weeks. Especially not after leaving the relative comfort of her flat. So she put her sudden feeling of weakness and lack of concentration down to that. The fireman jacket rubbed and creaked with each sway of her step. It was deathly silent and every single noise seemed amplified. The wood they had salvaged from the garage, just old chocks and supports for the engines, were burned to black charred cinders and had been reduced mostly to ash.
She looked up to see Logan still staring at the floor through his crossed legs. He had been pretty quiet since they got back from the emergency lab set up over the ice. He was probably thinking about General Cygan, his old friend turned enemy, and what his next move might be. He didn’t answer her.
‘I’ll go find some more. Maybe a few doors we can break up from the house.’ She offered to her silent crowd. Outside of the heat of action the helicopter crew had changed a little. They were all sat in a line across the same tool bench, each wearing their own unique reflective facial expressions, their minds crowded with thoughts of whatever home was or used to be.
One of the gunners, his name was Jake, smiled at her and unhooked his radio from the top of his shoulder. It was wrapped around his cold ears and clipped onto his shirt under his stab vest.
‘Here.’ He threw it for her but didn’t get up. She caught it and pressed the transmit button a few times so Logan could hear his radio click. That meant he knew it was working and she would be able to call for help if she needed it. He nodded at her.
‘Be careful.’ Logan ordered her and tapped his hip. That reminded her to check she was locked and loaded. She took out her 9 millimeter police pistol only to remember it was out of ammo. Jake, seeing her vacant look, toook a matching magazine from his waist and passed it to her. She re-loaded and pulled the catch back. One in the chamber and the safety on.
She holstered it back behind her loose trousers and confidently strolled to the door behind them. She reached up and comfortingly squeezed Logan’s shoulder with one hand on her way past. He looked at her to see only a brief smile at the corner of her mouth.
The door that led to the house was thick and strong. The key was in the keyhole and after a solid 360 degree turn the locks all turned, clunked, and the door swung freely forward away from the doorway. She pulled on it hard, took the key, stepped through the dark hall and locked it behind her.
‘You banging that, General?’ That was the pilot. Logan just looked at him from his brooding stance, tried his hardest to be annoyed, but couldn’t help but see his humor and admire it.
‘She’s easily young enough to be my daughter you dumb ass.’ He forced a laugh. The pilot was smiling from ear to ear. Every tooth gleamed in the fire light and sparkled with a whitened sheen. He had taken off his helmet for the first time.
His face was old. Older than it should be. He wasn’t old in years but he was aged in experience and withered by the dead world around them. His face was wrinkled before it’s time and his thick hair had turned slowly from jet black to streaky grey.
‘Is that a no?’ He pushed Logan even further but this time he didn’t reply. Jake, the gunner, perked up instead.
‘I wouldn’t turn her down.’ He tried his best to get involved and banter with his crew but his nervousness was obvious.
His voice gave away his youth and lack of real life experience. He forced a smile but his thin and cracked lips quivered.
‘Did I mention I care about her like she is my daughter?’ Logan sounded stern and gave no glimpse into his mindset. He forced a hint of a smile away from his lips and doused his small laugh from before. He was winding the young gunner up.
‘Sorry General.’ He said quickly, looked away, and his smile instantly faded.
Logan, the pilot, and the other gunner just burst out laughing. Not a loud abrasive laugh but more a collective and friendly snigger.
‘Relax kid.’ Logan shoved him so hard he almost fell off the edge of the bench. ‘Just keep focused on the job and don’t screw her around. She’s a good kid.’
‘What is the job at hand sir?’ Jake recoiled and tried to act like he knew it was all a wind-up.
Logan sighed and a nervous silence followed. Jake was just a kid himself. Short blonde hair, shaved at the sides, with a tattoo on his temple of a red heart outlined in thick black under his right ear. The other gunner was a spitting double. Pretty much identical without the tattoo or shaved temples.
‘Well…’ Logan began and shifted his position to dangle his legs over the bench. ‘You should probably stop calling me “Sir” and start making those decisions for yourselves.’ He took a look around at the three of them, pausing for a few seconds as he met each of their eyes. Nobody volunteered a response but they all held his cold stare in turn.
‘I’m in no position to demand that you stay here, fight my war with me, and take on General Cygan and a mass army of un-dead zombies.’ Logan continued and focused on the pilot. He was, if not the commander, then the natural leader of the three strong helicopter crew. Still no response so Logan continued.
‘You all must have families. You all have to make a decision about whether you want to break off and try to find your wives or girlfriends, or parents. Anybody at all.’ The pilot’s warm and inviting eyes changed gradually into cold and dark pools with a viscous stare.
‘General.’ He stood arms folded and walked to the other side of the oil drum to try and draw some warmth from its dying embers. ‘Don’t think of any of us as idiots. I’ve flown that bird nonstop for weeks and watched the world burn through the windshield. I’ve put down more of “Reggie” than any other enemy I’ve even been put up against. Eno
ugh to secure a nice warm seat in Hell for me. We’re all alone at the end of the world.’
Logan interrupted him mid flow. ‘What’s your name, pilot?’
‘Good luck.’ That was the other gunner. He hadn’t even said a word yet. ‘This guy picked us up in Philly, saved our asses, and he won’t even tell us his rank never mind his name.’
‘I don’t need a name.’ The pilot shot back. ‘Nobody does. We’re all as dead as them.’ He gestured with his eyes and a sway of his shoulders to the metal shutters behind him. ‘We just don’t know it yet.’ He paused for just a second to see Logan’s face flicker back into life with a faint hint of a smile.
Logan liked this guy. He sensed they were somewhere on the same wavelength or brainwave. He wanted him to keep talking. To see if he was right.
‘Isn’t that amazing though?’ The pilot spoke fast and he was almost excited. ‘We’re all already dead, every one of us, and I swear to you I’m fucking glad we are! Now every day we live is a gift. We can be free of the things we think we live for and start living for ourselves.’ Jake started shaking his head and brushed his palm through his short stubble at the sides of his skull.
‘Shut up man I’m sick of hearing this bull.’ The pilot just ignored him and honed in on the fact he had an audience with Logan.
‘I don’t know about you, Sir, but I’m sick of being sent to every backwater swamp on the Godless salty Earth to fight in a million wars that I didn’t chose for myself. To kill men I don’t know because he thinks a different way.’ He enunciated the word “Sir” in a mocking slur. Logan wore the same uniform and represented the same heartless war machine the pilot had begun to hate.
‘But let me tell you what I do believe.’ He smiled again. That beaming, well looked after, childlike smile. He raised an almost accusing finger to Logan, a man who should have been his commander. ‘I believe in you! I can see it in you. If any sorry mother fucker at the end of civilization can drag this planet out of the grave I know it’s you.’ His teeth gritted and his jaw tightened. Almost like he was angry. ‘So I guess that makes us, for want of anything better to call it, partners. Your war just became mine.’
‘So what do I call you…? Hummingbird?’ Logan mocked. The General smiled like never before. He kept doing that. Changing the conversation once it got too intense for him. He didn’t care about what the pilot had just said. Or the weight of trust he had just placed firmly across Logan’s ample shoulders. He might have been the last hope of the dying world and he might not have been. But he had to admit, rather quickly in only a passing thought, that he relished in the chance to be.
‘We just call him “Jack”.’ That was the other Gunner again. The younger one. He raised his head from his slouched and tucked up sitting position.
‘How come?’ Logan asked.
‘Because we’ve never seen him without a bottle of “Jack” in his pocket. We’ve found him at the bottom of one or two as well.’ The pilot just winked and pulled out a distinct square shaped bottle from his top pocket. Logan laughed out loud in excitement.
‘I guess we’ll get along just fine then.’ He paused his laughter and held out his hand to ask for a swig.
‘No idea where he keeps getting them from but that’s the fifth I’ve seen him get to the bottom of in a week.’ The young gunner locked eyes with his pilot friend. The pilot, “Jack”, handed it over to Logan who slowly unscrewed it after studying the familiar label.
‘I prefer Kentucky Bourbon but I guess Tennessee at the end of the world will have to do.’ He raised it with a tilt towards “Jack”; sort of a thanks come respectful “I get you” kind of gesture, and drank a healthy mouthful. He savored the taste. The harsh burning sensation that warmed the back of his throat, as the syrupy, woody vanilla flavor intensified as it trickled down to his stomach.
‘I’m Jake.’ The older gunner introduced himself formally and smiled. He bravely ignored his instinct, that silly tradition drilled into him since joining the military, to stand to attention and salute Logan as the General he used to be.
Instead, he held out a hand, and shook his firmly. They were all just guys, drinking around a dying fire, alone at the end of the world after all. No ranks. No names necessary.
‘And that sorry looking ass hole to your left is my kid brother, Sid.’ Jack, the pilot, grabbed the bottle out of Logan’s stubborn grip and passed it to Jake. He took a swig but grimaced afterwards. It was an acquired taste but not one for everybody.
‘And as much as you might be the answer, or the savior, of the whole wide world.’ He steadied his breath as his nostrils burned with the intense taste of the whisky. ‘We’re out.’
‘Ok.’ Logan nodded after only a short pause. He locked eyes with Jake and measured the length of his stare. That helped him gauge how serious he was and how convicted he was to his decision. He wasn’t even going to ask why but Jake told him anyway.
‘You see, my funny looking kid brother over there, thinks his sweetheart might still be out there. And since I have nothing else going on I suppose I have to be the guy who tries to reunite them.’ He smiled, and reached over Logan to ruffle his brother’s hair playfully. Just like they were still kids or something. Logan admired them and that brotherly tie. He didn’t have that as a lonely child.
‘Well you need to chase that.’ He assured them both. ‘If that’s what you believe in and that’s what you want then you need to follow that hope.’ Logan swiped the bottle back and took another swig. It burned and went pretty quickly to his head given he was running persistently on an empty stomach.
‘It isn’t just empty hope though, General.’ Sid fired up. He wore his worries, and his hope, openly on his fair clean shaven face. He didn’t even have the energy to sustain eye contact with the General.
‘She lives on a farm way out in the sticks, surrounded by woods, and a few hours’ drive from the nearest town. She’s smart too. I know she’ll still be there.’ He didn’t even know why he kept talking.
Logan wasn’t going to stop either of them from leaving, nor was he going to argue with the logic or maturity of any decision that any of these men made. That was all they were now. Men. No more military and no more service. Everyone had to make their own rules from that point on.
‘How about you Logan?’ Jake asked but he didn’t need an answer.
‘Cygan.’ He replied but said nothing.
The old man was holed up in the White House, only a few hours drive away, with far too much power under his fractured old eyes. If there was anything left in the world to save, Logan needed to stop Cygan before he needlessly destroyed it all.
The calm of the garage was shattered with an echoing, panicked, primal scream. Lizzie.
Logan bounded off the bench and darted to the door. He hadn’t even realized that she had locked it. His eyes darted from one side of the room to the next in search of a solution. All he saw instead were the cold, bloodied and bloated eyes peering through the gaps of the window bars.
It had been a soldier. One of the armed infantry from the convoy leaving New York City. Its nose was completely missing and blood oozed from the gaping hole in its face and ran freely down to his camouflaged jacket. It still had hold of its rifle, though it quickly became caked in thick clotted blood.