(I've decided to turn this into a short story. It's not finished, but leave comments and junk!)
In the modest Vegas hotel room, Liam showered while Juliana ordered room service. They would have shared the shower, but they hadn’t talked much since the ceremony. Liam wasn’t sure if it was the fact that he couldn’t concentrate on his sister’s wedding, or all the news about New Manhattan.
Wrapped in a towel, and seated on the bed, Liam ate from the tray. Juliana sat beside him as they watched television. The segments kept looping, showing the same pictures and video over again. They drank the liquor from the mini-bar, and watched the footage.
“I can’t believe it,” Juliana whispered.
“Neither can I,” Liam replied. He made himself eat; his eyes were glued to the television. A perimeter was set up around a smoking crater created no less than thirteen hours ago. The area was roped off by yellow caution tape, and was being invaded by people in white HAZMAT suits, some of which carried guns.
“They’re probably handling it.” Juliana ran her fingers through Liam’s short, black hair, smiling a hopeful smile, “Maybe they don’t need the special ops guys.”
“Yeah. Maybe.” Liam made himself say that, put her mind at ease for the moment. She didn’t see it like he did, but that wasn’t her fault. This was the fourth crash in the last week behind India, Japan, Australia, and now the United States. All the reports said that the objects came from above the atmosphere.
Then, he felt her head on his shoulder. Her tequila breath drifted out and into his nose as she spoke, “I hope no one was hurt.”
And there it was. People could be openly murdering each other in the streets with bombs going off everywhere, and she would wish the best possible outcome. That’s why he loved her; she believed that there was good in everyone and that everything happened for a reason. Looking at the screen, Liam had to agree that this was definitely happening for a reason.
He put his arm around her and turned to kiss her forehead, but caught her lips instead. Juliana leaned into him, stroking his cheek and pulling him closer. They’re lips separated for a moment and her gentle voice comforted him, “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah. I’m just tired.” He couldn’t hide his concern from her; she was always able to sense his distress and comforted him through it, “This stuff on the news-”
He hesitated, but she was there to pick up the words. A strand of her blonde hair fell between her aqua eyes, “It bothers you, I know. But it’ll be okay. It’s probably just some meteors.”
She got up and jumped on his lap, the sudden addition of her weight made him lean forward, but he caught himself and held her close. Juliana took the remote from the bed, turning off the television. She kissed him hard and pressed her chest against his, pushing him to lie back on the bed.
-----
The faceplate felt cool against Liam Macintosh’s face. He had to get up, but he was lightheaded. His world spun, focused, and spun some more.
Nauseous, he felt the vomit slither its way up his throat, but he fought it back. The helmet was connected to the battle suit and it wouldn’t be pleasant sloshing around in vomit. Besides, the recycled air in his suit was a constant, musty reminder that he would need a long, hot shower when he got it off. Pushing up, he remained on one knee, groaning weakly against the rhythmic pounding of his skull.
It was hard for Liam to grasp being alone in a big place like this. 55.69 square miles of wide streets in a rectangular grid made up Manhattan, New Jersey. Buildings reached to the sky with hundreds of rooms and no one in them. Some were broken, shattered, or even burning.
Liam checked his armor. The plating was still intact, but scathed from the impact. The last thing he remembered was that horrible rising in his stomach. How long had he been out? He could see the craft in flames not too far from where he was, and his breath came in short, shallow gasps when he saw it.
A thick, red gloss marked a trail against the black concrete toward the other side of the ship. Blood. Lots of blood. He looked behind, along the street, but he didn’t see anything or anyone. Looking back to the trail, he slowly followed around, stopping when he reached the source. Jones; the pilot.
Liam wasn’t big on words when it came to sights like this, but Jones was fucked. The man was face up and caked in dry blood except for the smiling hole in his chest. And it wasn’t cut open. There were no straight lines or signs or torture; it looked like something punched clean through. Some of the ribs stuck out while others were broken inward where his heart should be.
He didn’t know Jones that well, quiet kid that he was. Liam remembered hearing something about the guy’s family. He pictured how they would react knowing that Jones… Arthur was dead. Lying on the ground, alone, with his heart literally ripped out.
He thought of his own fiancé, Juliana. How would she take the news? Then he pushed those thoughts away; he needed to focus. He could think about that no more than he could think of the sick fucking things that did this; or just the thumping in his skull. And still, he needed to move.
Communication was the first step. The ship was up in flames, and so was the radio inside, but the city had to have something he could use to contact the cruiser in orbit.
Jones had put up a fight before he died; his empty assault rifle lay beside him. Liam reloaded the weapon before heading into the shadow of the buildings.
A scream; a high-pitched shrill tore through the air. Liam immediately darted to cover; an overturned vehicle seemed like the best spot to hide. Peaking his head out, he saw the creature sniffing around.
The scientists that studied them had some weird, long name for it, but the military dubbed them as Hellhounds. But this wasn’t the type of creature that had killed Jones. It was more of a scout, and it had his scent.
Liam knelt in the shadow of the car. He kept close to it as he looked around to see the creature again. The computer augmented systems (CAS) inside his helmet made the adjustments to bring his opponent into full clarity.
“Lock on.” Liam commanded.
Instantly the CAS tagged the hound. Even as the creature hunted through the street, the helm’s veiwplate kept it marked, tagged it with a blinking orange triangle that indicated direction.
“Locked.” The computer responded in a calm female voice. When he’d first learned that the suit’s on-board computer could be programmed to respond in any voice, he’d known exactly whose voice he wanted to hear. Juliana, his fiancé, spoke into his ear for years on the battlefield and it was what kept him fighting.
He readied his weapon, sliding out into the open, and aimed. The Hellhound lifted its head in reaction to the movement, but it did not have the chance to act. Liam fired a short burst that hit the dog in the head. The computer showed no other contacts in the area. Now was a good time to move before more came.
Liam darted ahead, pushing off to begin his momentous charge through the cluttered intersection ahead. Lines of cars, memorabilia of the once busy city, lay dormant and silent. It had been years since humanity touched these vehicles; SUV’s, convertibles, and sport cars were corpses that laid in a graveyard
Originally, the mission was quite simple. They were to gain access to a facility and retrieve a high priority package. It was quite clear that the object was to be undamaged upon contact and it should be handled with the utmost care. During the evacuation of the city, a lot was left behind, and the military lost a valuable component.
The Lieutenant was a survivor; one who was sent to lead the front line and bring the platoon home in two or three pieces instead of many. Returning lost property just didn’t fit his profile, but he took the mission anyway. His superiors handpicked the team Liam would have behind him, which meant that whatever the item was, the military wanted it back badly.
-------
“What do you think it is?” Miles leaned forward. The soldiers all communicated via the CAS connection to other computers with a wireless uplink. Miles, especially, prefer using it when they donned their suits over yelling across a room.
“It’s classified, and it’s locked down pretty tightly.” Liam held onto the rail of the hovercraft. The cargo door was open since they were close to the landing zone.
“We’re up to our eyeballs in ‘classified’ bullshit. I just wanna get this thing and get a beer.” Andrews gripped his weapon, checking it for the fifth time since they left the bay of the ship, “Check’em!”
“Already did, man!” Miles petted his P-90 on the side like it was his girl or something.
“Well, do it again, kid! A jammed weapon is as useless as a dead team!” The youngest of all of us, Miles knew he was right, and that remembering what we learned in the field was important to any mission.
“Why do you have to call me ‘kid’?” Miles absolutely despised being referred to as a child. Maybe it was because he was the youngest of five, but no one could truly be sure.
“Because you haven’t stepped out of your Pampers and killed something worth killing yet.” Andrews said, and the others laughed.
They all gave their weapons a once over, and Liam smirked behind his faceplate as he did the same. Andrews had a way of looking out for them, and it was that quality that made the rest happy to have him.
Buildings flowed by as the craft took the six-man team to the LZ, but it wasn’t fast enough. It was bad enough they didn’t know what they were after, but Liam had a bad feeling that the package was worth more trouble than reward.
“We’ve got company!” The voice of the pilot, Jones, rang in their helmets, “Bogey approaching on our six!”
“What is it?” Liam gripped his rifle as he spoke. The cockpit was separated by steel plating, making it hard to see what Jones saw. However, the tracking systems of their battle suits detected movement. It appeared as a dot, but no other information was displayed about it.
Then, the craft shifted and rocked as smoke filled the cabin. Liam reached out to grab hold of something as he felt the ship turn and lose stability. Sirens sounded to alert the passengers in case they needed to prepare for emergency eject. The pilot’s voice raised, he gave the order, “We’ve been hit! Bail out! BAIL OUT!”
