Dead for Good

by O. J. Anderson

conclusion

They’ve followed Lance to an abandoned warehouse only a few blocks away. Knocked a lock off a delivery door and parked the vans inside. Once hot coffee has been established, Rivers hands the map to Jack. “All set, boss.” On the map are now circled the five nephilim outposts. Jack draws lines connecting the five points in such a way as to create a pentagram, pointing south. At its center is a pentagon surrounding the Rhune Building grounds, Red Shield headquarters.

“Right,” Jack says, turning to Lance. “We have the general locations, but we’ll need your help determining the actual targets. You and I will go to these areas. Just a quick drive through, not even stopping. You point out any vacant building and I’ll laze ’em.” He holds up a chunky gun, a GPS laser, which will transmit the grid coordinates back to Rivers in the control van. They’ll do the numbers and determine the exact targets later.

They take Lance’s car, with Smith and Jones in the back for additional security. And on the way to the first target, the exterminator breaks down the brief history of the Mini City, which used to be named New Bedford.

“There was a lot of crime suddenly. And I mean a lot. It was weird. Rumor was that some gangs were actually being funded. Paid to do this and that... whatever. But it sounded so strange. I mean, who would do that? It was usually dismissed as crazy talk. Conspiracy theory and all. But now, looking back, it doesn’t sound so crazy at all.

“All these private security companies started popping up. They paid really well too. Soon all the real cops were quitting and going to work for these companies. They were getting like three times the pay in the beginning. I think it’s less now though. Anyway, it didn’t take long before the real cops vanished. And once that happened...”

Lance goes on elucidating the demise of New Bedford using the word “incrementalism” three times. He seems very proud of the word, looking over at Jack Creed each time to see if he noticed the phraseology. “They just kept on taking over bit by bit. Some things seemed like a good idea at first, but before anyone knew it, it was too late.”

They drive by another Rottenbugger sign.

Once Red Shield had the city under control, they began depopulating the suburban areas surrounding the city by raising the property taxes to a level which no one could afford--not with what jobs in the city were paying at the time. Everyone was sucked into a tight control grid in the belly of the city. The Mini City ghettoes. The stinkhole.

“Here we are,” Lance says, slowing as they near the intersection.

“Which ones are empty?” Jack asks.

Lance replies, “Uh, all of them.”

“Right.” Jack fires the GPS at the houses.

* * *

Jack briefs his men: “Four assault teams, two men each. Rivers, you take Doc, Lucky, and Simms with you in the control van--roving quick-reaction and medevac. We knock these four targets down fast and nasty: go in, cut it off, get out. Reload, then we go after the head. I want it finished before they even know it’s begun.”

Assault teams are going in light and loose. Wearing cold plasma spherical shields and carrying directed-energy microwave cannons. According to the Creed Doctrine (Section 17, para 8), use of the DEMC, which requires a stationary target, is only authorized in an urban environment with the concurrent use of “creme-puffs” (two-component ultra-urethane, forced-expansion, instant-set, high-density foam grenades). Once the target’s location is identified, the room with be creme-puffed and the target will subsequently be locked inside the foam where it can be easily neutralized using the DEMC.

He claps his hands together. “Let’s go. Let’s do it.”

The squad loads the vans. Four men each. Both assault team vans will come to a rolling stop a block away from the first targets, assault teams will extract, then the vans will move on to the second targets. The strike on all four targets will happen simultaneously, once Jack Creed breaks squelch.

* * *

TARGET 1

Smith slows the van. The side door opens. Jack and Wallace jump out and run to the nearest covered and concealed position: a sagging one-car garage. They hear the van accelerating away toward the next target. As Wallace clicks on his monocular thermal imaging device, Jack checks his watch. Seven minutes out.

Wallace whispers, “Got it, boss. First floor. West side.” Through the thermal he can see the glowing red image of a nephilim giant. Walking slowly. Hunched over, crowded under the ceiling. “Moving to the north side.”

Jack checks his watch. If the nephilim stays on the first floor, near the outer walls, they can creme it from the outside and fire the MC from a good distance. A swift job, clean.

TARGET 2

Smith stops the van. He and Jones jump out and run to their assault position. Jones picks up a trace of the target on thermal. The head-mounted thermal devices are nowhere near as powerful as vehicle-mounted, but he reads a heat signature from the small foundation windows below the siding. It’s in the basement. They’re going inside.

TARGET 3

Reynolds and Yates are in position, standing by. Their target also on the first floor.

TARGET 4

Pickard shakes his head and says, “I got nothing. No target. No target.” He makes a slight adjustment to the thermal’s sensitivity setting. But still nothing.

Simmons checks his watch. 30 seconds. Over the radio he quietly says, “Rivers, you sure we got the right place?”

A moment later: “Roger that.”

The second hand on Pickard’s watch hits 12 and then comes Creed’s signal: tcht. He pulls the thermal device off. The two men pick up and run for the house. They’ll be doing this one the old-fashioned way. Snoop and poop. Scratch and sniff. Kick a few doors down. Creme-puff the whole friggin’ place if they have to. They’ll be all right inside with the CPS shields.

TARGET 1

Wallace takes a knee on the overgrown lawn in front of the house. Brings up the MC ready to fire. Jack runs ahead and pitches a foam grenade through the window. The glass shatters. One-second fuse; no cook-off. A bright flash. Then large bulges of white foam burst out the other windows and freeze solid in suspended states of expansion. Jack runs back to Wallace, who tells him:

“Got it!” Wallace sees the nephilim’s thermal image in the room. He fires the cannon. The thermal image turns a lighter shade of red. Then orange. Yellow. White. The beast was dead before it hit orange but Wallace wants to cook it down to black ash. A fine powder. He holds the cannon steady, getting warmer in his hands. After another thirty seconds there is nothing left to show up on thermal imagery.

TARGET 3

Reynolds and Yates take a slightly different approach. They creme-puff the entire first floor of the house, running around it tossing foam grenades through the windows, Reynolds to the left and Yates to the right. They link up in the back yard, by the patio. High five. Then locate the nephilim and cook it down to nothing.

They secure the house and await further orders.

TARGET 2

Smith locates the basement door while Jones monitors the nephilim’s position through the floor. It’s stationary in the northeast corner of the basement. Jones keeps his cannon pointed downward at the target--approximately twenty feet away from what are sure to be the cellar stairs behind the door--so that Smith knows its location as he prepares to open the door and foam the basement.

They know that the nephilim most likely knows that it has company this evening, what with the footsteps and all. But the nephilim doesn’t know what they know. And it surely doesn’t know about CPS shields, DEMCs, or ultra-urethane.

Smith readies two foam grenades and nods to Jones. He kicks the door in. And just as he pulls the pins, Jones shouts:

“It’s moving!”

Smith chucks the grenades down the stairway and sees a dark blur of movement. The grenades pop. Two orange flashes backlight the monster. He sees it rushing up the stairs.

Then a geyser of foam shoots up the stairs, taking the demon with it. A giant finger of ultra-urethane pokes out the doorway and solidifies like a frozen wave. It blasts into Smith’s CPS and knocks him to the floor. Smith is rattled. Takes a second for him to reorient himself. He hears the foam screaming at him. Howling. To his right Jones is yelling:

“Get back! Get back!”

After clicking on his shoulder-mounted flashlight, he can see the nephilim’s face in the foam. And an arm, exposed from the elbow. It’s making mad swipes at him. Smith says, “What the hell?” and rolls away.

TARGET 1

“Target two clear.”

“Roger,” Jack says. That’s three down. One to go. He checks his watch. He doesn’t like it. Too long. Over the radio, he tells his crew, “All right. Let’s regroup and get to target four.”

TARGET 4

Pickard and Simmons reach the kitchen when they hear the creaking from somewhere upstairs. Pickard tries the thermal again. Nothing.

“Maybe it’s taking a cold shower,” Simmons whispers.

Pickard smiles. Whispers back, “Let’s go fry this fish.”

They creep up to the second floor, grenades ready. Stick their heads into a few rooms. Still, no visual, no thermal. They continue down to the end of a short hallway. Small bathroom, which they hoped would be the spot. Nothing. The house isn’t that big; it must be the wrong place.

Simmons is about to radio Jack when they hear the creaking noise again. Above them.

Pickard points a finger upward. In the attic. He then gives Simmons a shrug and a look like he wants to ask, “What the hell’s it doing up there?”

Simmons shakes his heads, then gives Pickard a look like he wants to say, “I have no idea. How are we going to creme the attic?”

They are both aware that the nephilim could descend through the thin ceiling material quickly and easily and kill them at its leisure. So Simmons pulls the pins on two foam grenades. Anything comes through and they’ll sort it out inside the foam. The CPS shields will afford them some wiggle room and an hour or so of oxygen. The quick reaction force can handle things from there.

Simmons backs up a few feet. Clicks on the shoulder light attached to his combat harness. Above him, near the top of the stairs, is the outline of the pull-down, folding steps to the attic. A loop of string dangling from one end. They look at one another. Both understand what’s about to happen.

Pickard pulls the pin to a foam grenade. Simmons has two. With his free hand, Pickard reaches up and grabs the string. They nod at each other. The ceiling steps drop. Three foam grenades fly into the attic and the spring-loaded steps fly shut behind them.

Three pops. The house rattles. Sounds like it’s being ripped apart. Only for a second though, then it stops. Quiet again.

Pickard tries the thermal device one more time. He says, “Must be the kind of insulation. I don’t know. Let’s get back outside and check.” The two men run down the stairs and head for the door.

* * *

As the van pulls up to Target 4, Jack sees Pickard laying down a microwave beam from the street. Simmons standing next to him.

The sight of the house is a bit unusual. Looks like someone ripped off the roof, stuffed a giant marshmallow inside, and put the roof on top. Like a little hat. Jack walks over to Simmons and says, “Don’t build ’em like they used to, I guess.”

Pickard shuts down the MC. Stands. “That’s it. Got it.”

“Nice work,” Jack tells them. He points to the van. “Let’s get out of here.”

Once the squad and equipment are all accounted for, they link up back at the warehouse. They keep the CPS units on but download the DEM cannons and foam grenades. Phase 2 of the operation will involve mostly traditional weapons. It’s more personal that way, Jack thinks. There’s nothing like a long burst from the smoking barrel of a belt-fed, gas operated machine gun to show an evil entity how you really feel about it.

* * *

“We move out in five mikes,” Jack says.

Lance is taken aback by the amount of weaponry and explosive devices now attached to Jack Creed’s body. A rifle slung over his back. A small submachine gun hanging from his chest. Pistol strapped to each leg. Grenades. And a bunch of other things he hasn’t seen before. He also isn’t quite sure to whom Jack is speaking when he says:

“We’re doing this one old school. Going in guns blazing. Take no prisoners.” Jack then puts his hand on the kid’s shoulder and guides him away from the van. He tells him, “You’ve done a good job for us, Lance. I’m proud of you. But this is as far as I can let you go. This one’s gonna be low down and dirty, and I don’t want you anywhere near it.”

“Yes, sir.” Lance doesn’t protest, but something is obviously on his mind, something he doesn’t know exactly how to say: “But, what should I do, y’know... if you don’t, uh...?”

“Make it?”

“Right.”

“Oh, I’ll make it all right, kid. I always make it.” Jack slaps a mag into his MP5. Chambers a round. “Everyone and everything that needs to die in there will. No more, no less. That’s how this works.” He pauses, then adds, “But if I’m not back around any time soon... don’t worry, someone else will be.”

Lance hears him. Understands what he is saying.

Jack adds, “But don’t wait around too long, kid. Because it might be you.”

Lance the exterminator watches earnestly as Jack turns and walks away. But there is no sadness. Soon he will see the fire, its orange glow haze-like over the buildings. He will feel its warmth, even from the edge of the city. He will hear the screams as the gates of hell are opened, then slammed shut. Then he will see the clouds somberly drift away, and the sun’s return. He will feel the heaviness lift and blow away like the frothy head on a cold Bud Lite. He will see these things. And he will always, always remember Jack Creed.