Doom’s Daughter, Chapter 7

Father cracks the safe with a deft hand and we bust out the ‘big guns’: a modified, scoped Belgian FN for him and an M4 for me. Neither of us are a fan of ‘spray ‘n pray’ methods, going for precision instead of area covered.

I drape a couple belts of NATO rounds over my shoulder. “Sure miss the tank right about now. We taking Charlotte out to play?”

Father purses his lips. “Hmm. No. I’ve seen their fortifications. Towers are better for our purposes. Sounds like they’re coming from the forest to the north and the road leading east. You take one of the east-facing towers. Let’s go!”

“You’re the one yammering,” I joke.

We dash off in different directions. The night is a concerto of gunfire and screams.

Humanity’s population dwindles¸ I think, and people still feel the need to kill each other over matters of belief or ideology. I’ve never liked killing, but I picture the Kawitzen with their wide-eyed faces and neo-environmentalism and I know which way my barrel will face.

I reach the stockade perimeter to find it intact. The tower is a wooden structure about twenty feet high, built of local cedar. Men and women line the stockade wall, firing, reloading. I can hear someone on the tower, swearing like a gangsta rapper. I climb up to give him a hand.

He’s got a pretty sweet set of night vision goggles, as well as a Winchester with a scope. I realize that I forgot to snatch my low-light gear from Charlotte.

“What’s the sitch?” I ask as I start setting up a spot on the small platform.

“Hey, you’re the new girl,” he remarks.

“Hey, you’re Mr. Goggles,” I throw back. “Small talk later. What are we dealing with?”

He ducks down behind the tower wall and I hear a trio of bullets ricochet off the wood.

“Based on radio chatter? Thirty to forty of ‘em. The League comes well-armed. Determined to indoctrinate us all one of these days.”

“They seem like they’re more interested in killing you.”

“Only the ones who fight back.” He goes to one knee to return fire. I let his volley act as covering fire and peer up over the tower ledge. Dark tree line. They’re firing from dense cover on either side of the road. I’m betting they’re not complete idiots; this is likely a diversion tactic while they blow off the stockade gate.

“Trogdor, this is Phoenix,” my belt radio squawks, “give me the Picasso and Bach, over.”

“Picasso is blue,” I reply, “Bach is nocturne. Charlie Sheen carries an echo, over.”

There’s a moment of radio silence. When it comes back to life I hear intense gunfire from Father’s end.

“Eagle on Sheen? Over.”

“Megatron,” I say. “Loading, Phoenix. Over.” I glance at Goggles. “Can I borrow those?”

“What, why?” he asks. “I’m the best shot in the village.”

“Not anymore you’re not,” I say. It sounds like bragging but I’m referring to Father. “I just need to get a look at their heavy hardware before they blow your barricade sky-high.”

His eyes widen. “Do you think they brought their big guns?” Another rat-a-tat of bullets hits the wall.

“I think someone, A.K.A. Mason-Jar, A.K.A. Turncoat McGee tipped them off that there’d be something here worth the gambit. Give me a few shots of covering fire and I’ll try and take a peek through the woods.”

He hands over the goggles almost reluctantly, but he seems to trust in what I’m doing. Bonus, I discover as he takes them off, he’s a cute young guy with dark hair and eyes. Then I’m reminded of Mason and remember that cute can be deceiving, even if they grow them good-looking on this island.

“Careful with those,” he says, “they were really hard to find.”

“What’s your name?” I ask as I adjust the strap.

“Connor.”

“Well Connor, I’m Regan. And in case you can’t tell, this ain’t my first rodeo.”

“What’s a rodeo?” he asks, but sheltered hippie questions are the least of my worries, so I just motion for him to give me the covering fire. He kneels up and sends a nice spray through the trees. I pop up to look. Sure enough, there’s a good dozen to fifteen bodies out there, bright green in the brush. I glance through the cedars, looking for…

I duck back just in time to avoid both the goggles and my brain exploding. Our assailants seem to be concentrating fire in our direction.

“Whoa, Nelly,” I exclaim, grabbing my walkie-talkie. “Trogdor to Phoenix, come in Phoenix, over.”

“Phoenix here,” Father grunts.

“Charlie Sheen going wild with two hot ladies, over.”

“Fuck,” he says, breaking code. “Ok. Can send over own lady. Maintain, see if you can turn down the music, over.”

“Optimus, Phoenix. Over and out.”

Connor is staring at me. “Ok…what just happened?”

I toss him back his headgear. “Ok, Goggles, listen up: they have an armoured car coming in hot with at least two people carrying explosives. If they get close enough we could snipe them but in the meantime I think we’re getting your rocket launcher friend, so we have to try and clear out those woods of shooters or he’s dead meat, capisce?”

He blinks twice, then puts his goggles back on. “Ok, you got it.” He kneels up again and takes a couple pot-shots. I hear a guy gurgle and go down in the darkness. “It’s like you were trained for this kind of thing.”

I kneel as well, remembering my mental picture of the League shooters I saw from the goggles, and fire into the night. There is no scream but I hear a body drop.

“Yeah, survival is kind of our gig,” I reply. “That and salvage.”

We settle into a rhythm: cover fire, shoot, duck. Switch roles, cover fire, shoot, duck. I try to break up the pattern to keep them guessing, thankful that none of them seem to be sharp-shooters. Still, Connor gets clipped on the shoulder, drawing a bit of blood, and a bullet actually ricochets off my gun, reminding me once again how many scrapes I’ve had with death.

“What do you salvage?” Connor asks after taking a shot.

“Everything.” I rise and fire, then duck again. “Knowledge, mostly. But tonight we focus on survival, k?”

He glances over the wall, then ducks back down. “Shit, that big car is going to ram the gate.”

“Oh, fuck,” I say, grabbing the radio. “Sheen knocking on the door…where’s that lady? Over.”

“Carrying echo!” Shouts Father. “Keep turning down the music! Over!”

Connor stands with me and we empty our clips into the bushes as an old armoured car comes barrelling out of the forest road. I get this sinking feeling in my chest when I realize the cab is empty.

“Jump,” I say, grabbing Connor’s hand. We vault south over the tower wall, our hands breaking apart as we fall. Just as I’m rolling with the impact, I feel the heat and explosive wave of force as the loaded car detonates. It blows me flat against the ground, scraping my face. Ashes and splinters are flying everywhere.

“Holy Jesus fuck,” I say, hastily pulling bullets out of the ammo belt and into my empty gun cartridge. I glance at Connor. He seems ok but it looks like he landed funny on his ankle. I drag him to the tree-line for cover so we can prepare our next move. I whisper into the radio:

“Trogdor to Phoenix: answer…” I stop, in shock, as I watch Charlotte peel down the road through the fire, Mason at the wheel.

“No…” I whisper.

“Phoenix here, come in Trogdor, over,” the radio says.

“Was that your…?” Connor wonders. “Ah, my fucking ankle.”

I explode. “You fucking jarhead asshole worm-face limp-dick turncoat puke-bucket son of a giant piece of shit!” I bunker down in the ditch, getting ready for the League to come at us in the dark thanks to my outburst.

“Come in Trogdor, over.”

“Charlotte’s freewheelin’,” I say into the radio. “Scene is crowded.” It’s the code for radio silence so I don’t give away my position.

“What now?” Connor whispers.

“Now it’s fucking war,” I whisper back. “Any questions?”

Connor leans around his tree to peg the first oncoming League assailant in the head. “Just one…what’s a trogdor?”