Battle of 9th Street, Crozier District, Fineberg
Dale glared at Caleb; he was just about to go, when suddenly the Angelan peacekeeper leader stopped him again. He had to force himself out of combat mode to think.
"We going Sergeant?" snapped the tail end soldier.
"Shut up." Dale tried not to cough at the smoke, and muffled the nose with his fist. "Alright, you can tag along; if you see civvies in there, you can haul them out, if they'll come. Shoot in the same direction as the rest of us and don't get in the way. Move out, move out!" he motioned, and the ETC militiamen were rushing across through the purple and green smoke and across the ruined road, dodging from vehicle to vehicle, hiding briefly behind an overturned half burned bus that lay before the apartment; smoke or no smoke the Monarchists were laying down a lot of suppressing fire to keep the street clear. Thanks to the Angelans, Dale thought, they knew where they were. There was no hope for it.
A brief flash of his life before all this; he was a factory worker, damn it. All he'd wanted was to make manager and have a house of his own, maybe be an Elder Brother one day and read prayers with his children. Oh well. Screw it. "Come on, give me some covering fire. Orin, Scant, Prand, with me!"
They screamed wordlessly as they ran again, right for the building itself. Scant had a demo charge because the Monarchists had, behind a row of concrete blocks, a concertina of razor wire stretching across the whole building. They crouched like rats by the concrete blocks, dust and chips flying as the Monarchists aimed down for them; Scant had the charge ready and then was screaming, writhing like a stuck pig on the ground; Dale was horrified to see a huge dark spread on his left leg where he had been hit. "Medic!" he shouted. The smoke wreathed around them, and all was madness. "Prand, set that charge!" he shouted again as he cautiously stuck his head up. There was the doorway--all blocked with debris, even though they'd blown the doorway open. A mess of shopping carts, old tires, junk and rubbish and strung together with more razor wire. How the hell were they going to get in?
"RTO, on me!" he shouted as the rest of the platoon was hunch-running across. "Get me the Company CP!"
9th Street
Tim and Catalina had been talking earlier. There was a lot of firing going on, and there had been a lot to do. At a neighborhood meeting at the local church worried talk had begun about how to make sure the children had school, fresh or at least enough food, and what to do about the areas where power had gone down. A group of volunteers who had training in electrical engineering would work on shunting in power from a station that was active in a nearby district; apparently the power station had been taken over by Monarchist militia who were using it. But then someone had heard that there were Mount Angel peacekeepers in the area! Catalina had insisted that they go.
Their talk, their private one, had been about the women in the grocery store. Catalina seemed brittle, nervous. "We have to go, Tim. I know it's dangerous--but we have to. We can't stay here. I heard that a few blocks away a bunch of guys got drafted into labour for the Monarchists. We have to leave." There was tension written all over her body. "And we need to find some clothes or something, it's not safe."
"Listen, almost everyone in this area is a law abiding citizen. They were probably wives of Monarchist reservists or something," said Tim soothingly. "But you're right, we need to go. Let's get packed up, get some things and start moving."
Just one bag each, because they had two little ones to deal with; they were young enough that their short legs would get tired quickly, and they might be scared, need to be moved fast. So one backpack for Tim, the suitcase that could be pulled for Catalina, and that had the non-essentials in it; the backpack had stuff that they couldn't do without, including enough food and clean water for two days at least. They compromised; mantles for each of them and for the kids.
Out on the street, several other families and individuals were gathering as well; they took vehicles because they could put more in them, and had a bunch of white flags on them. Tim had a shortwave radio with him and tried to find a military channel that was open, broadcasting: "We are a convoy of civilians heading out from the 8th Avenue and 10th street block. We have white flags on our vehicles! Do not shoot at us! We are unarmed and have children with us!"
Tim held Catalina's hand. They were in this together. He would do his best for her and the kids, even though last night had been one of the most painful of his life, ironically. They had lain in bed after a tense day, a tense night, and even though they had with some enjoyment made love, she had finally admitted, "I love you, but I'm not in love with you."
Neither of them knew what to do after that but survive. She had little to say. Even lying beside her while they were both naked, she had an impenetrable armour around her. But he would do his best for her anyway. As the van they were sharing with the Remigios family trundled along in the convoy of Ladas and other rather clunky vehicles, they could hear the sounds of action getting louder. Up ahead though was that big old ugly New Day era apartment block, wreathed in smoke, and it sounded like the Battle of the Century to the people in their vehicles. Around the other buildings nearest it they could see groups of Monarchist soldiers crouching behind them, waiting. A group of them advanced rapidly on the slowing convoy.
"Oh shit," said Mr. Remigios, paling and starting to turn the van around.
"Stop! Slow down and stop!" shouted one of the Monarchist soldiers. "Turn the engine off!" he gestured and yelled at the same time.
Tim took a deep breath; he saw the round huge eyes of the littles in his and Catalina's lap, and he had never felt so helpless in his life. What could he do? Remegios had no choice but to turn the key off and lift his hands from the wheel.
