The Flashback Trilogy

Chapter 4

He turned to me before making eye contact with each and every one of us. “And you better believe it when I say, people, that that thing will cut through this hull like it’s tinfoil. So Jamie’s doing the right thing; providing he keeps his focus on that missile launcher. The question is, do we shoot first and eliminate the threat preemptively—by taking out the operator and anyone else who dares to go near it—or do we try to talk to them? Reason with them? Convince them we’re not a threat?”

“But we are a threat,” said Sam—softly, gravely. “We’re here for the bunker. And so are they, obviously. Or they’ve seized it already. I mean, look at what we’re driving. There’s a machine g*n on the roof, for—”

“I say we shoot first,” interjected Nigel—after which he seemed shocked that he’d actually said it. “She’s right, I mean—S-sandahl. Sam. We are a threat; and there’s no point in trying to deny it. So are they. I mean, come on. You saw the banner. If that’s not a territorial claim, I don’t know what is. And they’re w*********h, anyway, mon. Stupid and dangerous on—”

“Yo, pound sand!” snapped Lazaro. “I voted for Tucker, too, you know, and I’m not some crazed redneck you can just ...” He trailed off suddenly and looked around—as if for approval—but nobody said a word.

“—on the face of it,” finished Nigel, succinctly. He looked at Mr. Fantastic and then at me. “And you know it as well as I do.”

I looked out through the long, narrow windshield: at the armed, thickset men—most of them were at last partially overweight—and their dirty, dark-colored trucks; at the poised rifles and trained, glinting machine g*n, the rocket launcher with its big, tank-killing warhead.

Mr. Fantastic, meanwhile, had gotten back into his seat. “What’s it going to be, Jamie?”

I unbuckled my harness and leaned forward, elbows on my knees—began rubbing my temples.

At last I said, “And this is the only way in? The only road that can be used?”

Paper rattled as Nigel shifted. “Mount Lee Drive, that’s right. Winds all the way up to the City of Los Angeles Communications Facility, which is right above the Hollywood sign.”

“And beneath it? The sign, I mean? That’s our bunker?”

“About 50 yards down from it, that’s right. Only accessible by air or on foot from there, since the private road from below was removed.”

I peered out at the trucks, which shimmered in the heat. “How in the hell did they find out? That’s what I want to know.”

“Does it matter?” asked Mr. Fantastic. “Besides; we don’t actually know that they have—we don’t know anything, really. Not why or how long they’ve been here, nor how many of them there are, we don’t even know if—"

“That’s bullshit, mon. We know it’s a train because that’s how they roll; and we know there’s more of them—probably up there rooting around because they’ve never actually been here and don’t know what they’re looking for. No, scratch that—they’re probably on their way here, because these assholes have already radioed them while we sit here and have a goddamn debate about—”

“Nigel.”

“About—”

“Nigel. Shut the f**k up.”

“But ...”

“Here.” I handed the targeting goggles back to him. “Put them on. Shut the f**k up. And put them on.”

“Wait, what?” Lazaro just glared at me; it was almost as though I’d stabbed his mother. “Is this a joke?”

“I know, you’re checked out on the internal g*n control. But let’s be honest, Dwayne. You don’t want to hurt these people. Hell, they’re like family, right?” I clapped him on the shoulder briskly. “Just one, big, happy Tucker Train. One big tent from Cabela’s. Isn’t that right?”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Sam, get the ramp,” I instructed, and watched as she flipped the toggle—reluctantly.

“Because we’re going to go meet your friends with our hands up,” I said. “And you, sir, are going to do all the talking.”

––––––––

“Ready?”

I looked at Lazaro and he looked back. “Ready.” He squinted at me suddenly. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

I shrugged. “No reason.” I took a deep breath. “Okay. Remember, hands in the air.”

He put his hands in the air.

Then we moved out; stepping into the sunshine from the cool shadow of the expedition vehicle, raising our hands as though we were surrendering.

“Easy does it ...”

There was a rattle of arms as they noticed us and hurriedly re-trained their weapons.

“Halt! Who goes there?”

Both of us froze. “A-Americans. Two of us,” said Lazaro. “We want to talk.”

The wind blew; the sun beat down. Nobody said anything.

“Daryl,” snapped one of them at last—after which a skinny blonde dude stepped out (he couldn’t have been more than 17) and seemed to hesitate; looking at us over his rifle, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, before shuffling forward quickly and giving us a pat-down—briefly, hurriedly. “They’re good,” he said.

The man who’d directed him to frisk us—he looked like John Goodman, I swear—motioned for us to come forward.

“That’s close enough,” he said, after we’d closed the gap. “Trent, Brady, Mitchell—cover us. Everyone else, hold your positions.” He seemed to relax—slowly, grudgingly. “Americans, you say.” He handed the skinny guy his weapon—some kind of long rifle, who knows. “That doesn’t really feel complete to me. You say you’re Americans. Which one?”