Brothers In Blood: For Country

In New York, the weather gets hot...

In the darkness, New York City was alive. Prostitutes, male and female stood under the few streetlights that hadn’t been shot out in the latest shootouts. They had company while they waited for customers. The Russians were slowly working their way from door to door, taking captive the people who lived in the apartments. Metal detectors allowed them to find and confiscate any weapons that the citizens could use to resist. Sleeping gas made the job easy. They tossed the guns and knives and the like into a dump truck that rumbled down the street, matching their progress. They spoke in low voices, working with precision and caution. Gasmasks protected them from the chloroform they had flooded the streets with.
The driver, the leader from the attack on Mac was still nursing his chest wound. the Father would not be pleased if he showed weakness. The wound was straight to the bone and would start bleeding every time he moved wrong. he was glad the night protected his companion from seeing the twinges of pain that would fly across his face whenever he twitched. The blade had cut loose one of his pectoral fibers, which was cramped back near his shoulder.
His name was Vlad, a pure-blooded imperialistic nationalist. He wanted to crush the United States for stopping Russia from spreading throughout the world. America was a fool to have fooled with the Motherland, because now the Father was awake. Vlad had been raised in the old city of Stalingrad, brought up by his parents who were addicted to the Marxist ideals and where extremely patriotic. It was their obsession and they passed it on to their sons. The Secretary General of the UN was Vlad’s brother. That damn Yankee would pay for making Vlad look like a fool in front of his men.
Their invasion of the city had been fairly simple. Using false-bottomed barges, and with crews comprised entirely of New World soldiers, they had been docking along the Hudson for months. Over that time, they had been unloading weapons and gas in preparation for this night. More soldiers had been in medically induced comas until their arrival in America. They had been awakened and distributed throughout the massive city. They were told to blend in with their various ethnic groups as best they could. All had been trained in English and real, dirty, oppressive American culture. More then half joined the homeless in the streets, checking with their district commanders every night when the other hobos were asleep. They mostly stayed close to their command posts, just blending in with the New Yorkers.
Two “incidents” had occurred during their infiltration. In each case, the people involved were told to meet in an alleyway. They were promptly taken care of.
Two weeks before the actual invasion, the New World soldiers met with their contacts and began taking measures to ensure a successful mission. They began recruiting drug dealers and gangs from various parts of the city. They were being set up as the biggest sting operation in New York. All of them would be gathered together, tying up all the emergency units and the NYPD, allowing the invasion to go largely unnoticed.
At each building, a soldier was stationed to release chloroform through the heating pipes. The bottles were set on a time-release, so after the first dosage, the bottles would continue to release their chemical sleep at set times in order to keep the residents oblivious. Once they had opened the bottle, the soldiers would rendezvous with their zone commanders and begin leaking chloroform into the streets. Within six hours, America’s largest city was a New World hostage.
After the second day of captivity, New World declared its presence in New York to the rest of the United States. They broadcasted over every television station possible, radio, satellite, they even had their more daring pilots write WE ARE COMING FOR YOU, AMERICA in the sky.
Just outside of New York, eight men were listening intently as a man in a suit briefed them on what was going to happen.
“They’ve told us that we have to keep our armed forces out of that area.” Agent Smith was holding a map of New York city and the surrounding land. “This circle here, is a no-fly zone. They’ve got their jets patrolling that air space. Our Navy can’t move in without setting off alarms in the city. This is way too big for the Special Forces to deal with alone, as they’ve taken a city hostage. New World has made the first strike, and we’re gonna send you guys in to spearhead Operation Yankee.”
“Why can’t it be Operation Red Sox?” Scud was from Boston, and a huge Red Sox fan, apparently since birth.
Agent Smith took off his glasses and sighed. “The operation was supposed to be called Pinkerton, but they switched it to Yankee’s in honor of the city involved. You boys need to establish a bridgehead and start taking these guys down as soon as possible. Any questions?”
The men seated around him shook their heads. Then, GD stood up. “What’s gonna happen to Jennie and Rachel? They ain’t goin’ with us, is they?”
“Of course we are!” Two abominable snowmen, or women, clunked into the room. It was Rachel and Jennie, decked out in the latest, most protective body armor the US could provide. “You think you can keep us from fighting, you’re wrong! This is our war too, boys.” Mac moved towards Rachel, then crashed to the floor when she pushed him away. “Told you, someone had to watch out for you, Kevin.”
Attention turned to Agent Smith, who was making a hasty departure. “I’ll be back tomorrow morning with your equipment. No phone calls, no letting anyone know what’s happening. These Russians are everywhere.” He shut the door, then started laughing as he heard GD and Mac trying to convince their loved ones to stay home.
The Next Morning
wet fingers wrapped themselves in twisted gold and pulled them back behind the shower curtain. “Okay, Scud, now hand me the towel and it’ll be your turn.” Mista D saw the rough green cloth come over the curtain rod, and quickly wrapped it around his waist. he stepped out, edging past the half-naked Scud, who was shaving as best he could in the fogged up mirror. D’s chains where covered with moisture, and soaked his shirt-front as he got dressed. Ragged, stained clothes were his apparel for the day, as he would be washing his Hummer.
The joyous noise of Scud’s singing echoed down the hall, then turned to screams of pain, then to shrieks of shock. Laughing came from the basement. Mista D walked halfway down the stairs and saw Rachel and Jennie doubled over at the water heater. Upstairs, the bathroom door whipped open, and Scud issued forth, in all of his masculine glory.
“Who the Hell is playin’ with the Water!?” He stormed to the stairs without stopping and began his descent. Scud felt a hand grab his shoulder, and saw Mista D standing in his way.
Mac let go of him, then said, “Dude, the girls don’t need to see that. Go put some clothes on.”
Thoroughly embarrassed, Scud dashed past the other men in the hallway, just having woken up. Jack chucked a pillow after him. “Should have let us sleep, Banna!”
D drifted outside and began filling up the buckets with hot water. he was in the middle of searching for soap and sponges when GD strode into the garage. On his heels were at least a dozen kids, ranging in age from three to ten. “You kids see that guy over there? He has some work to do today, and I’m sure he would like some help cleaning his car, wouldn’t he? Especially since he’s supposed to be going somewhere in half and hour?”
D whipped around, his chains clinking and glinting in the morning light. “That’s today?”
Soap and sponges and car brushes seemed to sprout from the kids hands. They grabbed the buckets and raced back outside to where the monster was waiting to be pampered. One of the older ones grabbed a hose from the front of the house and started spraying down the bright red beast. Inside, D and GD were arguing. “You told these kids I was gonna pay dem? Whaya is I supposed ta get dat kinda money?”
GD smiled, then turned back into the house. “You’ll figure something out, just like that time we left you to pick up the tab in that bar in Milwaukee? Got confidence in you, Mista D! Don’t let them kiddies down now!”
Mista D whipped out his billfold and handed each of the kids a 5 then steamed back into the house. One of the suits was inside, dealing out guns. Jack saw the look on his friend’s face and leaned over to the agent. “I wouldn’t give any ammo to D right now. He’s a little peeved.” He smiled and accepted a repeating sniper-rifle, its barrel extended to a ridiculous length by a silencer. he already had his .357 in a shoulder holster and a M-16. Custer grabbed an M-16, which clashed with his tooled holsters and revolvers. Bandoleers were stacked around his waist, along with a mechanic’s tool arsenal. Agent Smith handed D a compact-looking grenade launcher and a M-60. He held off on the ammunition until later.
Joe had C-4s and various explosives tucked into his trench coat, with two pistols and plenty of bullets. His small, round glasses made him look like something from the Matrix. Flash was covered in wires, surveillance equipment, listening devices; he looked like a RadioShack addict. A massive body-hugging battery pack covered his upper back. All presents from the benevolent Uncle Sam. Scud hefted a rocket launcher, and was eyeing the rocket launching vehicle they would be taking into the fight. grenades were strapped around his waist, pipe grenades hanging from his arms and legs. One bullet to him, and it was all over. That was Scud’s style, play it wild, play it rough, risk everything to get the job done.
Whip had an AK-47 strapped to his back, massive .45’s on his hips and ammunition belts running down his legs like chaps. Mac looked, for all the world, like a true mercenary. His black leather vest was padded, inside and out, with throwing stars and bullets. A sawed off shotgun was strapped to his right calf, a SEAL knife in its sheath on the left. In an X across his back, he had a pump-action double-barreled 12 gauge shotgun and a sword. “No one’s gonna pick you out in a crowd,” GD had joked when Mac finished assembling his gear.
They all wore high resistance body armor under their regular clothes of jeans and t-shirts. Some were going to carry flak jackets once they got into the city, and more would be available in the assault vehicles they would be driving in. gas masks were incorporated into full helmets that each man had customized to fit his tastes. Kevlar and steel-plated gauntlets gave them full mobility in their hands, while military issue steel-toe, full leather boots protected their feet. With the exception of Flash, all of them had spikes for climbing walls integrated into the soles. Jack and Mac had biker blades clipped to the front of theirs.
They walked out of the house into the back yard where the vehicles were waiting. More weapons were stashed in them. Mac’s truck had been converted to a mobile recognizance base, driven and controlled by Flash. Scud and Mean Joe would ride into the city in the rocket launching car while Jack, Mista D, GD and Mac rode in on the very illegal Tomahawk motorcycles, the government had acquired from Ford after they had made the concept car show in the early 21st century. Whip would take the helicopter, painted over with New World signs. Agent Smith watched them mount their steeds and prepare for war. They all had their helmets off. Grim determination fought with excitement about their destination.
Agent Smith looked down at his watch. “Two minutes gentlemen. Any qualms, speak now or hold your peace until this all blows over.” grunts of amusement met his attempt at humor. Whip dropped his unlit cigarette to the ground and ground it with his heel. Scud put his jacket into his RLV, carefully setting the loaded article in the back seat. Mac pulled on a black leather jacket and pulled his helmet on. The other riders followed suite.
“Mount up, ye knights of the realm!” Jack said as he eased into the seat of his Tomahawk. “This is the day to win, for we battle against the forces of darkness that threaten to smother our fair land.” Flashing his devilish grin, he gunned his engine. “Ride like bats outta Hell, brothers.” The four bikes flew around the house and disappeared towards the City. Flash followed in the truck, then Scud and Joe in their RLV. Whip cruised behind them in the helicopter, making it look like he was escorting them to join the rest of the New World army.
They rode side by side over the Hudson River, the sleek bikes bringing the city closer and closer. The chopper circled once over them, then took to the skyline in search of the New World Air Force. They closed in on the road block to the city. Soldiers walked out to meet them.
Instantly, Mac recognized one of them as an attacker he had fought against when he and Rachel had gotten jumped. The sawed-off was out of its sheath and letting loose its deadly cargo before any warning could be given by either side. Seeing that one of their men was down, the New World soldiers opened fire. Jack picked off two gunmen who stood in their way. A gun turret set up on a truck exploded, courtesy of Scud’s handheld rocket launcher. They were in the City.
Mista D pulled up next to the other three bikers. They were surveying Times Square in the early morning light. Sixteen 18-wheelers were parked in the shadows of the buildings. On the screens, some Russian flick was entertaining the troops who had gathered in the area. The city seemed devoid of life, except for a few sentries posted at all entries, and a few unlucky enough to have been chosen to walk a beat around the streets.
D looked into Jack’s goblin mask, peered into depths of Mac’s werewolf face, GD’s Yosemite Sam-characterature. Inside each mask was a fire that he had only witnessed burning during hand-to-hand combat during the war. When the odds were against them, that fire had always returned to these three.
The bell rang for their daily meal. They had been there for two weeks, and none had broken yet. King was buried in the corner of the yard, marked with a massive stone that all the men had strained and grappled to move over his resting place. Tonight was going to be different, Mista D could feel something brewing in the men. Jack, Mac, GD were all standing off to the side, holding something. he couldn’t see what it was, but by their posture, they were waiting for the guard to come with the food.
He came, a short fat man, dressed from head to toe in jungle green with a neon orange neckerchief. The tray he carried held a pile of rolls, and a large pot of gruel. Hardly enough for nine full grown men. He stepped inside the enclosure and put the tray down. At the gate, a guard with a machine gun was watching to see if any of the prisoners made a move towards the food bearer. He should have looked up.
Jack was balanced on Mac’s shoulders, steadying himself against the bamboo walls that held them. He leapt as silent as a panther, his eyes seeming to glow like sunlight through ice. The machine gunner collapsed, Jack disabling the weapon before it went off. He picked it up and tossed it to GD. The three conspirators charged the sentries while Scud and Custer thrashed the food bearer. Mac ripped the guard’s combat knives from their sheathes, his eyes shining. The soldiers met them with bayonets low, expecting a simple revolt. Bullets from GD’s direction shattered any hope that it would be put down quickly. Jack pulled a poker from their cook fire and threw it at the ragged line of men. They ducked, right into GD’s onslaught. Then Mac ran up. It turned into a butcher shop, all those still alive, bleeding profusely from the pressure points.
He handed Jack one of the knives he had acquired and they set to work. Silently, they stalked all the soldiers in the compound, killing each one as quietly as they could. When all was said and done, GD, Mac and Jack had eyes that glowed with an animalistic blaze, burning deep in their souls.
Something about it made Mista D’s stomach turn. It wasn’t anything remotely human, but neither was anything about war, period. Twin knives glinted in Mac’s hands, his breathing a slow panting, measured, ominous. His tongue was hanging out, slightly. Bright blue flames seemed to jump from Jack’s visors, in the dawning light, he looked like something that belonged wandering the wastelands of war, eating and scavenging the dead. With a slight slouch in his saddle, GD was looking more and more like the fiery cartoon his helmet depicted. madness burned through the darkened glass. They seemed more like animals then men.
Someone screamed behind them, in a language they could only assume to be Russian. The soldiers down below were active in an instant, moving to identify the threat at their perimeter. A gunshot zeroed them in on the group of strange individuals sitting between two buildings. What was this?
Vlad jumped out of the truck he had been driving in time to see the first attack. Three motorcyclists flew down the asphalt on a wedge formation with a massive truck following close behind. The bikes were moving too fast, accelerating faster than anything Russian intelligence had prepared him for. His chrome-plated Glock came up, firing of a single round of the lead, a dog-headed freak. The bullet ricocheted off the gray helmet, whining through the chaos the bikers created. The three unscathed motorcyclists were moving in a pattern, somewhat familiar to the farm boy from Russia. The dog-headed biker turned towards Vlad’s truck, howling.
It occurred to Vlad as the biker roared closer that the others were herding the soldiers towards an alleyway. As the bike neared, he saw that it was not a dog, but a wolf. He saw something glowing inside the head, but was too slow it avoiding the vehicle.
Mac leapt off the Tomahawk just before it knocked over the gunman. It crashed against the side of the truck, igniting the massive fuel tank. He picked up the prostrate officer and dragged him away from the flames. Looking back, he watched the Tomahawk twist and explode with regret. ‘Wish I coulda kept the bike.’ Using the man’s belt, he tied him to a lamppost then struck him hard, just under the ear. “You’ll sleep for a while, until I get my chance at you, anyway.” He didn’t recognize the face through the soot.
On the other side of Times Square, Mista D and Jack were mowing down the soldiers with a crazed riding pattern. They would shift to the right, whip around to the left, skid into a tight group of New World men. GD made quick work of the stragglers, with a lasso made of razor wire. Blood flowed freely down the sewers.
Bullets spattered their body armor as some of the soldiers mounted a resistance. The bikers swung around and returned fire. Both sides were armed and armored. ‘Now,’ thought Scud, ‘The War begins.’ Ranks formed, machine guns passed down the rows until every New Worlder was fully armed. They didn’t notice an American sneaking through their back lines. One of the remaining officers raised his hand to give the signal to fire, and went down, blood pouring from a wound in his unprotected armpit. The shot had come from within their own formation. The soldiers spun around, completely confused as to whom they should be shooting. One backed into a towering black figure. he dropped noiselessly to the ground.
Under the street, Mean Joe was setting up one of the greatest fireworks displays of the century. Using a sewer grate, he had crawled into one of the New World supply trucks and stolen all of their explosives. Coupled with those he had brought with him, and ones filched from Scud’s jacket, this was going to be his masterpiece. Through the grates, he could hear the roar of the Tomahawks and the screams of the scum his boys were dispatching. Three tons of explosives, shrapnel grenades, ammunition, C-4, gasoline, napalm, whatever was waiting for him to touch it off.
“Jack, this is Joe, do you read me?” That was all Joe could manage before someone clubbed him over the head.
“Stupid Yankee’s.”
Above, Mac freed his sword from the body of another pitiful solider. The time on the streets, waiting for orders hadn’t been good to these men. he was standing in the midst of the New World resistance, nailing men as he pleased, and no one took a shot at him. He couldn’t figure it out, why no one recognized him. Something was hiding him from the enemy, even though they were all around him. he ran out from them and stood beside Mista D and Jack, watching the New World Soldiers descend into complete chaos.
Something made him stop though. The officer he had tied up to the post was gone, and so was Joe. “Hey, brotha, try to raise Joe! I can’t see him!” Jack beat the walkytalkie with his fist, trying to get a signal. “Not gettin’ anything, Mac. Why, what’s up?”
“What was Joe supposed to be doing?”
Jack pointed to the trucks. “Joe’s under the street getting ready to blow this joint if things didn’t go in our favor. Why?”
The answer didn’t calm Mac any. He lit out for the subway entrance, the sword ringing as it came out of the sheath. Darkness enveloped him as he raced in the general direction of the trucks. Stopping when he fell into the tracks, he let his eyes adjust to the dim light. In the distance, off to his right, a grate let in some light from above. It was shining down on two human figures, one lying prone on a pile of boxes, the other fiddling with some gadget with wires running out of it into the boxes. The one on the boxes was Joe.