The helicopter swerved over a subdivision, and Blake yelped, toes curling in his boot. The distance it took them hours to coverin the truck was flying by as Victoria cut a swath through open airways.
If she had been nervous about flying, she didn’t show it. The first few minutes were wobbly, the helicopter dipping like one of those drinking bird toys his father loved so much. But Victoria was a perfectionist, and a damn good pilot, and she soon had the Huey dancing under her fingertips.
They warned him it would be cold in the helicopter, but he had no idea coldlike thisexisted. It felt like icy blades were cutting through his clothes, digging deep into his bones. Doors would have been nice to stop the chill, but they certainly weren’t complaining about the cold in Vietnam. None of the pilots lived long enough.
The sun was rising, and he could see the shadow of the helicopter creeping beneath them. He tried to focus on it. Watch its watery form dip between houses and into pools, around mailboxes, and over empty jungle gyms. The streets were so empty. He wondered what it looked like before. Did the pilots see kids pointing up, lips pulled back from gap teeth as they cried out to their friends? Or maybe a grumpy adult in their fluffy bathrobe collecting the newspaper at the end of the drive, complaining about noise ordinances.
Would they ever see that again?
Gabriel didn’t talk about the future. None of the soldiers did. They focused on the here, the now. What was between their boots and at the end of their gun. Maybe there was a reason for it.
Phin slapped him on the shoulder, and Blake squinted against the buffeting wind. Washington DC loomed on the horizon. From a distance, it looked normal. Maybe the skyline had changed, but most of the iconic topography hadn’t. He could still pick out monuments and glittering skyscrapers. On previous visits, smoke had curled in the air, fires blazing unchecked.Now it was still. Almost too quiet. Blake could almost imagine an early morning walk among the cherry blossom trees, picking pink buds off the ground and blowing them into his mom’s hair. He’d once gotten her to go an entire afternoon without noticing.
If those fuckers touched even one of those trees…
Victoria swooped in low. Low enough for Blake to read the license plates on some of the cars parked along the freeways leading out of the city. Seeing all the cars lined up on the road, doors open, some of them crunched together where distraction had led to fender benders, was painful. An arm stuck out from the front of a Volkswagen. Three dead bodies rotted on the side of the road, reaching for the guard rail
They tried to run.
Blake turned away, his throat dry.
The plan was to stay between the buildings and try to stay off the Off Former’s radar. After the Zappy Balls, the Monkey Cats hadn’t used any long-range weapons from their ship, but who knew what they’d pull out of their asses, or cloaca, or whatever the fuck they had going on down there.
They were just passing over the exit to see the monuments when the Huey swerved hard enough for Blake to tip out of his seat. Phin caught him, throwing him back. His head cracked on the metal. Phin shouted something, but Blake couldn’t hear as Victoria guided the helicopter nose up and climbed.
Blinking against the wind and his hair in his eyes, Blake could see something flying at them. Something hot.
They were firing at them.
Through the narrow doorway, Blake could see Victoria with both hands on the stick, her head bent low as she deployed evasive maneuvers. The Huey hiccuped in the air, nose swinging. Blake reached for the closest canvas strap, wrapping it around his wrist. He knew anoh shitstrap when he saw it.
Phin grabbed him by the shoulder. He pointed at Blake, then at himself. He held up the first two fingers, reversed them, and then wriggled them.
Stay with me. Hit the ground running.
Blake nodded quickly before Phin slung his gun around his shoulders and heaved himself toward the door. He slipped his arm around another strap, leveling his gun and looking through the scope. He let off a series of shots, quick, calculated bursts. His bright eyes narrowed as the missile seemed to change course, moving toward the spent bullets.
There was no way to communicate with Victoria. Not that it would do any good. Her job was to get them to the drop point. Preferably in one piece.
Phin shot off a few more rounds, in varying directions, trying to confuse or even reroute the ballistics. Blake couldn’t see where they landed; he wasn’t sure if it was Drone or Handler fire.
The Huey dipped and swerved as they entered the city. The tallest buildings cast shadows over them as she dove low into the streets. Below them, cars shook as the landing struts just barely skimmed over their roofs. Blake caught something out of the corner of his eye and flinched just as the helicopter seemed to stall and spin, reversing course and careening around a building.
Cement and hot air blew into the cargo bay as the building exploded. It knocked the helicopter sideways. Blake fell from the seat, canvas strap digging into his wrist as it caught. He rolled to his back. His boots were nearly hanging out the opposite door, a towering fast food sign whizzing by so fast he nearly lost his toes to a pair of golden arches.
Scrambling back, he tried to get his footing on the tilting floor. The strap was looped around his wrist so tight he couldn’t feel his fingers. Reaching behind him, he tried to grab the seatto pull himself further from the door, but his stomach dipped, followed by the rest of him.
The floor seemed to drop out from under him, metal screamed, and a flash of heat rolled over his back. Something thudded beside him, and he looked up to see Phin flat on his back, feet braced on the door and hand on his gun. His face was ashen in the warm glow of the fire.
The helicopter was melting.
Super-heated metal curled back in sheets, fluttering in the wash from the rotors. The heat was indescribable, rivets and sheet metal parting like hot butter. It hissed as it hit the floor and landing struts. Phin’s mouth opened in a scream when it dripped on his foot. Blake surged to his knees, grabbing the man by his plate carrier and helping to drag him back.
He smacked at his burning leg, but Blake didn’t have the time or coordination to help him. The Handler ordinance was eating the helicopter like a fire on a cheap polyester couch. If it got to the engines or the rotors, they would drop from the sky.
Blake hauled himself to his feet. His right arm was limp in the strap. One-handed, he reached under the seat, eyes closed against the hot air blowing in his face. Ripping through the zipper, he wrenched out the mini-fire extinguisher Irving insisted they carry. Blake bit the pin between his teeth and wrenched it out. Metal screeched against his enamel, but it popped free. Holding it between his teeth, he reached out with his good hand and squeezed the lever.
Foam sprayed from the nozzle. It hissed as it hit the burning metal. Super-hot foam whipped into his face, hitting him like stinging nettles. Blake had to squint, watching what he was doing between his lashes. The canister kicked, and foam sputtered. He kept pressing until it hissed air.
