Simon took cover in the Abercrombie and Fitch. In the corridor their machinegun was chewing up the fountain. John was behind it, down with a gut shot. He was done. Even if there was a hospital that would let a white through its doors, he would bleed out before they could carry him in.
Of course, that didn't stop him from screaming.
The suicide bombing of the old cathedral had seemed like a small victory in a never ending stream of defeats. Simon had never been religious and he certainly wasn't Catholic, but seeing the old giant with its new minarets had turned his stomach. He had run out in the streets with everyone else to celebrate.
He should have known it would only be an excuse for reprisals.
They used the NASA satelites to calculate the largest gatherings. Seven cruise missiles were launched initially. Fifteen minutes later 3 more were launched randomly at the previous targets. Old American equpment, old American tactics. Hit the emergency crews just after they arrive.
It didn't work like it used to. There weren't any emergency crews. Whoever could get out, got out. Whoever couldn't, died. The effect was comparable and saved on munitions costs.
"Put down some cover fire. I'm going for John," said Carol. She had divorced John thirteen years ago for sleeping with his secretary. That had lost some meaning in the intervening years.
"He's not going to make it, Carol."
"Well, we have to do something!"
She ran out of the store firing her skeet shotgun. Her fake tits bounced wildly on her emaciated body as she ran to her death. A rocket streaked into the fountain. She was eviscerated by the shrapnel.
Simon was flung back by the force. He had managed to shield his face, but a piece of hot shrapnel was buried in his arm. The burning came from deep in his bicep, a hot center of overwhelming pain. Simon dropped his rifle and fumbled for his knife. He yanked the blade out and dug at his arm.
He carved at himself desperately. This little spot of enormous pain was all he could think of. Deep below the skin and fat and into the muscle. Deep red poured out as shoved his fingers in the hole. He retched even as he still reached.
And then, there it was.
It was a little disk of metal. In a fleeting moment of calm between the sound of gunfire and rushing boots, it hit the ground with a tink. With bloody fingers he grasped for it.
He almost laughed when he saw Linoln's face on the useless coin. Four score and seven years ago...
They came on him quickly, kicking his rifle out of reach, moving past him to form a cigar-shaped security. Americans had trained the people who had trained these young men.
Simon lay in a pool of his own blood and sick, as exhausted and near-dead as his culture. An old man from a different time.
He held the penny up for them.
"What do you think they wished for?" he said with a big smile, his perfectly straight teeth a testament to years of putting in his retainer before he went to bed.
The officer pulled his pistol and shot Simon in the head.
Of course, that didn't stop him from screaming.
The suicide bombing of the old cathedral had seemed like a small victory in a never ending stream of defeats. Simon had never been religious and he certainly wasn't Catholic, but seeing the old giant with its new minarets had turned his stomach. He had run out in the streets with everyone else to celebrate.
He should have known it would only be an excuse for reprisals.
They used the NASA satelites to calculate the largest gatherings. Seven cruise missiles were launched initially. Fifteen minutes later 3 more were launched randomly at the previous targets. Old American equpment, old American tactics. Hit the emergency crews just after they arrive.
It didn't work like it used to. There weren't any emergency crews. Whoever could get out, got out. Whoever couldn't, died. The effect was comparable and saved on munitions costs.
"Put down some cover fire. I'm going for John," said Carol. She had divorced John thirteen years ago for sleeping with his secretary. That had lost some meaning in the intervening years.
"He's not going to make it, Carol."
"Well, we have to do something!"
She ran out of the store firing her skeet shotgun. Her fake tits bounced wildly on her emaciated body as she ran to her death. A rocket streaked into the fountain. She was eviscerated by the shrapnel.
Simon was flung back by the force. He had managed to shield his face, but a piece of hot shrapnel was buried in his arm. The burning came from deep in his bicep, a hot center of overwhelming pain. Simon dropped his rifle and fumbled for his knife. He yanked the blade out and dug at his arm.
He carved at himself desperately. This little spot of enormous pain was all he could think of. Deep below the skin and fat and into the muscle. Deep red poured out as shoved his fingers in the hole. He retched even as he still reached.
And then, there it was.
It was a little disk of metal. In a fleeting moment of calm between the sound of gunfire and rushing boots, it hit the ground with a tink. With bloody fingers he grasped for it.
He almost laughed when he saw Linoln's face on the useless coin. Four score and seven years ago...
They came on him quickly, kicking his rifle out of reach, moving past him to form a cigar-shaped security. Americans had trained the people who had trained these young men.
Simon lay in a pool of his own blood and sick, as exhausted and near-dead as his culture. An old man from a different time.
He held the penny up for them.
"What do you think they wished for?" he said with a big smile, his perfectly straight teeth a testament to years of putting in his retainer before he went to bed.
The officer pulled his pistol and shot Simon in the head.