Read Online EnEmE: Fall Of Man by R.G. Beckwith - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: R.G. Beckwith
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Behind us . . .
An explosion knocked Hauer down, allowing a host soldier to press the advantage, sprinting up to and towering over the Master Sergeant. Hauer reached for his rifle, just in time for it to be quickly covered by the soldier’s heavily armored boot. As the host soldier pointed his gun, aiming between Hauer’s eyes point blank, the large butt of a laser rifle jutted down from the open manhole. The rifle struck the host soldier hard in the head, knocking it backward.
We finally reached another manhole, dim light seeping down into the tunnel. I tried to look back for a moment, but before I could, Freeman grabbed my wrist firmly and pulled.
“We don’t’ have time.” Freeman said sternly.
We slowly climbed up the ladder toward the cover Freeman led, climbing one-handed with his rifle at the ready, with me close behind.
He slowly pressed the cover open with his rifle ready. More explosions rocked the tunnel from behind us. We surfaced in the parking garage of the hospital, Freeman leading the way, viewing every corner of the apparently empty garage, through the lens of his rifle scope.
As we cautiously moved toward the hospital entrance, we saw the two helmeted host soldier heads, complete with armored torsos and rifles held at the ready, appear from the corridor on the other side of the large glass automatic doors.
Freeman grabbed my arm, dragging me behind a mini-van. He held his rifle ready in one hand, a finger to his mouth signalling to be quiet with the other hand.
We heard the “Whoosh” of the sliding doors opening, but no other sounds of voices or gunfire. From our vantage point, peering out from under the van, we could see the soldiers doing their rounds. Apparently they had not seen us approaching.
We held our breath for a tense moment.
“Fack you, ya bloody bastards!” A voice suddenly rang off the walls. “BANANA BENDER!” The accent sounded Australian.
We peered toward the shouting voice and saw a scraggly, skinny, red-headed man, wearing a sweat-stained shirt. He was holding a baseball bat studded with a railway spike as he ran full tilt at the soldiers.
It’s safe to say that the soldiers were as surprised as Freeman and I were. All four of us seemed frozen in a daze, holding our breath.
The skinny man ran right up and belted one of the soldiers across the head, a loud clang echoing off the helmet as it rocked sideways. The other soldier quickly ploughed the butt of his energy rifle into the side of the Aussie’s head.
The rebel fell to the pavement hard, his bat clattering and then rolling out of reach.
The now familiar hum of the energy charge could be heard as both host soldiers stood over the young man. He glared back defiantly, wisps of dirty, unkempt hair sticking up like giant hornet stingers, pointing back at his assassins.
Gunfire tore through the parking garage, cutting the host soldiers in half before their rifles could charge. Freeman leaned against the minivan, smoke slowly floating upwards from the barrel of his gun.
We quickly walked toward the young man who had covered his head in a desperate attempt to protect himself when the bullets had begun to fly. He looked around, surprised to be alive, and. realizing that he’d been saved. His face beamed at Freeman and I as we helped him to his feet.
“You’ve saved me, mate,” he said, still surprised.
“Welcome to the resistance,” said Freeman. “I’m Sergeant Freeman, and this is Dr. Kiebler,” he said, gesturing to me.
“Hi,” I said, waving and smiling, nervously.
“Bloody pleasha, folks,” he said, sticking out a hand to shake. “My name’s Jessie . . . DOG SHIT . . .Banyan.”
Freeman had a puzzled expression on his face, probably because of the odd use of the expletive. I’m sure I did as well, but the expression must have changed when my breath stopped and my blood ran cold when I heard
Behind us . . .
An explosion knocked Hauer down, allowing a host soldier to press the advantage, sprinting up to and towering over the Master Sergeant. Hauer reached for his rifle, just in time for it to be quickly covered by the soldier’s heavily armored boot. As the host soldier pointed his gun, aiming between Hauer’s eyes point blank, the large butt of a laser rifle jutted down from the open manhole. The rifle struck the host soldier hard in the head, knocking it backward.
We finally reached another manhole, dim light seeping down into the tunnel. I tried to look back for a moment, but before I could, Freeman grabbed my wrist firmly and pulled.
“We don’t’ have time.” Freeman said sternly.
We slowly climbed up the ladder toward the cover Freeman led, climbing one-handed with his rifle at the ready, with me close behind.
He slowly pressed the cover open with his rifle ready. More explosions rocked the tunnel from behind us. We surfaced in the parking garage of the hospital, Freeman leading the way, viewing every corner of the apparently empty garage, through the lens of his rifle scope.
As we cautiously moved toward the hospital entrance, we saw the two helmeted host soldier heads, complete with armored torsos and rifles held at the ready, appear from the corridor on the other side of the large glass automatic doors.
Freeman grabbed my arm, dragging me behind a mini-van. He held his rifle ready in one hand, a finger to his mouth signalling to be quiet with the other hand.
We heard the “Whoosh” of the sliding doors opening, but no other sounds of voices or gunfire. From our vantage point, peering out from under the van, we could see the soldiers doing their rounds. Apparently they had not seen us approaching.
We held our breath for a tense moment.
“Fack you, ya bloody bastards!” A voice suddenly rang off the walls. “BANANA BENDER!” The accent sounded Australian.
We peered toward the shouting voice and saw a scraggly, skinny, red-headed man, wearing a sweat-stained shirt. He was holding a baseball bat studded with a railway spike as he ran full tilt at the soldiers.
It’s safe to say that the soldiers were as surprised as Freeman and I were. All four of us seemed frozen in a daze, holding our breath.
The skinny man ran right up and belted one of the soldiers across the head, a loud clang echoing off the helmet as it rocked sideways. The other soldier quickly ploughed the butt of his energy rifle into the side of the Aussie’s head.
The rebel fell to the pavement hard, his bat clattering and then rolling out of reach.
The now familiar hum of the energy charge could be heard as both host soldiers stood over the young man. He glared back defiantly, wisps of dirty, unkempt hair sticking up like giant hornet stingers, pointing back at his assassins.
Gunfire tore through the parking garage, cutting the host soldiers in half before their rifles could charge. Freeman leaned against the minivan, smoke slowly floating upwards from the barrel of his gun.
We quickly walked toward the young man who had covered his head in a desperate attempt to protect himself when the bullets had begun to fly. He looked around, surprised to be alive, and. realizing that he’d been saved. His face beamed at Freeman and I as we helped him to his feet.
“You’ve saved me, mate,” he said, still surprised.
“Welcome to the resistance,” said Freeman. “I’m Sergeant Freeman, and this is Dr. Kiebler,” he said, gesturing to me.
“Hi,” I said, waving and smiling, nervously.
“Bloody pleasha, folks,” he said, sticking out a hand to shake. “My name’s Jessie . . . DOG SHIT . . .Banyan.”
Freeman had a puzzled expression on his face, probably because of the odd use of the expletive. I’m sure I did as well, but the expression must have changed when my breath stopped and my blood ran cold when I heard
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