Read Online The Nervous System by Nathan Larson - Free Book Online Page B

left foot.
    â€œDon’t say a fucking word into that radio. You hear me? Or I take you out quick fast.”
    Thing tenses up. It’s drawn a pistol but it just dangles from its paw.
    â€œIf you hear me and wanna comply, set it down slow.”
    â€œHit this position …” comes a weary female voice from inside the helmet. I gather she’s called in an air strike or what-have-you, see what I’m fucking saying with these kids? Wanna hurt her but my Code won’t let me. Let her bleed out slow.
    Even less time than I had reckoned. I mount the steps double quick, squatting so I might peek around the corner …
    Due north a couple Cyna-folk to the rescue, moving along the wall, I hit the soldier in front, pop pop pop, and he’s down, guy behind him raises his weapon and I aim for his chest second and head first, boom boom, and he’s deflating on his buddy.
    Listen. I hate to play it like this. I really do. But trust me here, subtlety will only bring you sorrow.
    Plaster and stone pop-rock in front of my face, peppering me with little pebbles, ouch, and I reckon I’m being engaged by the black (natch) Joint Light Tactical Vehicle parked at the curb only slightly south of my position, duck back for a second, then boogie straight on out into the open, scurry across the sidewalk and behind the vehicle.
    Me thinking left, left, left. The System. Even in a firefight, gotta work it proper.
    Whereupon my attention is drawn skyward and I dig an MD-530F helicopter as it comes floating out over the top of the library like a big charcoal tuna, and boy am I dismayed to observe several Hellfire missiles mounted on its underbelly, as well as the expected M60 machine gun which is already spitting bullets. I hug the south side of the JLTV, hearing the ping-pong as fire is deflected off the other side of the vehicle, head south toward the driver, passenger door comes open and a Cyna is halfway out before I shoot him, trying to be sparing as I understand these mags to be thirty capacity at most, kicking the body out of the way as I swing into the vehicle, just flowing now, lean across the seat and push the gun into the driver’s ear, as he/she is in the midst of turning back toward me, 9mm in hand.
    â€œShit. Take it easy.” A male voice, he’s lifting his hands, I pull the door shut, reach over, and force his headgear off, this is a sandy-complected white kid, all-American, thick linebacker’s neck, blushing and blotchy, wincing as some of his hair comes away with the fancy hardhat. Despite the slight chill he’s sweating. As he should be.
    â€œRight, my nizzle. Gun on the floor, hands on the dash.”
    Kid does like he’s told, keeping it cooler than I would have expected and thereby goosing my ill paranoid vibe.
    Thinking about them Hellfires. Seen them atomize small towns.
    â€œKid, grab that fucking com and tell the chopper to back the fuck off.”
    â€œI’d have to … I’d have to put the helmet back on.”
    Think about this.
    â€œNaw, fuck that, start her up and let’s go—I mean let’s go now .”
    He does as he’s told, the chopper’s blades loud even inside the cab here, presses the ignition button and pulls out onto the avenue, sideswiping an actual rickshaw , Jesus Christ, Asiatic eyes wide in some sort of headscarf as the driver disappears beneath the vehicle. We bounce ever so slightly and slide off headed the wrong way down Avenue of the Americas, southbound.
    There’s a half-assed blockade at 40th Street, a couple blue-and-whites, NYPD Chevy Volts (real cop cars, it’s been awhile). And another JLTV, moving too slow down 40th to beat us to the intersection.
    Couple beetles on foot, trying to work it all out … Here comes one of their own vehicles, dudes are all what the what, one of them raises some sort of carbine, but it’s way too late, we’re on top of them, careening off one of the police