Lunch Time

Standing in the throes of the sea of people, he watched the second hand on his watch sweep
around. The Rolex which his father had given him for his fifteenth birthday said it was 11:53. Seven
minutes until he could take his half-hour lunch break. The only problem was that he had no money for
lunch. Half of every paycheck he received went toward cheap women and expensive ammunition, or vice
versa, depending on his mood.
He looked up from his watch into the gaunt faces hurrying past him. Even those who could
afford lunch weren't guaranteed they could get any. Droughts and floods worldwide, coupled with the
largest population in the history of man, made for food shortages everywhere, and Manila was no
exception. Food riots had been on the rise lately throughout the city and orders had come down from on
high to shoot rioters and looters on sight.
As he began to stroll towards an outdoor cafe not far down the street, he couldn't help but smirk
at the inhumane practicality of the Emperor's orders. Too many people, and not enough food. Solution:
produce as much more food as possible, and in as little time? Goodness, no! Eliminate as many people as
possible, thus making less mouths to be fed, and more food available per person overall. He wouldn't have
been surprised in the least if he were told his father had come up with the idea.
The mass of people before him parted like the Red Sea when they saw him coming. He wasn't a
very big man, but he played the part well. Around his waist he wore a special belt he'd paid handsomely
for that carried ten 15-round clips for his twin Berettas his father had given him for his sixteenth birthday,
which he wore under each arm in dual leather shoulder holsters. Both were loaded with a full clip as well
as a round in the chamber, safeties on. Locked, cocked, and ready to rock, as his father would say. On his
back he wore on a sling his AK with two 40-round clips on it, which he'd duct taped together untold
months ago. It too had a round in the chamber, and all he had to do was flick its safety off to have 41
rounds ready to go, with another 40 only a three second reload away. In both of his two front trousers
pockets he carried 30-round clips for the AK; and over his shoulder was slung a 75-round drum for his
AK in its carrying case as well. He'd been worried people might tease him because it kind of looked like a
purse, but not surprisingly, not too many people openly criticized or mocked him. On his body he carried
182 rounds of 9x19mm ammo for his pistols and 216 rounds of 7.62x39mm ammo for his rifle.
Of course he paid a heavy price for being better armed than most platoons. Running was
practically out of the question, as was any other swift and quick movements he may have desired to make.
Also, with the shoulder holsters and ammo belt tight against his body, it only made the tropical heat of the
city more unbearable. Why the Emperor had decided the official uniform had to be a black suit was a
topic of oft discussion among him and his comrades. The consensus was that the Emperor had a sadistic
sense of humor and reveled in knowing that the single largest law enforcement entity in the world not
only had to fight crime on a daily basis, but also dehydration.
His mind now firmly fixed in a rut of self-pity for being so hot due to his own lust for guns and
his lack of funds to buy himself a lunch, he ran a hand up his brow and through his thick, dark, and
sweaty hair. It felt like he'd just come out of the shower. He sighed heavily, stopped again in the middle
of the sidewalk, secure in both his invulnerability to these people as well as his superiority to them.
Panting, he took off his standard issue sunglasses and put them in the breast pocket of his jacket, then
slowly massaged his face with his damp palms. His two days' growth of stubble grated into his hands, and
he knew he'd have to shave tonight in order to keep his appearance up to acceptable standards. As much
as he loathed the effort it took to give himself a decent shave, it was far better than the alternative, which
was a hefty fine for not keeping his appearance up to code. He took a deep breath, firmly reaffixed his
sunglasses, and then again began to stroll toward the cafe.
As he reached the outermost tables of the cafe with their umbrellas blatantly advertising different
shabby wares, he again checked his watch and found it to be three minutes till noon. He planned to do
here what he'd done once or twice before himself, and knew countless of his comrades did every day. He'd
go up to someone, preferably a solitary little old lady, sweep his jacket back and coincidentally expose his
guns, and then ask if she was done with her meal. If she was smart, she'd just say no and keep eating,
knowing that if any unquestionably aggressive actions were taken on his part, he would be out of the
second most important thing in the world, short of food: a job.
As his eyes from behind the midnight blackness of his sunglasses slowly swept across the handful
of people eating at their tables, he found each and every one of them returning his steely cold gaze.
Apparently these people, the young and old alike, had fallen prey to that intimidation one too many times,
and weren't about to take it anymore. Crestfallen, and with his stomach growling like a wild beast, he
removed his AK from his back, receiving a few nervous glances at fist, then laid it on a nearby table and
he helped himself to a seat, enjoying the shade from the umbrella.
He stared trance-like at the rifle before him, its aged steel still glinting in the noonday sun.
Without even reloading he could take out all the people around him having the arrogance to defiantly eat
their lunches in plain view of the starving. How easy it would be to just kill a handful of them and take
their meals. But then two things occurred to him at once. Why kill a few people for their meals when he
could just as easily, if not more so, go to the kitchen and brandish his guns in order to get all the food he
wanted? If he was going to lose his job for a meal, it would best be for one he'd personally enjoy, and not
one someone else had ordered. But he also knew he could never do such a thing. Not because of any
sense of morality and justice that bound him, for his ethics were loose and selective. But rather, because
he enjoyed his job so much, and would never want to do anything to jeopardize it. Compared to military
life, it wasn't very restrictive. Except for the Squads, no other branch of Imperial employment had a BYO
policy for firearms. And even though he told everyone the reason he would never be a Squader was
because he didn't find it challenging enough, secretly he knew he just couldn't cut it there no matter how
hard he tried. However, since he was pretty much content with where he was at this point of his life, it
didn't bother him ... much.
With nothing better to do for the next half hour, he began to admire his AK. The side folding
stock he regularly polished up along with the other metal parts of the rifle on a weekly basis, the
checkered wooden pistol grip, and the somewhat similar pistol grip on the front, the two notches by the
safety for full- and semi-auto, the countless dings, nicks, and scratches the body and grips had obtained
through numerous engagements, all of it he admired and cherished.
He looked up form his rifle to the others seated before him, planning to push his sunglasses up
the bridge of his nose with his middle finger if any of them were still giving him the evil eye. Instead he
found almost all of them, along with the mass of pedestrians passing through the area, looking nervously
down across the street. Apparently something serious was going down. He half-heartedly tired to catch a
glimpse of the action which seemed to hold everyone else captive by moving his head this way and that,
and rising form being slumped in his seat, but could see nothing. He wasn't about to get up off of his
aching rear anytime soon, as it felt so good to take his weight off of his throbbing feet and give his eyes a
rest in the umbrella's artificial dusk, compared to the torture of walking around the city's hard pavement
with no shade in sight. He shrugged to himself, dismissing his concerns for whatever was going on down
there, putting his arms on the table and hunching over, watching his thumbs twiddle round and round.
This was the only half hour of the day he got to himself until his shift ended at six, and he wasn't about to
give it up to find out what a few people were rubber-necking over.
A single crisp report cut through the humid air, accompanied by a chorus of women's shrieks.
His head whipped up, his back straightened, had his hands slammed against the table. He quickly
scanned the scene before him, hoping to identify from where the distinctive and familiar popping sound of
an AK begin fired had come. He met with no success, although a handful of the people around him had
now focused their scared and pleading eyes on him. Everyone had stopped what they had been doing for a
moment, but now a few brave souls were again plodding their way through the rest of the frightened
masses. A few more tense but uneventful seconds passed, and everyone began doubting if they'd really
heard a gunshot. The people at the cafe went back to guardedly eating their lunches, and the pedestrians
back to going their separate ways.
He convinced himself that he must have just heard some idiot kid setting off a firecracker or a
quarter-stick of dynamite for laughs, and confused it with gunfire. He heard it so often, more than once
before he'd hastily jumped to t he conclusion that he heard shots fired when in fact it had just been large
object being dropped or something equally ordinary to hear for life in the city. In his line of work, he had
just become accustomed to thinking that any loud noise must be a gunshot, usually directed at him. He
leaned back in his chair, folded his hands in his lap, and let out a long sigh of relief.
Three more shots rang out, this time accompanied by an even larger chorus of shrieks. He rolled
his eyes, disgusted that he had doubted himself, and then sat up in his seat. As he pulled back his jacket
sleeve to revel the time, what he then heard vaguely resembled a muted high-pitched train whistle. Down
the street somewhere, in some unknown building, a handful of women were wailing like banshees but
were then quickly cut off. He gingerly looked down ... 12:01. It was his time now.
It didn't take long for everyone in the area to look around and se that his was the only black suit
in sight. Countless eyes latched on to him like drowning men to a lone life-raft. He could already hear a
few faint mutters of "Why isn't he doing anything?" He knew if he sat there and stubbornly remained
without taking action, things would only get worse. Eventually someone would probably work up the
nerve to approach him and ask why he sat by not doing anything to ensure the populace's safety ... and
before his lunch break was over, undoubtedly. If it were up to him he'd rather just wait the half hour and
then go see what damage had been done. With this many people looking to him for deliverance from
danger, though, he didn't have much of a choice. Either go check it out or risk about two dozen
complaints to his lieutenant. He knew well enough how the world worked these days: The story of him
letting innocent citizens be massacred because he was on his lunch break would spread far and wide, and
people would demand swift and immediate justice for his misdeed, and in its haste and urgency to keep its
subject content and their minds off of their empty stomachs, the Empire would give him the boot. Being
the son of the head of the agency had gotten him out of trouble before, but he knew the "Do you have any
idea who my father is?!" line had worn rice-paper thin with his immediate superiors, and would go over
like a lead balloon with anyone ranking higher than captain. Added to that, he knew that if his father was
indeed consulted on what actions to take, he'd probably not only be stripped of his job but also be black-
listed from ever finding gainful employment again. Without his realizing it, a snarl exploded onto his lips
at the thought of his heartless and unfeeling father. That man had made him what he was today ... and for
that, he wanted to watch the old man die, preferably from a gut-shot he himself would inflict. The next
time he saw his father alive he also wanted to be the last.
His face burning with the rage, animosity, and hatred he felt toward his father, he clenched his
fists and took a deep breath. He flew up from his chair so suddenly that it went crashing backwards,
slamming into the hard pavement, gaining him a few more odd stares. He unbuttoned the top button of
his shirt, loosened his tie, cracked his knuckles, and rolled his head clockwise and counterclockwise, his
neck cracking and popping. Then he picked up his AK, put the sling over his left shoulder, and had it at
the ready on his right side, at waist height. Purposefully he began striding down the street, paying no
attention now to the worried looks he was receiving. With the adrenaline pumping from thinking about
his father, coupled with that of knowing he was going into a potentially volatile situation, he was well on
his way into a battle haze.
He hadn't gone far down the street when a nondescript man stared right into his eyes, then drew
back to take in his face and then body, complete with bulges around the waist where his clips were. "Oh
... " the man said, trailing off as if in search of an expletive colorful enough. "It's 'Open Sights' Ryger."
He only smirked as the man started backing up into others, trying to get well out of the way. As his father
had told him, any reputation was better than none at all. He'd built his on his almost complete lack of
respect for human life and tendency to let more bullets fly than could possibly be deemed necessary.
As the people same him coming, with that resolute gait, all made way, most looking up the street
to see if they were going to be between him and the action. Traffic rumbled by monotonously, impervious
to the happenings on the sidewalk, but anyone on foot could feel the tension mounting in the air. Shots
weren't fired and people didn't scream about it without there being more in store; and a man with an AK
at his side walking toward aforementioned situation didn't just stand back and let events unfold as they
would. Something was going to happen, they could all feel it. Him most of all.
Not far in the distance he could see a few people looking back at him and then pointing across
the street, apparently at where it was all going down. As he hurried his pace to find out, he wagered it
was probably a bank robbery. With such a giant military and so few funds, the Empire couldn't pay all of
its checks every week. But every branch of the Military allowed their men to keep their weapons and, in
some cases, armor on them at all times. So a man with no money, military training, and a loaded gun
were a deadly combination.
He reached the spot where most of the people congregated, and followed their fingers to their
subject. He snorted when he saw it. It was a grocery store. He shrugged to himself; this made sense.
One had to be alive to spend the money one made from a bank robbery, so might as well knock off a
grocery store too. Having a ton of money didn't ensure they could get food, if they were of low rank,
which was often the case of these robberies. Young and, in their minds, invincible men thinking
everything in the world was theirs for the taking. But he was here to put them in their place.
Melodramatically, he slowly flicked the safety on his AK off.
He hadn't taken three paces toward the curb when a man emerged from the entrance of the store.
He was a Filipino, with short crew-cut hair and maybe 20 at most. It looked like he'd been trying to get a
beard going but it just wasn't working out. He would have blended in perfectly with the crowd in a few
seconds if it weren't for his attire. It was hot enough to fry an egg on the sidewalk, if anyone had any
eggs, yet this man was wearing a full-length gray trenchcoat and carrying a bulging duffle bag over his
left shoulder. His trenchcoat had a lot of rectangular swellings all about it too. He was looking around
suspiciously, nervously, his tight-lidded eyes falling on everyone and giving them all a dirty look. He was
just past the store when his eyes fell upon Ryger's.
It was disturbing how the man just stopped in his tracks and turned to face Ryger, his head
cocked defiantly to the side. He gently dropped the duffle bag at his side, then let his coat fall open. It
became quite apparent why he was wearing it now. Inside it were duct-taped countless magazines for the
FN-FAL rifle he had tucked away underneath his left arm. He reached inside and grabbed it, closing his
left eye in anticipation of sighting in on Ryger's head.
Ryger just shook his head, no, it wasn't going to be that easy, and brought his AK up to his chest,
leaving the stock folded, loosely gripping the pistol foregrip with his left hand. He'd learned the hard way
that having a tight grip on an automatic weapon wasn't very conductive to keeping his shoulder located
where nature had intended it to be. As Ryger put his finger to the trigger, the man had his rifle out of his
coat and halfway to his shoulder. But then the world exploded into noise.
Ryger let loose a two-second full auto burst, spewing approximately twenty rounds at the man.
Just after he'd begun to fire a carriage had come between him and the man, but he didn't even think to
stop firing. These bullets could pass through that carriage and five more after it and still be lethal, so why
bother trying to wait until obstacles were out of the way when he could just shoot right through them? He
was in that place now where nothing mattered except staying alive, regardless of the cost. If a few
uninvolved people got hurt or killed, that was their tough luck; they were just in the wrong place at the
wrong time.
As the bullet-riddled carriage slowly rolled out of his line of sight, he was looking straight down
the barrel of the Filipino's rifle across the street. He let his AK drop to his side as he burst into a
shambling and feeble run to his left, his eyes staying fixed across the street. The man was taking rapid
shots, but semi-automatic, and after about the fifth round he could tell he was coming closer and closer to
hitting his target, as he felt the air burn behind his right ear. Behind him, people were screaming and
running in every direction possible, like a stampede. A few were trampled, and a few others had already
been on the ground from the man's missed shots at Ryger finding their homes in them. Ryger got behind
a parked carriage, keeping his legs tight against the giant spoked wheel, trying to catch his breath. The
screams weren't letting up, and neither was the man's gunfire; before he knew it the carriage was
exploding in little bits and pieces all around him.
Before him he saw men, women, and children howling in fear, trying to get away from the
shootout that was quickly turning into a bloodbath. Ryger looked up into the carriage he was using for
cover and saw no one inside of it; as he was looking up through the door's window, a small hole broke
through it as another round from across the street was sent his way. He knew if he didn't get this idiot
down and soon there'd be too many dead civilians to explain away. Already he saw three lying in pools of
blood and another two that had been trampled in the initial mass exodus from Ryger's vicinity.
He reached up to the door handle with his right hand, his AK still at his side, the barrel's warmth
still heating his leg. He hefted himself up onto the footrest to get into the carriage, peering through the
glass to the man across the street, who was now picking the carriage apart bit by bit. Ryger hastily
jumped onto the carriage's roof, and then with familiar ease unfolded his AK's stock and put it up to his
shoulder, his left eye closing and his right lining up along the sights, which he had pointed toward the
Filipino.
The Filipino had seen him through the window, shot a few rounds through the body of the
carriage, but was just now realizing Ryger had scaled the carriage instead of just trying to sneak a peak
and then go back under cover. His eyes wide, the Filipino tried to raise his rifle to meet his adversary atop
the carriage over the street, but he wasn't fast enough. In the time it took him to realize what was going
on, Ryger had gotten into a decent stance, and lined up his sights right on the man's chest.
Another two-second burst of automatic fire tore through the urban scene, the sound waves hitting
the concrete buildings and reverberating over and over, Ryger's spent brass being spit out from his AK in
every direction imaginable. Dust from his jacketed hollow points spraying the area of the Filipino
enveloped the man in a miniature dust-storm, the sidewalk and building behind him being torn up with
the 20 rounds Ryger had just let loose. His finger still on the trigger, Ryger watched from just above the
sights with both eyes as the dust from his volley cleared. When he saw what was to see, he cursed and
tore the spent clip out.
The Filipino man was still there, unscathed. All around him had been shot up, but somehow the
bullets had all missed him. As Ryger was slapping in a fresh new 40-round clip, the man was looking
down at himself to make sure he hadn't been hit. Once he was sure he was good to go, he raised his FAL
up and indiscriminately let fly five rounds in Ryger's direction without really aiming, just trying to buy
himself some time. Ryger, however, had been shot at, and hit, so many times before that he was
impervious to it. Short of seeing large chunks of himself fly off, he was unstoppable once he got started in
a fire-fight.
Ryger sighted in again, this time doing his best to make sure the front sight was dead center of
the man's chest, bullets whizzing past him the whole time. Then he gave it a little tap, and in a second
he'd fired off another ten rounds at the man. Still none hit home. Ryger grumbled and flicked the safety
back to semi-auto, hoping to have more success with controlled fire. The FAL's bolt locked back, the clip
empty. Ryger smiled as the man hurriedly threw the empty one away and ripped a new one from his
coat's interior. Just before he had the clip to the gun, Ryger fired once more.
He did ten rounds, rapid fire, and the Filipino was thrown back against the bullet-hole-ridden
wall after the seventh shot. He dropped his clip and his rifle went from facing up at Ryger to down at the
ground, and both men were very interested in where that bullet had hit him. At about the same time they
both saw it had hit the outside of his right calf, and hadn't really done too much damage. Thoroughly
upset, Ryger again took aim as the man effortlessly produced another clip from the depths of his coat and
put it home, and racked the slide, chambering a new round.
Both men exchanged fire, Ryger emptying the remaining 20 rounds of his clip and the Filipino
emptying his 30-round clip. Ryger being notorious for his rapid fire, ran out of his 20 at about the same
time as the other man ran out of his 20. Neither had even hit the other. At one point Ryger had felt his
jacket beneath his left arm whip back, and now as both men stood in shock that their aim wasn't as good
as they'd always thought it was, he saw a tiny hole through both his white shirt and black jacket. The
bullet had come so close it had singed his gut, and even torn through his garments, but hadn't landed in
him.
Ryger tossed the dual empty 40-round clips over his back carelessly, and produced a 30-round
clip from his right trousers pocket, put it in, and chambered. The Filipino already had his ready, and got
off three rounds while Ryger was reloading. Ryger was tired of this, and saw it was going nowhere, so he
backed up a step, then took a flying leap off of the carriage's roof onto the street below.
He knew that if he'd have done that in a different situation, he'd be bawling like a baby in pain,
with a pulled or torn leg muscle. But right now he was so full of adrenaline pain wasn't even conceivable.
Understandably, once the shootout had begun, traffic had pretty much come to a stand still; people had
just stopped their carriages where they were, gotten out, and ran. With the traffic jams inherent to this
city, there was no chance of just driving away from the action; their best bet was to leave their carriages
and horses and look out for themselves by ducking into a nearby building. It looked like something out of
a nuclear holocaust movie, all the abandoned vehicles in the street and not a soul to be seen, save for
Ryger and the Filipino.
Immediately rounds tore through the carriages all around him, and he crouched as he jogged over
to the front wheel of the nearest carriage in the four-lane. The familiar sound of glass and metal and
plastic polymers being torn apart came to him vaguely, as he was practically deafened from all the
shooting he'd just done. He hefted his AK in front of himself, trying to figure out his best plan of action.
Then he heard the sirens.
Down the street, in the direction from which he'd come, he heard the sirens of his comrades
coming to his aid. He could hear the beating of hooves on sidewalk as the Squad Carriage beat its way
toward the scene of action, bypassing the abandoned carriages in the street. A few more shots tore past
him, but then there was a pause. Ryger figured the man must now be realizing that the incident had been
reported and pretty soon everyone with a gun and a taste for action would be flooding the area. Ryger
slowly eased his eyes in front of the carriage, and through the horse's swishing tail he could see the
Filipino up almost directly across from him, his concentration focused down the street.
Smirking, knowing it was all downhill from here for his new best friend, Ryger went to the rear
of the carriage, then slid around to its back, leaning breathlessly against it, getting ready to bound around
its side and pump that Filipino full of pain. As the man began firing up the street at the oncoming horse
and carriage, Ryger heard a creaking noise from within his cover. He looked up, and through the back
window could see an elderly European man looking down at him unhappily. Apparently he wasn't too
happy that Ryger was using his carriage for cover, and that it had already been shot up a good deal. Ryger
couldn't believe the audacity of some people. Here he was risking his life to keep this man safe, and he
was giving him an ugly look because he'd have to pay to get the bullet holes in his carriage fixed. Ryger
spit on the wheel, looking shamelessly up at the man, daring him with his eyes to come out of that safe
little box and say something about it. The man disappeared again, a grim and disapproving look upon his
face. Ryger dismissed him and concentrated on the task at hand.
From up the street he heard fire being returned, and then heard a bullet snap and whine away
from hitting the pavement not far from him. He could also hear the Filipino firing just as fast as he could,
and backing away back toward the store. Ryger figured he hoped to get back there and hold the citizens
hostage, or maybe even execute them in order to not go out alone. But Ryger wasn't about to let that
happen.
He burst onto the sidewalk, close enough to see the few remaining teeth in the young man's
mouth as he grimaced in desperation trying to pick off his two foes a block away. Ryger for the first time
saw the sun glint off of the man's wedding ring, and for a moment hesitated, wondering if this man would
be leaving behind any children. But then he reminded himself that he knew the risks when he got into
this, and if he hadn't, it was his own fault. Ryger brought his AK up to his shoulder, and blanked out the
man's face with the foresight. The Filipino turned his FAL to Ryger, and he too aimed to make the one
shot count, no more of this rapid fire junk.
Ryger got his shot off first. A spray of red mist erupted from the man's left shoulder, and he
stumbled backwards, limping a bit due to his already injured leg, a round flying off harmlessly into the
air, now with bullets pouring in from up the street as well, now that Ryger's comrades were no longer
pinned down. The Filipino fell to his rear, and Ryger moved his aim down the slightest bit to compensate
when the Filipino emptied his clip from his side at Ryger. After the first five rounds it became apparent
that if Ryger remained where he was he was a dead man, so he ducked back behind the carriage,
carelessly popping off a round hoping he'd get lucky with it; but of course he had no luck. He went
around to the other side of the carriage, feeling it rock as bullets ripped through it. Then he heard the
slide lock back on the FAL, and he looked down to make sure he hadn't been hit. He was still good.
Something caught his peripheral vision, and he looked up to see a pale white hand drenched in
blood slapped lifelessly against the door's window. He grinned; that's what that old bugger got. He could
hear the Filipino saying something, but he couldn't make out what; his ear drums were just about worn out
from all the gunfire they'd endured. Probably saying his last prayers. Shots were streaming in from up
the street, and Ryger was still close enough to smell, so between the three of them they were bound to take
this Filipino out, and soon.
Ryger inched his way back along the carriage's rear, trying to see up the street at his comrades, to
make sure they weren't going to accidentally shoot him. He could get a faint glimpse of their black and
white carriage, with its still flashing lightbar, turned sideways along the length of the sidewalk, the horse
just out of his line of sight. He could see one at the rear, using the running board as support, resting his
rifle along the roof and taking rapid but aimed shots. The other poked out from behind cover of the front
at the further wheel, letting off bursts when he came out and then hiding again, not looking like he was
going to be hitting much. Just as he was working up his nerve to again turn and finish the Filipino off, he
heard the man's FAL belching out more fire at the carriage up the street. Apparently the man was
determined to not go out alone.
Ryger hopped out onto the sidewalk again, his right foot almost falling off the curb, but what he
saw caught him off-guard. There the Filipino sat, legs splayed out before him like a tot at play-time,
holding is rifle up to his shoulder and taking concentrated shots with it, all the while talking into a
walkie-talkie he held in his left hand. Ryger didn't like the looks of this; he raised his AK high, took a
few paces forward until he was at about the middle of the dead European's carriage, so close to the
Filipino he could see the fuzzies on his coat, and put his sights on the man's chest. His finger tightened
on the trigger, with bullets clapping off of the sidewalk and buildings all around him from his colleagues,
watching the Filipino stop firing and just stare up at him in resignation, not even trying to move his rifle
onto Ryger, and not bothering to return fire up the street. But then thunder roared from up the street, so
loud he could feel it slam into his chest.
He looked up to see a mass of four men exiting the grocery store ,all similarly dressed as the man
now sitting before him. They spread out to form a parade-marching line along the length of the sidewalk,
the man furthest left having a shotgun, the next in an AK, the third man an M-16, and the man on the
outside by the street a Dragunov with a giant scope. The three inside men weren't firing, but the man with
the Dragunov had just let off a round, and was now taking aim a second time. Ryger whipped his head
around his shoulder to see one man lying dead at the base of the front wheel, his head an exploded ruin.
Then the other man popped up from behind the cover of the carriage, and his head disappeared in a cloud
of blood and skull before he could even get a shot off. Ryger turned his attention back down the street.
Slowly and deliberately still marching toward him, the four men advanced more and more, the
sniper taking aim now between Ryger's eyes ... he could almost feel the cross-hairs on him. Ryger only
smirked confidently, and mouthed "Not today," then flicked his AK to full-auto and emptied the
remaining 28 rounds of his clip down the street. All four men stopped walking and crouched and ducked,
the sniper running into the street to get behind a carriage. With them out of the way, Ryger could now
focus his attention on the Filipino before him ... who, he now saw, had his sights fixed on his chest.
Without a thought Ryger fell face-forward, putting his arms up as if in surrender on his way
down, hearing the bullet with his name on it smack through the carriage behind him. He landed in the
gutter, and then, holding tightly onto his AK, he rolled under the carriage and then he was on the other
side, hearing bullets whine off of the pavement he'd just been spinning over a moment ago. Quickly he
stood, jogged back behind the rear wheel, pitching away his spent clip and slamming in a new 30-rounds
ready to go, chambered a round, and then looked down the street, holes punching through the carriage all
around him.
Not very far away, the sniper stood, getting ready to take his third shot of the day ... his third kill
of the day. Ryger quickly whipped the AK up to his shoulder again as he dropped to one knee, then let
loose a second-long volley at the man, cutting apart about three carriages between them with wild fire.
The sniper abruptly ducked back behind a carriage as the bits of metal and glass rained down all around
him, and Ryger again stood once the threat was dealt with. He didn't like the looks of this one bit; the two
men he'd been counting on were now dead, and he had to deal with five heavily-armed foes as opposed to
one. Things had gone from looking very exceptional to looking very unfavorable in the span of about ten
seconds.
Full of anger and blood lust, Ryger scaled the dead European's carriage as he'd done previously
across the street and once atop it he clearly saw down the street the four men with their cache of
weaponry, calmly stalking closer and closer to their partner. They were again in parade step, practically
asking to be picked off. All were also carrying duffle bags, and all had bulges from spare magazines
under their trench coats which slowly flapped in the breeze. Ryger muttered something unfriendly, then
whisked his AK up and fixed his sights in the middle of the group and emptied the remaining 19 rounds
from his clip on full-auto.
Again the sniper dodged into the street and his fellows simply crouched and looked around to see
where the bullets were coming from. Ryger took the emptied clip out of the AK and threw it ferociously
down at the Filipino, and it hit him on the head. Ryger found it ironic that he couldn't hit the man with
any of his bullets, but he could hit him when he threw a clip at him. Blood gushed out from the Filipino's
temple, and he fell backwards onto his back, his FAL cluttering to his side, his walkie-talkie's antenna
jiggling from the impact of his hand on the hard pavement.
Ryger very badly wanted to finish him off, but he heard the roar of a shotgun down the street and
little bits and pieces of buckshot lacerated the carriage beneath him, and he looked up to see the three men
all taking aim at him, the sniper nowhere in sight. He turned on his heel and without hesitation jumped
off the back of the carriage's roof, landing with a grunt and a rattle of ordnance. A barrage of fire from
three different guns began to fly toward him, tearing the carriage apart. Tightly grasping his AK he took
off at the fastest trot he could manage up the street, away from the action, knowing all too well when it
was time to admit defeat and retreat to fight another day.
He didn't even begin to slow down until he'd passed three carriages, and then he breathlessly
tuned around and looked down the street, and thankfully didn't see the sniper staring back at him. Not
long after he had scanned the environment before him, the shooting stopped for a moment. He slowly
kept backing away, every now and then looking behind him to make sure he wasn't going to run into
anything, but concentrating down the street to make sure he'd see if one of them came into the street to
take him out.
Four more carriages later he stopped, and desperately removed his 75-round drum from its
carrying case and threw the case underneath the nearest carriage. He chambered a round and realized
with great fear that after this drum, he was out of AK ammo. He'd have to make it last, and count; he
flipped it back to semi-automatic. He backed some more, and then the firing started again. It lasted
maybe five seconds, but was deafening while it lasted, and was all the more frightening because Ryger
worried somehow a bullet would reach him. He figured they were either just letting off nervous fire, or,
more likely with this group, making sure no unexpected surprises would be coming at them from any
angle while they were reorganizing their strategy.
Unexpectedly Ryger found himself being bathed in red and then blue light, alternating. He
looked back to see a horse's head poking into the street between another horse and the rear of a parked
carriage. He'd retreated an entire city block and was now at his fallen comrade's Squad Carriage. Full of
hope to find some decent weapons, he briskly ran behind the carriage now nearest him and faced the
horse's emotionless face, looking over at the carriage.
The bullet resistant glass of the doors and windshield were all pitted with spider-webs of cracks
from the FAL's high-powered rounds hitting home, and the body was practically torn to shreds. Quite a
few spokes on the wheels had been blown out, and the lightbar had been knocked out of place but was still
atop the roof and flashing. The two bodies lay still, pools of blood spreading out from their heads. The
nearest one, the one who'd been behind the wheels, held an old Heckler & Koch MP5 with triple mags
taped in its lifeless hand, with quite a few spare clips on the body. Ryger, grinning, looked over at the
other body, and saw lying far from it a rifle that looked awfully nice but he couldn't make out what kind it
was.
He crouched low, and looking from beneath the safety of the carriage down the street he saw two
of the four men helping their wounded comrade up to his feet, the other two watching in opposite
directions of the street for any movement. The sniper was facing Ryger; just his luck. Ryger wiped the
sweat from his brow with his tie, knocking his tie tack off and onto the ground, where it clattered to its
final resting place unreachably beneath the carriage he was leaning against. He took a few deep breaths,
nodded to the horse, and then, stooping as low as he could, he made a mad dash for the cover of the Squad
Carriage.
He hadn't made it three running steps past the cover of the carriage when the first shot rang out,
followed closely by a second and then a third. Somehow Ryger made it behind the wheel his fallen
comrade had been using, without having been hit. Apparently moving targets weren't in the sniper's forte.
Wheezing, Ryger leaned into the spokes of the wheel as now all five men opened fire on his location. The
lightbar went into a dazzling arc above him, being knocked off of the roof and pinwheeling toward him,
landing just in front of him. He tightly closed his eyes as the remaining glass of it shattered and sprayed
him, slivers cutting his cheeks slightly. He felt a spoke break behind his back, and he knew if he
remained here he was doomed. The carriage was tottering from all the fire it was absorbing, and he got
the distinct feeling it wouldn't last much longer. But just as he was about to make another rush to go back
into the street, they stopped firing.
Either they estimated him to be dead after such a wicked volley ... or they didn't have that much
ammo left either. Ryger hoped against hope that the latter was the case. He sat there, regaining his
breath for a while, trying to work up the nerve to move again. He laid his AK against the wheel and then
leaned forward and pulled the MP5 from the dead man's tight grasp, and inspected it warily, expecting
another barrage of fire any moment. He ejected the clip and saw it looked to be about half empty, and the
other two 30-round clips taped to it looked full. He looked more carefully around and saw three other
similarly taped triple-mags lying in the sidewalk before him, spent. The only problem was, this gun was
chambered in 9mm Parabellum, like his Berettas; a fine round for close-quarters combat, but not ideal for
trying to take men out from a little more than a city block away. He looked on the side to see the safety,
and it had full auto and a two-round burst option. He flipped it to the burst option and re-inserted the
half-spent clip, then reached over and slung his AK over his shoulder. He was about to run over and see
what the other fallen man had been packing when things got ugly.
Out of nowhere, a symphony of sirens cut into the eerie silence, seemingly from all around. Up
the street Ryger could see four carriages in single-file rumbling up the sidewalk, and heard more coming
from all the other side-streets. The cavalry was finally arriving. He grinned. Those idiots didn't stand a
chance now. All he had to do was sit back and let backup take care of them; he'd already done enough
today.
For a while, what seemed like too long, nothing but the wail of the sirens filled the air, and then
the sirens stopped coming closer and closer and remained stationary. About half a block up the street the
four carriages had stopped, and sixteen men spilled out of them, half in black suits and the other half in
woodland camouflage. Ryger could hardly believe it; Squaders. The best of the best. The dozen and a
third men trotted toward him, the Squaders of course leading the way. Ryger envisioned the same
happening down the street as well, and also at the intersection between him and the robbers. The backup
was about five carriages away from him when all hell broke out.
Some idiot blared over a megaphone, "Drop your weapons and put your hands in the air," and
then his amplified voice was cut off with peals of gunfire. Ryger could at first make out that only the five
were firing, but then he heard their shots answered. Repaid in full, and with interest. From where Ryger
sat it truly did sound like the rumblings of a thunderstorm. As the shots were being exchanged the
Squaders and their transporters hurried their pace to reach Ryger's location.
Fully automatic fire as well as rapid fire filled the air, and Ryger could clearly make out the lone
shotgun bellowing as well, from the robber. The eight Squaders came up to the carriage, paying Ryger no
attention whatsoever, four remaining behind their partners who scaled up the carriage and used the
running board to stand on, the four propping their elbows on the riddled roof and letting loose with their
M-16's on full auto. Ryger cringed at the volume of it; he fought the urge to put his hands to his ears.
The man closest to Ryger, his boot close enough to his face for the mud on it to fleck off onto his
face, was reloading his rifle when he was thrown back into the unexpecting arms of two of his comrades.
He was minus a face. Those who caught him cursed roundly, while one of the other two standing about
rushed to take his place at the carriage. Before he'd even reached it the furthest Squader dropped off of
the running board like a sack of mail. His throat was torn to pieces, blood spurting out from where his
Adam's apple used to be. The other of the free two ran over to fill the gap, looking a bit concerned, not
nearly as cocky as he'd been a few moments ago.
Sitting in shock and wonder, unable to move, Ryger watched as the second Squader in from him
had his legs shot to shreds through the carriage's body, falling onto his back, writing in pain and
screaming like a baby, clutching madly at his knees which weren't really there anymore. The two
Squaders who had ditched their fallen comrade's body looked at each other, neither wanting to go up next.
As they stared at each other one of Ryger's own came from the cover of the street and filled the hole in the
line, letting his AK fire ten rounds a second down the street at the enemy. He hadn't even emptied his clip
before his gut imploded and he fell onto his side at the carriage's base, curling up into the fetal position
and coughing up blood badly.
Ryger didn't like the looks of things, and ran out into the street and crouched behind the back of a
parked carriage, exhausted even at the little effort that had taken. His adrenaline rush was dying. The
carriage was abandoned by the remaining Squaders, but still it was pummeled with a few more rounds.
The prevailing five Squaders got together in a huddle, discussing what they should do. In the background
a miniature war could still be heard raging. The seven remaining black suits of Ryger's comrades ran past
him and down the street, closer to the action, while the five remaining Squaders discussed what to do
next. They quickly reached an agreement, and all five charged the carriage, which was now practically
transparent, and grunting with tremendous effort, managed to overturn it in the sidewalk. The horse's
reins had long ago been sliced apart from gunfire, yet the animal remained standing in the street as its
vehicle was overturned to its rear.
The Squaders crouched beneath the bottom of the carriage for their new cover, conferred again,
then all five were up on one knee and letting loose 50 rounds a second total down the street. All of their
clips ran out at about the same time, and while they were reloading, two were cut down. One had half of
his face blown off, and the other caught a round right in the middle of his chest. After that the other three
ducked back behind the carriage for a moment, looked at each other, then again all three re-emerged and
emptied their clips again. This time they ducked behind cover to reload, and again got up and returned
fire once more.
The one furthest from Ryger clutched his face and fell backwards yelling in pain, his rifle left
sitting on the carriage's overturned side, falling to the sidewalk and clawing at his face and with no end to
his screaming in sight. Ryger caught a glimpse of what happened; a pellet of buckshot had caught him in
the cheek. It wasn't very pretty.
The middle Squader seemed to lose it, as he stood up completely and, loudly voicing his opinion
of the robber's ancestry and their sexual relations with mothers, emptied his clip, slapped in a new one,
and, going to semi-auto, let off round after round of rapid fire down the street. He dared them to hit him
while his partner watched him with amazement. As he was nearing the end of his clip a round slammed
into his gut, then punched out of his back just beneath the base of his neck. His lifeless body collapsed
onto the sidewalk in a graceless lump, and his remaining comrade crawled over to check on the only other
surviving Squader.
Ryger simply couldn't believe it. Before his eyes he'd seen seven Squaders torn down; seven of
the best the Empire had to offer. This just wasn't right. Still vast amounts of gunfire were being
exchanged, he could hear. This should have been over by now, but was still raging on. Furious, Ryger
stood, his adrenaline pumping again, wanting to personally kill those five men who had somehow
managed to fend off seemingly half of the city's armed Imperial servants. He made sure the MP5 had a
round in the chamber, switched it over to full auto, then without allowing himself time to get nervous and
afraid, he ran over to where the two Squaders were, pointing the MP5 up the street and emptying the clip
as he ran.
He slid like a baseball player to where the two men were, brought himself up to a sitting position,
and put in a fresh clip. All around him the fallen bodies were already beginning to stink in the balmy heat
of the city. The Squader who'd caught a piece of buckshot, he now saw, had died. It was just him and the
one Squader now.
"So how do you want to do this?" Ryger asked him. At first he thought maybe the man was
ignoring him, but then he remembered he'd spoken in a normal tone, and yet both of them were almost
deaf from all the shooting. Ryger repeated his question, this time almost shouting it into the man's ear.
The Squader looked at him, shrugged, and then went back to fixing his slain comrade's hair.
Ryger got the impression he wasn't going to be of much help. Ryger reached up over the carriage with the
MP5, didn't even bother to try to aim it, and emptied the clip down the street on full auto, then brought it
back, put in the last clip, and performed the operation again. After that he just tossed it carelessly into the
street, without any further use for it. Crawling on his belly, he managed to take two M-16's from some of
the fallen Squaders as well as six full 30-round clips. He made sure two of the rifles had full clips, that
they were on full auto, and then leaned unsurely again back against the carriage's bottom.
With an M-16 in each arm, he got to his knees, turned to face toward the action, and opened up.
As the twin rifles shot their high velocity bullets toward the robbers, Ryger got an impression of what was
going on. All five men were still alive, against all odds, and almost to the entrance of the grocery store.
Most likely they'd be retreating inside of it again once they got to it. At the intersection halfway between
Ryger and the robbers, on both ends, were dead horses and carriages so badly shot up they were nothing
more than match-sticks on wheels. He could make out a few fallen bodies by the carriages, and further
down the street the case was the same, only with even more bodies lying about. The rifles ran dry, and as
Ryger again ducked for cover, he saw the sniper taking aim at him. That was most likely how most those
Squaders had been taken out; and Ryger didn't want to be another notch on that man's stock.
His back thumped against the underside of the carriage, and then the Squader next to him
collapsed in a heap, an entry wound in his back just to the left of his spine. The round intended for Ryger
had hit him instead. Ryger couldn't honestly tell himself he was sad about it.
He reloaded one rifle, tossed the other aside, and put the remaining three clips in his trousers
pockets, his AK still slung over his shoulder. He ran into the street unscathed, paused for a breath, then
headed down the street again, between the parked carriages and those that had been left in the passing
lane. He walked slowly, not too eager to get a piece of what eight Squaders had just gotten, but also
wanting to take out those robbers; it seemed personal now, somehow. As he made his way closer and
closer to the fray, he wondered what had happened to those seven comrades of his who had taken off down
the street toward the center of the battle; with any luck, he'd meet up with them somewhere up ahead and
they could make a joint effort to take down the robbers before they could retreat into the safety of the store.
Occasionally a stray round would hurl into a carriage somewhere near him, but as a whole his
trek down the street was uneventful. In the background constantly was the roar of the firefight going on,
with a scream ripping through the gunfire once or twice. Ryger couldn't figure out how literally dozens of
Imperial enforcers couldn't take down less than half a dozen men who were doubtless low on ammo by
now. He came upon the intersection, and slowed. He made sure the M-16 had a round chambered,
secured his AK at his side, and then went out into the comparative emptiness of the intersection. Only a
few carriages were in it, most having had continued on through it to the other side. He ducked and
scurried from the cover of one to another, and eventually made it through unscathed.
He went a few more paces down the street, then started heading over to the left, where the
robbers would be. There were more stray rounds flying about now, but still none had come too close. He
went up to a parked carriage, kneeled at its rear and looked underneath it down the street. The robbers
were almost to the store, still retreating, and still their number unbroken. They were about a third of a
block up the street; close enough for Ryger to make out which one was which. He waited until the sniper
was facing the opposite direction, and then got down to business.
Quickly he dashed to the side of the carriage and scaled it, and once on the top he got on bended
knee and aimed the M-16 down the street at the five men. Three seconds later, and he'd emptied an entire
clip on full auto at them. He didn't see any of them fall, but all five turned their attention to him. The
roar of the M-16 so near them, as well as so many relatively accurate shots, drew their attention. Ryger
slapped the clip ejector, let it fall to the hood, then jumped over the side of the carriage just as it began
taking hits.
At its side he put a fresh clip in the M-16, with two remaining after he used this one up. He
started running down the street, and it didn't take long for the robbers' attention to again focus on their
other multiple assailants. He passed carriage after carriage in a blur, all of them now having been torn
apart from missed shots. His chest was starting to feel tight, he was short of breath, and his head was
throbbing. But he couldn't give up. There might be children in that grocery store, and he'd do whatever it
took to save their lives.
A shotgun blast from so close he could feel it roared, and he ducked behind the nearest carriage,
panting badly. It hadn't been meant for him, he felt, but the fact remained that he was practically on top
of them now. He wondered where his comrades had gotten to. He hadn't seen them anywhere up the
street on his way here, and, looking down the street, could only see a barricade of black and white Squad
Carriages. But they couldn't have gotten past these robbers to the safety of those carriages. Could they?
He scrambled to the carriage's side, and ascended it. It took a lot of effort, but he found those
idiots never seemed to sense him coming when he was firing from above. When he got up there, he saw
them no more than four carriage lengths away, blasting insanely as ever in every direction, showing no
sign of letting up. They were at the edge of the grocery store, almost to its entrance. Ryger let out a
monstrous and animal roar, which evolved into a curse upon the men as he bellowed it, then raised the M-
16 to high port and flicked it to semi-auto. He got off seven shots before they saw him.
After the seventh they could tell that once again someone was a lot closer to their position than
the intersections, and began looking around hurriedly. When they saw him, all at about the same time, all
turned to face him and all raised their weapons high, taking careful aim on him as he did the same with
them. While they all sighted in, he let off ten more rounds.
At first he felt a round scream past his head, and then one after another cut hotly through the air
all around him. Three rounds of his later, he came to the conclusion that he simply couldn't hit what he
was aiming at. So he decided to at least go out blazing. He switched the M-16 back over to full auto and
aimed it at the sniper's chest, for the man was the only one of the group not to have taken his shot yet.
And Ryger knew that was because when the man did make his shot, it would count. Ryger blasted him
with the last 20 rounds in the clip, and to his surprise it had quite an effect.
The sniper fell onto his back, his rifle clattering away from him into the middle of the sidewalk
in front of his accomplices, and all four of the other men turned to look at their fallen friend. As they did,
Ryger, still in shock at actually having managed to accomplish something and not be dead, instinctively
put in the next to last clip and made the M-16 ready, bringing it back up to his shoulder. The sniper's
head came up from the sidewalk where he laid like he was drunk, moving lazily from side to side on his
neck as if in a light breeze. Worse yet, Ryger saw no blood pooling around him. Maybe he'd only grazed
him or something. Regardless, the other four were now taking sight again, and Ryger intended to make
sure they wouldn't get lucky.
He emptied the full 30-round clip at the men, and when it was emptied all four were on their
rears. Ryger couldn't believe it. Although none of them were still dead, one was on his back and the
others were on their posteriors and not looking too healthy. Excitedly Ryger took out the empty clip and
put in his last fresh one. He flicked the gun over to semi-auto, planning to take nice and slow, and above
all accurate, head shots now. There was no way these men would be causing any more trouble.
Just as the front sight of the M-16 was about to block out the sight of the man on the far left's
face, the second one in from the street sprang to a shooting stance and slickly produced a pistol from
behind his back. As Ryger turned his rifle toward the man, 9mm rounds came flying towards him,
rapidly.
The third round hit the front of the M-16 and knocked it from his grasp, destroying the foresight
entirely. It went into a pinwheel, flying off behind the carriage he was atop. More and more rounds
poured at him, and in fear he fell to his right side and rolled over the side, crashing to the ground heavily
and with great pain. As he recollected himself and brought his AK up to his side and unfolded the stock,
he again heard all five men returning fire both up and down the street. He rolled his eyes. He'd had them,
and now they were again defiantly contesting the Empire. This was really starting to aggravate him. He
looked down at himself just to make sure he hadn't been hit, and then ran up to the next carriage.
A wave of inspiration hit him. He went to the front of the carriage, and found the horse there to
be looking very nervous, but without anywhere to go, being blocked in from all the carriages around and
the reigns holding it to its carriage. But if this giant beast were free of its reigns it would surely want to
run, and in the only available direction, most likely: onto the sidewalk. Ryger smirked. He hated to see
animals hurt, but when it came to choosing between a horse and some little children, it was no choice at
all.
He got out the butterfly knife from his back trousers pocket and cut loose the reigns of the horse
as close to it as possible. The horse just looked at him after he'd done it, unimpressed. Ryger gave it a
dirty look, but to no avail. He went back a few paces and slapped its rear, which resulted in a tail swish.
Ryger knew time was of the essence, so he decided to stop messing around. He went back to the middle of
the horse's carriage, then took his AK to high port and fired a single round beneath the horse's body,
between its hooves. That seemed to do it.
The horse bucked and brayed, then ran into the sidewalk and toward the direction it had already
been facing to begin with: toward the robbers. Ryger, thoroughly pleased with himself, quickly climbed
the carriage and could hear the men cursing as the horse charged mindlessly at them. As they stared
stupefied at the charging beast, Ryger took careful aim at the sniper and fired off a triple-tap, and watched
the man again knocked on his back just in front of the store's entrance. The horse was almost on top of
the men as they desperately opened fire on it, spraying mists of brilliant blood back from the animal as it
continued its charge seemingly unhindered. While they were busy trying to not be trampled, Ryger put
four rounds into the shotgun man's chest; he saw all four of them tear holes through his coat. There was
no way four AK rounds at almost point blank distance to the chest wouldn't at the very least keep that man
down for a very long time.
The horse was close enough to the men that they could have seen their reflections in its eyes
when the man with the AK put an entire clip into the horse's head on full auto. The beast fell gracelessly
onto its face, and then its body collapsed behind it like a demolished building. Ryger quickly let off seven
desperate shots at the three men that remained standing, but none of them hit home, and then the three
were again aware of his presence.
The one with the M-16 gave him a one-fingered salute before he opened up fire, and the others
he could see them cursing him as they pumped bullets at him. Ryger sensed his luck was about up, and
retreated down the side of the carriage. He still had sixty rounds left, and had taken down two of them.
Not too shabby. He ran up two carriage lengths quickly as the remaining men again refocused their fire
up and down the street. Ryger was now a scant two carriage lengths from the men. He was about to burst
onto the sidewalk and try to finish them off with a full-auto burst when he heard the shotgun and
Dragunov firing almost in unison. How could that be? He'd put those men down himself. He'd put four
jacketed hollow points moving at over two thousand feet per second into the shotgun man's chest. Yet it
sounded like the man was again up and at it.
Ryger crouched at the carriage's side and looked down the street to see all five men backing
toward the store's entrance, letting off half-hearted pot shots along the street's length. He screamed in
frustration, but of course no one heard him with all the fire being exchanged. He watched helplessly as
the man retreated inside the store, and a few seconds later, silence descended upon his world. The
shooting from all around had stopped. He stood and leaned against the carriage, then mounted it to see
what was going on all around.
Men were spilling into the street like rats fleeing a sinking ship, and from every side street
possible. He could see the black suits of his comrades, the camo of Squaders, and even the deep blue of
the Army's armor-clad troops. It looked like, all counted, three hundred or more men were all converging
upon this one store, running as fast as they could, hatred and rage in their hearts and minds. The closest
were half a block up the street, all of them screaming insanely with bloodlust. Ryger had a feeling they'd
just go in there blasting, disregarding the civilians in there. He couldn't let that happen.
He made sure everyone saw him as he went from the street onto the sidewalk, striding
purposefully toward the entrance, AK at his side with the stock unfolded, ready at a moment's notice. He
was hoping that they wouldn't charge the building firing at anything and everything if they knew one of
theirs was in there as well. He hurried his pace, and was soon in the shade of the store's awning above its
shattered entrance. Hesitantly, he stepped through the door, his feet crunching the shards of glass lying
all around. He gripped the AK at his side, put it to full auto, ready to spray anything he perceived as a
threat.
Of course the shelves here at the front of the store had been empty, with so little food available.
The rusty old relics had a few bullet holes in them, but for the most part the building looked unharmed
from the war that had been raging just outside. Ryger moved to the center aisle and slowly cruised
toward the back where he knew the food would be, and hopefully the robbers too. About halfway back he
saw an old woman cowering in a side-aisle. He looked at her, hoping she would recognize his uniform as
someone that was here to help her, and she pointed to the back nervously. He nodded, and tried to give
her a smile. But he couldn't. He knew that if the Empire hadn't taken over, this woman wouldn't have
been standing in a bread line today. She wouldn't be cringing with fear from men willing and able to kill
her and anyone else that got in their way. She'd probably be at home watching television, having a big
lunch and talking with her grandchildren.
Ryger cautiously raised the AK to high port, sighting it in straight down the aisle, then again
moving his head back to scanning the surroundings. He got to be about three quarters of the way back
when he first could make out voices. They sounded like they were coming from the other end of a tunnel,
and his ears felt like they were water-logged, but he could tell someone not far ahead of him was talking.
As he stopped, crouched, and focused his hearing, he could tell a heated argument was going on. The
robbers, most likely.
On his hands and knees, the AK at his side, Ryger crawled to the last side aisle, then went along
it, vertical to the main aisle he'd been following. He got to the middle of the empty shelf, then peered up
through the tiny holes in the back designed to hold the supports for shelves. He saw the deli straight back
from him, of course without any meat to offer. And behind the deli, the five men stood debating.
He could see they had all laid their guns against the wall behind them, a good two running paces
away. Their duffle bags lay in a heap off to the side, and next to them, the answer to Ryger's mystery.
Some seriously torn up body armor. Ryger could see the tight group of four holes where he'd hit the
shotgun man on his discarded armor. They'd been wearing Kevlar vests with steel insert trauma plates;
what the big boys used. No wonder Ryger had only knocked them down and not taken them out.
Some of the words they were exchanging started to make sense now as his ears became adjusted
to their current nearly deafened state.
"Oh God, look at me. I can't breathe. My chest looks like it's ready to collapse. Do you see all
these little dents I've got in me? This can't be good. Oh God, man, what are we going to do?"
"I can't let Claudia down. I promised her I wouldn't die today. What about my kids? I did this
for them; I don't want it all to be for nothing. I don't want to die."
"If I don't get this bread and rice to my mother, she'll surely die. She hasn't eaten for days.
Damn it, James, you said we could get away with this!"
"We're not dead yet, now are we? Listen, trust me, we can get out of this. All we have to do is ...
I don't know. But I'll think of something, I swear."
"It better be fast, man. Time is not exactly on our side."
It was all a garble of mixed words, and he couldn't tell who was speaking, or when. He just got
the gist of what was going on: They knew they were going to die today, and were in denial about it. He
also knew that they hadn't done it for money or gain; but because they loved their families and could no
longer stand to watch them suffer when they could do something to try to end it. These weren't monsters,
but men with hearts full of love. Without fully realizing it, Ryger had risen to his feet, looking upon these
men with pity.
All five of them turned their heads to meet his eyes at the same time, and the half dozen men
stood in silence gazing deep into each other's eyes for what seemed like an eternity. Ryger knew who they
were, and why they'd done this. He no longer wanted to slay them. They were just victims of
circumstance, pushed too far. However, all they saw in him was a black suit, which was representative of
the enemy. One of them started to back toward the guns at the far wall. Ryger just shook his head, no,
don't let it happen like this, but then the other four started backing up as well. Ryger could feel tears
welling up in his eyes. Why did the world have to be like this?
Sadly he raised his AK to high port and sighted it in on the middle man, the one who'd had the
AK. He closed his eyes, not wanting to see what would happen when he let loose his last 60 rounds on
full auto at this close distance. He regretted horribly what he had to do, but it was them or him, so them it
would have to be.
Just before he squeezed the trigger, a shot rang out, and at the same time there was the sound of
metal being punched through, and Ryger was knocked backward into the shelf behind him, taking it to the
floor with him. He looked down to see an expanding red circle at his belly, slowly soaking his shirt. He
screamed, which hurt very badly, and then emptied the drum through the aisle before him, hearing the
glass of the deli shatter as his high-powered rounds tore through it easily. He let the AK drop to his side
after he'd fired for six seconds straight, and managed to slowly bring himself to his feet. He surveyed the
damage before him which he'd just inflicted.
All five men were laying on the floor, covered in glass shards, only one near the rifles, the rest
fallen where they'd been standing when he had received his gut shot. He'd forgotten that one of the men
was also packing a pistol. The burning pain in his stomach every time he took a breath helped him to
remember now.
He took a step toward the center aisle when four of the men, the four which hadn't been as close
to the guns as their comrade, leaped to their feet, unharmed. The fifth man was still lifeless on the floor, a
9mm grasped tightly in his dead right hand, but his compatriots had all managed to duck before Ryger
had let loose his fury. As they all mad a mad dash for their rifles against the back wall, Ryger let his
jacket fall open and reached inside it to produce his twin Berettas.
With practiced ease he flicked their safeties off and let both fire their first double-action shot
simultaneously, hitting none of the men before him. After that, he went wild, spraying the back of the
store with rapid fire just as fast as he could. Thirty rounds later, with the slides locked back on both
pistols, he saw the men again getting to their feet and continuing their quest for their guns. Hastily Ryger
let the spent clips drop out of both pistols, and the left one in his trousers pocket while he used his now
freed hand to get a new clip from his belt and put it into the pistol in his right hand. He repeated the
procedure for the left Beretta, and then, with one in each hand yet again, touched the slide releases and
had thirty more 9mm rounds ready to go.
As he'd reloaded the men had reached their rifles and were picking them up and working on
aiming at Ryger. Ryger side-stepped into the main aisle, blasting the entire time. His spent shells flew
everywhere in mad arcs, glinting in the fading daylight coming from the front of the store which seemed
so very far away now. He made it to the center aisle and began walking backwards, still firing as rapidly
as his tired hands would allow, moving quickly. The four remaining men knelt and started shooting at
him from through where the glass of the deli display cases had been, and he lowered his fire accordingly.
He felt the warmth in his stomach increase so much it felt like his entire body was aflame, and
when he glanced down he saw a piece of his lower intestine dangling out just above his waist, down
almost to his knees. He vomited all over himself, and at that time both of his pistols ran dry. He ejected
the empty clips, did his well-practiced reloading procedure, still backing up the entire time, and was about
halfway to the store's front when he had another 30 rounds ready to go.
He let loose more fire as it was pouring at him as well, shelves all around him pinging as the
bullets tore through them, some even rocking. A round caught him in his left thigh, almost dead center,
and tore out the back of his leg just above the knee. He grimaced, clenched his teeth, and then one of his
wildly fired rounds hit home. The man on the far left, who was using the M-16, fell, leaving a good bit of
his head on the wall behind him as he did. The other three men looked at each other, nodded, stopped
firing, and charged the deli counter, then hurtled it.
Ryger was almost out now, but the men were advancing on him, ducking behind shelves, popping
up to let off a few rounds, then ducking again and re-emerging closer yet. He ferociously fired left and
right, hoping one of his bullets would find its mark. His left Beretta ran out, and a few rounds later so did
his right. Again he reloaded, down to only four clips left on his body, and hardly any hope of hitting any
of his foes.
Clearing the first shelf, he looked behind him as he continued to back out, spraying the store with
fire just as madly as ever. Outside he saw in the street, not even bothering to hide behind the abandoned
carriages, countless men of almost every branch of Imperial service. All had their rifles to high port and
looked like they were just waiting for the opportunity to waste the remaining three robbers. As Ryger's
Berettas ran out once more, he put them back in their holsters and turned around, hobbling just as fast as
he could to get out of the store. Once he stepped through the shattered door, he made a sharp right, and,
glancing back inside the store, saw the three men teem into the center aisle and charge, screaming
defiantly. He reached the wall of the adjacent building and leaned against it, then slid down it onto his
rear.
He'd just sat down to rest when the three men burst out of the store and into the brilliant daylight.
All of them gave the Imperial troops before them the middle finger, then went to raise their rifles. At that
point they were all cut down. By the time their bodies hit the ground, there wasn't much left to be called
bodies about them. Blood managed to splatter on Ryger's cheek.
As if on cue, people started emerging from everywhere, including within the store. As the sirens
of incoming ambulances wailed, Ryger thankfully realized it was finally all over. He looked down at
himself; he'd live. Sure, he had two bullets in his torso and one in his leg, but he'd been shot so many
times before he was on a first name basis with all the bullet wound specialists around the city. He knew a
survivable wound when he saw one.
Wanting to grin but not feeling like it was the right thing to do, he managed to stand himself up
and walk over to the fallen bodies of the three robbers at the storefront. He could see that clutched in the
hand of the one nearest him was something white and spongy. He looked closer to see a slice of bread
clutched in the dead man's hand. Ryger held his intestine close to his body, bent over, and picked the
piece of bread out of the man's hand. He stared at it for a long time, as if in rapture, and no one
approached him. Then he put it in his trousers pocket for later, and, nodding resignedly, limped toward
the nearest ambulance. It was 12:43. He should be back on shift now. He snorted and stammered
through the crowd toward the flashing lights.