Read Online A Chemical Fire by Brian Martinez - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Brian Martinez
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from under the car, grabbing him with filth and shriek. “Time out,” he shouts, body-nails ripping at his gear, a charred face pulling out, teeth reaching. He shoves his rifle under the chassis and fires a long burst. Dead blood and muzzle flashing, then nothing.
“I called time out, goddamn it." He stands and I follow. In the end zone two of them are in pieces and pulling themselves up. “That’s all they've got? Why doesn’t their coach pull more players from the bench?” I look at him and he’s throb-smiling. I ask him if he has more grenades. “You don’t want me to use those yet.” He pulls out two more diagrams and a red marker, making lines to murder in.
“I don’t understand.”
“The end-mission is two more blocks away.” He spins out from behind the car and says, "That was only the first quarter.”
We come down on the two victims with our rifles laughing, their chests and eyes coming apart under bullets. Next comes I don't know how long of run-and-gun point conversions, a hard drive on the dusty streets, running backs with caved faces, slot receivers taking ammo to chest cavities, and us with the heady rush of victories, screaming, laughing, a game to end all games.
It's all in quick clips like living the highlight reel. There are interceptions and tackles and fouls. There's a girl, a dead girl, and me loving my bullets ripping her. High fives and reloads. There's pulling my vest off so I can breathe it in. Touchdown dances into arms reaching around me, shoving them away and firing dead. The crowd getting every penny, a roar like tsunami as they come and worship, worship and come, and Daniel saying far too early, “That’s it, that’s game,” and me pushing him off and screaming overtime, overtime, and him repeating, “That’s game,” and me looking around to see there’s no one but us and our chests coming up and falling down, lungs scratching, and us leaving the field as heroes, first past the posts of the dark horses, us, clear-winner champions, until we breach and enter to a different sort of locker room made of bright plastic and boxes.
“What's this,” I complain.
“Toy store. Closest place likely to have batteries, I’ve checked just about everywhere else.”
We step down and the floor goes wrong, dolls and action figures pushing heavy out of the way. Looking down I’m in a foot of water. Daniel says, “Spread out.”
I go left, him right, sloshing through the murk of unicorn dolls and super-heroes, board games a-bobbing, bright plastic guns under the father-stare of our big, gray, cruel ones. The smell of wet cardboard and carpet comes up as flashlights snap on down the aisles, one and one, splash and splatter. We comb this dense rectangle, this rotten winner’s circle, and it gushes under our boots.
I lower my rifle and say, “Shit.”
“Contact?”
I motion down and he sees the display, face to the down, packages of batteries sunk in the swamp. He drops his aim, sighs and falls ass-down into an orange plastic bench shrunken to kid-size. He says, “Do you think the manufacturers predicted this?”
I sit in a tiny chair that's trying to float up from under me like the pills, drug apex kicking in hard, smiling faces on toy boxes widening, tops of aisles swaying, bobbing over like jack-in-the-boxes to the water, stomach churn burning my eyes, cold and warm, throat-sand tasting like acid, spinning and grinning, a crowd concerned, ninjas and soldiers all.
Daniel’s mouth says, “You know what we need?”
A time machine. An airplane. A flame-thrower.
“We need a woman. Here we are, the last two people on Earth and not a cunt between us. How fucked is that? Humans are done, you know that? Fucked. Extinct.” He looks around at the walls not closing in on him, not vibrating. “Fucking Christ. Kids and their colorful bullshit. Wasting their time right ‘til they died. You don't know how awful these little shits could be. Unless you do, I don't know."
My cheeks
“I called time out, goddamn it." He stands and I follow. In the end zone two of them are in pieces and pulling themselves up. “That’s all they've got? Why doesn’t their coach pull more players from the bench?” I look at him and he’s throb-smiling. I ask him if he has more grenades. “You don’t want me to use those yet.” He pulls out two more diagrams and a red marker, making lines to murder in.
“I don’t understand.”
“The end-mission is two more blocks away.” He spins out from behind the car and says, "That was only the first quarter.”
We come down on the two victims with our rifles laughing, their chests and eyes coming apart under bullets. Next comes I don't know how long of run-and-gun point conversions, a hard drive on the dusty streets, running backs with caved faces, slot receivers taking ammo to chest cavities, and us with the heady rush of victories, screaming, laughing, a game to end all games.
It's all in quick clips like living the highlight reel. There are interceptions and tackles and fouls. There's a girl, a dead girl, and me loving my bullets ripping her. High fives and reloads. There's pulling my vest off so I can breathe it in. Touchdown dances into arms reaching around me, shoving them away and firing dead. The crowd getting every penny, a roar like tsunami as they come and worship, worship and come, and Daniel saying far too early, “That’s it, that’s game,” and me pushing him off and screaming overtime, overtime, and him repeating, “That’s game,” and me looking around to see there’s no one but us and our chests coming up and falling down, lungs scratching, and us leaving the field as heroes, first past the posts of the dark horses, us, clear-winner champions, until we breach and enter to a different sort of locker room made of bright plastic and boxes.
“What's this,” I complain.
“Toy store. Closest place likely to have batteries, I’ve checked just about everywhere else.”
We step down and the floor goes wrong, dolls and action figures pushing heavy out of the way. Looking down I’m in a foot of water. Daniel says, “Spread out.”
I go left, him right, sloshing through the murk of unicorn dolls and super-heroes, board games a-bobbing, bright plastic guns under the father-stare of our big, gray, cruel ones. The smell of wet cardboard and carpet comes up as flashlights snap on down the aisles, one and one, splash and splatter. We comb this dense rectangle, this rotten winner’s circle, and it gushes under our boots.
I lower my rifle and say, “Shit.”
“Contact?”
I motion down and he sees the display, face to the down, packages of batteries sunk in the swamp. He drops his aim, sighs and falls ass-down into an orange plastic bench shrunken to kid-size. He says, “Do you think the manufacturers predicted this?”
I sit in a tiny chair that's trying to float up from under me like the pills, drug apex kicking in hard, smiling faces on toy boxes widening, tops of aisles swaying, bobbing over like jack-in-the-boxes to the water, stomach churn burning my eyes, cold and warm, throat-sand tasting like acid, spinning and grinning, a crowd concerned, ninjas and soldiers all.
Daniel’s mouth says, “You know what we need?”
A time machine. An airplane. A flame-thrower.
“We need a woman. Here we are, the last two people on Earth and not a cunt between us. How fucked is that? Humans are done, you know that? Fucked. Extinct.” He looks around at the walls not closing in on him, not vibrating. “Fucking Christ. Kids and their colorful bullshit. Wasting their time right ‘til they died. You don't know how awful these little shits could be. Unless you do, I don't know."
My cheeks
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