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The Day Before Tomorrow: Part 1
Posted By: Azrael<sherwood.tondorf@gmail.com>
Date: 7 November 2008, 5:43 am
Read/Post Comments
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submitted for "You're doing it write."
The Day Before Tomorrow
A Prequel to the "Minutemen" Series
Harvard University
City of Boston
United North American Protectorate
October 20, 2552
Dylan was having sex again.
Jesus, Tim McManus thought to himself as his top bunk bed shuddered rhythmically, does he really think he's alone at nine in the morning? Tim closed his eyes tightly and tried to block out the squeaking and pleasured grunts and muffled moans beneath him. The Harvard University Junior did everything he could to try and put himself into a comatose state, but with the early morning sunlight streaming in through the large bedroom windows, it was an impossible task. McManus rubbed his eyes vigorously, took a deep breath, and rolled over so he hung over the edge of his bed and violated the airspace of the couple beneath him.
"There's something to be said for morning sex," Tim said nonchalantly, as Dylan and his girlfriend jumped backwards in shock and attempted to burrow underneath the sheets. "The light's nice, kinda romantic, you feel like you're getting some kind of start on the day, you wake up your roommate better than his alarm clock…"
As if on cue, Tim's clock blinked to life, showing the time in big blue holographic numbers and began playing a futuristic indie rock tune. Upside down, with unkempt, brown hair hanging from his head, McManus attempted a smile and nod. "So could you finish up? I have a big paper due." Tim broke out a mischievous half-grin. "Unless you guys need a hand."
Six minutes later, the nameless girl left the dorm room in a huff, making sure she slammed the door on her way out. Tim could almost hear her angry footfalls echoing against the painted brick of the cheap hallway. He hopped down onto the floor lightly like he did most every morning and broke into a quick set of twenty pushups to get his blood flowing. Dylan Winters, his roommate, was in little mood for the routine.
"Dude," Dylan said as he gestured at the door, intending the single word as both question and statement of dissatisfaction.
"Dude." Tim replied as he fixed a furrowed brow in Dylan's direction, intending the single word as both rebuttal and firm disapproval of his roommate's discretion. The point taken, Winters retreated to his desk and booted up his computer, lazily shifting holographic displays as he checked his mail. Tim grabbed a well-worn crimson towel off the back of the door and checked his appearance against the mounted mirror.
"Whaddaya got goin' on today?" Dylan asked absent-mindedly.
Tim stripped off his t-shirt and wrapped the towel around his waist. "Proofing my geometry paper and dropping it off to Dr. Gibson."
"Geometry?" Dylan raised an eyebrow. "Since when do you take math?"
"Uh, last semester. Do we not talk?"
"No, you just change your major with every phase of the moon. You do realize you have to graduate in a little over a year, right?"
"Jesus, who're you, my dad?"
"I'm just sayin'. You're hoppin' from one thing to the next and you haven't accomplished anything."
"Are we really having an intervention here, or you are just pissed about me interrupting your morning glory?"
"No, I'm pissed about that gun bag you keep around here. I'm serious Tim, stash that shit somewhere else before the RAs do a room safety check and we all get expelled."
McManus rolled his eyes at his longtime roommate as he slipped out the door to one of the bathrooms. "Christ, you're cranky when you're cock blocked." Tim got out just in time to avoid the thrown towel.
Another half-hour of jawing back and forth with his other three roommates, Tim McManus slipped out of the mass of Harvard University students and walked his own path across the grass of the famous Harvard Yard. Even in the morning hours, the Yard was alive with platoons of tourists trooping from statue to building to statue like penguins waddling from point to point. He side stepped and slipped around pockets of scholars huddled in discussion and engaging in debates both pretentiously intellectual and downright petty. They were all just background noise to the thoughts shooting around in Tim's head. The third-year math major had the body of a frequent mountain hiker and moved with the fluidity of an athlete, though he had not touched intercollegiate sports since his failed attempt to go out for the Harvard Crew team. Though Tim was a morning person, practices every day at five in the morning just didn't appeal to him, especially with Boston's notoriously long winter.
Tim considered himself an intellectual, and in a school such as Harvard it was difficult to be anything but. As he crossed the center of the yard, he felt an urgent desire to stop and take in the Yard. Though Harvard's most well-known landmark did command attention, McManus had been walking through this Yard for years and had become accustomed to its splendor. Brilliant red brick dorms formed a perimeter around oddly shaped pentagons and trapezoids of grass, each a larger or smaller island of green sprouting old, proud trees every now and then, leaves fueled by the carbon dioxide of humanity's most intelligent.
Academic buildings boasted facades unchanged by hundreds of years of human civilization, though their insides were composed of cutting edge architecture and design. From Tim's location, he could take out a data pad and access systems anywhere on campus, giving him instant communication with universities across Boston, Earth, and to a lesser degree, the Sol system. Something about the moment, about where he was and what he was doing, gave Tim McManus pause, and he turned toward the bronze statue of John Harvard, his left foot a gleaming yellow from the rubbing of millions of hands, and took a moment to take it in. No sooner did he do this than a busy tour guide walking backwards knocked him down, and they dropped awkwardly to the pavement.
"The hell is wrong with you?" The prim and immaculately dressed sophomore girl hissed at Tim. She adjusted her now slightly less than perfect hair, recharged her thousand watt smile, and motioned for the group of tourists and prospective students to continue. McManus gathered a few notepads, threw them in the bag slung around his shoulder, and muttered an obscenity as he trudged toward the dining hall.
To say Annenberg Hall was massive was to say water was wet. The hammerbeam trusses, the stenciled ceiling, the rich walnut shell that embraced the hall was both outrageously intimidating and oddly comforting. Tim always imagined he was comically out of place in such a space, it always seemed as though some medieval king should have been seated at the end of the hall, feasting with knights and jesters and ladies in waiting, and that his presence would have to be announced by a portly man with a booming voice. McManus chuckled at his own imagination and tried to snap back into reality, and that reality was the alarmingly long line for breakfast. Tim craned his neck to try and catch a glimpse of what awaited his appetite, but the steaming goal beyond was obstructed. With a grunt, the jacket and sweatshirt clad Junior abandoned his dream of scrambled eggs and tried to get psyched up for a roast beef sandwich. As he approached the sandwich counter, he realized today was not so miserable after all.
"Hey smart kid, what's goin' on?" The blonde-haired, blue eyed sandwich "artist" asked. Tim had to hand it to him; the guy had a way with bringing meat, bread, and various other ingredients together. To date, Tim did not know his full name; only that he was a few years older than him, just as quick with a witty comment, and bored as hell working for Harvard Dining Services.
"Cock blocked my roommate this morning, got scalded in the shower, knocked over by a plastic tour guide, and had to abandon my dreams of scrambled eggs."
"Karma's a bitch." The server sighed, and Tim picked up that perhaps similar circumstances might have happened to the food wizard as well. "What overpriced lunch meat can I throw at you?"
Tim ordered the roast beef and was served a truly mouth-watering piece of culinary bliss. With expert hands, the chef wrapped the monstrosity in foil, sliced it cleanly, then swept up the excess foil and flipped it into a trash can that lay a preposterous distance away. McManus whistled.
"Nice throw."
"You should see me shoot," The man across the counter replied with a shrug.
"You shoot? At the Boston range?"
"Until they started posting UNSC at the door and conscripting good target shooters, yeah."
The conversation had taken a strange turn for McManus, and he took a split second to figure out what he was saying. "That's a myth," Tim countered, a disbelieving smirk rising on the corner of his mouth.
"Tell you what," the sandwich guy said as he waved in the next customer, "the next time some oddly hot chick asks you if you want to grab a drink after shooting, slip out the back door and see who's waiting outside."
"You're not serious."
"I'm still here, makin' the big bucks," He chuckled, gesturing grandly around the meager surroundings. "See you around, smart kid."
"Yeah, see you Ron." McManus waved over his shoulder, suddenly feeling like he lost his appetite.
The brisk Boston wind started to kick up off the Charles River as Tim left Annenberg. He thanked his foresight and distrust of New England weather as he zipped up his jacket against his neck and tried to keep the hard breeze off his body. The wind tussled and shifted his hair in all directions; McManus tried desperately to swipe his fingers through his brown locks to keep them some semblance of style. He trudged on past numerous buildings and students and dodged shiny, bullet-like cars that rolled on into the heart of Boston. The city was alive, buzzing and eager to get into the business of the day, but McManus still couldn't shake the feeling that today was special. Ahead of him, his destination commanded his attention with awe, as it always did.
The Pace School of Mathematics was an imposing structure. White marble, steel, and glass formed an enormous bubble rising from the ground; the students and faculty gained entrance up wide stone stairs into a dozen large doors bookended by twisting ornate obelisks in the University's colors. What made the structure even more remarkable was the building housing classrooms and offices was a perfect sphere, a feat that had been celebrated in countless journals and the final straw that made Tim attend the University. The things men have made, he always thought as he approached. His head was still in the clouds when a voice grabbed him and threw him back to Earth.
"Excuse me, do you know where the Political Science building is?"
McManus was no stranger to lost tourists or freshmen wet behind the ears who were illiterate when it came to maps. He turned to dispense the information but found that his mouth refused to work. He blamed his female questioner.
By no means was she the drop dead gorgeous girls who graced sky banners with Gazelle-like grace, but all the same she took away Tim's breath and then his concentration. Everything about her, from the way her long, autumnal red hair framed her face, to the perfect nose that complimented her sparkling, inquisitive green eyes, every piece glorified the whole into what Tim could only call his own personal perfection of the female form. That perfection was now expectantly staring at him, and Tim's brain promptly went on strike, citing terrible working conditions.
"Uh…yeah. You said, uh, Poli Sci?"
"Yeah, sorry, I'm kinda in a rush."
Tim stole a glance toward the Math building and wondered if he'd have time for a detour. Screw it, he thought to himself. "Yeah, I'm heading that way, too. Follow me." Tim tried to figure out a way to start normal conversation, but not matter how hard he tried, he could not turn down his own voice in his head, repeating do not fuck this up. Do not fuck this up. Do not—
"I never realized this campus was so big," Perfect Girl said in a voice that rose and fell in harmony with the dancing leaves, "I totally thought I could just jump on the T and find my way, and I was way off."
Do not fuck this up.
"You're not…a student here?"
She gave Tim a playful sideways glance that could conceivably knock him to the ground. A hint of a smile played at the corner of her petite mouth, and she looked at him with a look that said, "Are you kidding?" in the cutest way possible.
"If I went here, do you really think I'd be lost?"
You're fucking this up. "Oh, no. It's just a lot of new students…get…turned around and stuff…when they're starting out."
She diffused the situation with a small giggle that turned McManus' heart to oatmeal. She switched her books to her other arm to give a tiny, quick punch to Tim's shoulder. "I'm just messing with you! God, and I thought Boston College kids were uptight."
"Oh, you go to BC," Tim remarked, more to himself than anyone else. "What're you doing here?"
Perfect Girl rolled her eyes. "I overslept. I stayed up all night finishing this paper and I thought I could grab an hour's sleep. When I woke up, I was screwed. I had to bribe two TAs and hold a secretary hostage to find out where my professor was going today."
"Could be worse," Tim heard someone with his exact voice say out of his own mouth, "you could have been woken up by your roommate having sex below you again." WHAT? Why did I just say that? What in blue fuck is wrong with me? You're fucking this—
If Tim's heart melted from a giggle, it exploded from her laugh. It was pure, loud but not piercing, and lasted just long enough to make Tim rack his brain for another joke. Her eyes were wide with disbelief.
"Shut up." She said, now standing still in front of Tim.
"I'm serious!" McManus said, arms open wide in a gesture of surrender.
"Shut up!" She was laughing again, and Tim wanted her to stay in those spirits more than anything in the world.
Tim was on the cusp of a great follow-up when his data pad beeped angrily at him. The display read in angry red letters, "Exam paper late. Full letter grade penalty." McManus looked up in exasperation and realized they were both on the steps of the regal McGoohan Building of Political Science. Perfect Girl was standing a few steps above him, arms crossed over her chest, holding her books.
"Well," she said, "this was fun, tour guide…"
"Tim!" McManus said a little too excitedly, extending his hand to shake hers. "Tim McManus, tour guide."
Her hands were smooth and gentle, but her handshake was firm and purposeful. "Rachel Lynch, lost Boston Collegian." Tim was perfectly fine dying in this exact moment. She took a couple backwards steps up the stairs, bold for a girl who had never climbed them before. The moment felt a bit strange for Tim right now, as if no one else around them was moving. "I'll see if I can help next time you're lost at BC," she said with a half smile.
"Yeah," Tim replied as best he could, mimicking her retreat, "I'll get lost."
She gave him a final look that said she didn't completely know what he meant, but she was ok with it all the same. "Nice meeting you, Tim."
"You…you, too."
The two students turned and began walking their separate ways, though Tim realized after four steps that he was making the biggest mistake he'd made in years. He wheeled around and called her name, but found nothing but closed doors and students standing still in small groups.
Tim spotted a falling leaf tumbling end over end toward him and thought frustrated thoughts about his horrific timing. With a vengeful step, he crushed the particularly crunchy piece of foliage underfoot and swept it forward to inspect the damage. As he took a moment to observe the shredded cellular layers and the three-pronged intact veins, a long shadow swept across his field of vision. Now he became aware of what had been bothering him for the last few minutes: there did not seem to be any sound coming from anyone or anything. He slowly shifted his gaze up and took in his surroundings. Everywhere around him, Bostonians had stopped dead in their tracks and were staring up at the sky, jaws open and personal belongings dropped. McManus jerked his eyes up to the sky and did exactly the same.
Tim was no stranger to the UNSC newsfeeds and the constant "Know Your Enemy" broadcasts that, though heavily edited and censored, gave humans an idea of the kind of enemy the species was facing. As the giant, bulbous, purple and blue monstrosity blocked out the sun, McManus knew he was looking at a CCS-Class Battlecruiser, and he further knew humanity was doomed. It was extremely high in the air, but it still commanded Tim's view for much of the sky. If its presence did not broadcast that the war was lost, the brown-haired Harvard student would have said it looked graceful moving effortlessly through Boston airspace. The incredible moment was broken, however, by a car colliding violently into another stopped car, the resulting crunching crash sending everyone in the immediate vicinity to cover. Tim put his hands over his head, got into a desperate crouch, and scurried as fast as he could to a digital newspaper download stand. As he put his back to it, he realized he had left both his book bag and rifle bag in front of the stairs and sprinted to retrieve it. He took stock of the area again and noted just how quickly everything had changed in just a few seconds.
Hundreds of people were now fleeing in every direction in streams of bodies; no one knew where they were going, all they wanted to do was follow the most basic instinct of fight or flight. That flight, Tim knew, would not last long. Now he found himself in an inner conflict. What the hell do I do now?
In that moment he looked inside his bag, where the half-eaten sandwich was still waiting to be consumed. He thought back to the conversation he had just had with Ron the sandwich guy and made a snap decision, maybe his last. McManus began sprinting toward Annenberg Hall.
The campus was utter chaos. Tim tried to wrap his mind around all that was occurring, but between the civil alert announcements, the cacophony of running people going every which way, and the wailing of people mourning the imminent loss of the human home world, McManus' vision was limited to about five feet around him and no further. More than once he had to dip a shoulder and shove his way through the crowd, keeping a vice grip on the handle of his gun bag before he finally slung it over his shoulder with the book bag and used both arms to move obstacles out of his way. Annenberg Hall loomed large over the press of humanity, and not surprisingly, Tim found it locked. As he started to search for a back door in, he heard the eerie whistling roar of Covenant dropships being disgorged from the Battlecruiser.
"This isn't fair," Tim said to himself. "This isn't fucking—"
"Fair, we get it." An angry voice said to McManus. The Harvard student jumped back, startled, as he regarded the business end of a large knife pointed at him by Ron the sandwich guy. "Stop blabbin' and get in here, smart kid." Tim complied immediately, jumping in and placing his gear on a table as Ron locked the heavy metal entrance. Ron turned and chuckled darkly, laying the knife down on top of a pile of crates by the door. "Guess this means we lose."
Tim should have felt it coming before, but now that he had a moment to gather his thoughts and consider what all of this meant, he felt the fear and anxiety and adrenaline and nausea come up in one smooth rush of panic. He only stumbled a few awkward steps before he threw up on the kitchen floor. He heaved for a second, caught his breath, wiped a hand across his mouth, and stammered out, "I—I'm sorry…"
"Forget about it. I did the same only a couple minutes ago. This'll take the edge off a bit."
Tim looked up in disbelief as Ron tossed him a chilled bottle of beer and gestured a toast with his own half-finished brew. Who the hell is this guy? McManus twisted the cap off slowly, put the beer down, and started to open his gun bag.
"So you got a full name, smart kid?"
Tim looked down at the assembled pieces of his rifle and reflected for a brief second about how only a few minutes ago his introduction to Rachel had been the highlight of his semester. "Tim. Tim McManus."
"Ron Parsons."
Tim turned and awkwardly shook Parson's hand. It felt incredibly strange to do all this as echoes of explosions started to register in the distance. Ron glanced over his shoulder. "Guess this'll drive down real estate value."
Tim took a swig of the brew and looked warily over the bottle at Parsons. "Are you…ok?"
"Come on, Timmy. Dark humor's the classic defense mechanism. Would you feel better if I told you the world's really, honestly, no-shit ending?"
McManus shrugged and downed the beer. "Guess not," he muttered as he slipped in the rifle's magazine with a final click and attached the sling. Parsons stepped up to Tim's side.
"Sweet gat. How'd you get a BR-55?"
"Ordered the parts from different vendors." McManus said matter-of-factly.
"You built the thing?"
"Yeah, but I'm not great at it. The scope's not calibrated, I just fixed the barrel, and the trigger pull's a little light. Otherwise, she shoots like the UNSC's."
Ron pointed over his shoulder at the door. "Better than a knife."
"Better than a knife." Tim agreed. He turned to face Ron, but staggered for a moment as the ground shook with an explosion. The bombardments were getting close, and the sounds of people in pain began to make it through the hall's walls.
"Shit," muttered Parsons as he grabbed Tim's book bag and turned it upside-down, emptying the contents on the table.
"What are you doing?" McManus demanded.
Ron looked at Tim with frustration, as if the answer was exceedingly obvious. "We're not staying here, Tim. I don't know about you, but I don't plan to get killed hiding in a meat locker. There's a whole buncha people out there who need help, and if I'm lucky, I'm gonna take a few of these alien bastards down with me while I'm at it."
Parsons hustled over to a cabinet and threw open the doors, piling sealed packages of food inside the bag. "I'm not the smartest guy in the world, Timmy, but I don't think you came here with that gun after our talk earlier to order some cordon bleu. So get your head in the game, grab my bag over there, and fill it with peanut butter and anything high in protein. We're going to need energy to do this damn thing."
McManus snapped out of his funk instantly and joined Parsons in gathering provisions. He stopped for a second, turned on his heel, and grabbed a med pack hanging by a cutting board. He shook it in Parsons' view and received a quick, affirmative nod, and began shoveling food into the bag. "How do you know all this stuff?" Tim asked.
"My brother's a Marine. We did stuff like this all the time. He thought it was fun."
"Where is he?"
Parsons stopped working for a second, and turned to Tim. "Look," he said, locking eyes with the shorter student, "I'm sure for the short time we're alive we're gonna trust and bond and whatever, but I don't like talking about the fam, ok?"
Tim gave a slight shrug and a look of minor confusion. "Ok, sure," he replied, and zipped the bag shut. He threw on the pack, slung the Battle Rifle over his shoulder, and handed the large knife to Parsons. "What're we gonna do about your weapon situation?"
Ron began unlocking the back door, fiddling with chains as he spoke. "I've got stuff at my apartment. It's not far, once we cross the Charles we're money." As he opened the door a distant Banshee shot off a fuel rod cannon into a running crowd across the street. The wash of crackling ionized air and the heat of the green blast knocked both of the men backwards into the doorway. As they picked themselves up, dazed, Ron looked at Tim with wide eyes and said, "That plan might be ambitious."
Tim kept his eyes on the sky and scurried out of the dining hall, scrambling to the cover of a large oak tree and waving for Parsons to follow. The sky had now become dark with rising clouds of smoke and plumes of red flame; Banshees and Phantoms owned the sky, taking down fleeing Pelicans and approaching Hornets with impunity. It was breathtakingly disturbing to Tim, and he knew Ron was probably sharing his thoughts. The tallest buildings in the city were gutted and belching smoke as if a giant hand had viciously ripped down their sides. A ear-splitting shriek tore through the air and caused everyone to clutch at their heads and stare in fear as three of the Battlecruiser's pulse laser turrets fired into the John Hancock Tower, decimating it in an incredible explosion. Debris rained over the entire area, a large portion splashed into the Charles River in giant chunks of steel and concrete.
A section of the roof hurtled overhead, flipping end over end, whooshing and whistling as it careened through the air. The jagged piece of the tower ferociously smashed into the façade of the McGoohan Building and plowed through the structure, finally coming to rest like a piece of glass embedded in flesh. The dull glow of a fire starting began to emanate deep inside.
"You all right?" Ron shouted over the din. Tim nodded vigorously and noticed his hands were shaking. He balled them into tight fists and realized why the scene in front of him was so disturbing. "What's wrong?" Parsons asked, trying to get Tim's attention. McManus wiped sweat from his brow with a trembling hand.
"There's—there's a friend…a…someone I know is in that building, I think."
Ron shook his head, brow furrowed. "They're fucked, then."
"We gotta go over there."
"What?!"
"I can't just leave her!" Tim yelled over the din, taking Parsons aback. "She's not supposed to be there!"
Parsons threw his hands up. "For the record, this is stupid. You better not get me killed, dude."
The pair got up and ran as fast as they could towards the wreckage, joining a handful of students and faculty who were risking life and limb to assist anyone who needed medical attention. Those around Tim and Ron were double-taking at the slung Battle Rifle, and Tim could not tell if they were frightened or relieved by the weapon. He decided he did not care. The fire was starting to spread, fueled by paper, solid wood desks and chairs, and the brisk Boston wind. The heat alone would make efforts difficult; the accompanying smoke would make the trek inside life threatening.
Ron reached inside his bag and took out his dining services uniform, tearing the shirt into long wide strips and soaking them with one of the bottles of water he was carrying. He handed one to Tim and they wrapped the cloth around their mouths to allow them a slight ability to breathe in the growing inferno. They left the packs behind but McManus did not want to risk leaving the rifle unattended. They took the steps two at a time and put hesitant hands on the door handles to make sure they weren't too hot. Satisfied, they shared a nod and stepped inside.
The lobby and hallways looked like a giant tornado had just blown through. Blood had begun pooling from unseen bodies in the hallways and smoke was beginning to build from the fires upstairs. Tim took a glance inside the faculty/department lounge, where presumably people had gathered to watch the news instead of fleeing. They had all met their end in this room, crushed on impact from a smaller piece of debris that had broken off on impact. McManus felt the urge to vomit bubble up again, but fought it off.
This is crazy, Tim kept repeating in his head as he stalked down the crackling hallways. You have no idea who this girl is. Why don't you save Dylan or anyone else on this fucking campus? McManus kept his ears open for the creaks and groans that would signal a ceiling collapsing or other calamitous event.
"This place is gonna go up!" Parsons yelled over the din. "Wrap it up, dammit!"
Tim was giving up. He finally resorted to sacrificing his vocal cords in the smoky environment. "Rachel!" He screamed, feeling his way through hallways and obliterated classrooms. "Rachel Lynch!" He continued down the last hallway on the first floor, and finding nothing, lost all sense of self-preservation. He ran past Ron, who was helping another student carry a body out, and carried on up the stairs to the second floor, where the fires were raging and the section of John Hancock Tower had torn the roof off.
"What's wrong with you?" Parsons shouted after McManus, almost dropping the body he was carrying. He laid the lower half of the body down and sprinted after the seemingly suicidal student, yelling after him the whole time.
If the first floor was bad, the second floor was worse. There was no possible way of continuing down the hall without being incinerated, and McManus resorted to checking the small library in the front of the building, which afforded students a view of the campus and Cambridge Street. The force of the impact had knocked over stack after stack of books, and bodies lay on the floor, bleeding or worse. The glass had been completely shattered, and those who had been watching the invasion had been killed instantly. They all lay face down, indicating they had tried to run after seeing the debris heading for the building, but they had fled far too late. Tim fought to keep his composure and stammered out one last scream for Rachel. He turned to leave, but then heard a hacking cough and a breathless, "I'm here!"
McManus nearly slipped as he ran to the other end of the library where he found Rachel Lynch, her hair matted against her face and dark with sweat, her teeth grit in pain, her shoulder trapped between two stacks of books.
"I'm stuck!" She gasped. "This fucking hurts!"
Ron arrived on the scene just in time; his face scrunched up, affected by the situation in front of him. "What happened?" Tim asked urgently.
"My professor and I saw the roof coming, we ran before anyone else did and hid behind this stack. When the stacks started falling, he fell and got…" Rachel's right shoulder rose with a dry heave, "A stack fell on him. I almost got out, but this stack trapped me here."
"We gotta get out of here," Ron said, looking nervously back in the direction of the fires. "All these books, this place is gonna go up fast."
"We can do this." Tim said, confidence growing. He pulled off his smoke mask and positioned Parsons next to him to move the stack. "We can move this."
"Are you kidding me?" Parsons said. "We can't put this back."
"We can lift enough for her to get out. Here, come on. Come on!"
The two men braced themselves against the stack as best they could and pushed with all their might. They groaned and heaved and almost lost their footing on the bloody carpet, but the stack budged just enough for Rachel to worm her way out ahead of the falling books. Her left arm hung limply from the shoulder. A crash of wood on cinder mixed with shouts echoed outside in the hallway and Ron ran to the library's exit. He cursed loudly, slammed the library doors, and ran back to the group.
"We've lost the stairs," he shouted back at the two students. He ran to the edge of the now shattered windows and yelled down to the people who escaped, "There's three of us up here! Get a ladder! Get anything!" Tim and Rachel came to Ron's side, all of them sweating profusely, reeking of smoke, and breathing shallowly. McManus took a look at the injured redhead's scratched and cut face, then inspected her shoulder.
Tim frowned and blinked hard to clear his vision, touching gingerly around the collarbone of the tattered jacket. "It's dislocated, way dislocated. I don't know how you'd climb down from here like this."
Rachel bit her lip as if she was staring at a particularly difficult exam question. Next to her, Ron nearly jumped with excitement. "They got a ladder!" He shouted, promptly dissolving into a coughing fit. "We're getting out of here!"
Tim put a hand on Lynch's good shoulder. "We'll get a doctor up here or winch you down—"
"Pop it back in," Rachel said, setting her jaw and looking at the floor.
"What?" Ron and Tim asked incredulously.
Lynch's head snapped up in anger. "There's no time! Fucking do it!" Rachel shouted. Parsons and McManus traded glances before Lynch hit Tim with her good arm. "Are you listening? I know it's gonna hurt! We don't have a choice!"
Tim grabbed a thin journal and offered it to the girl. "You're gonna want this." Lynch accepted the journal and bit into it hard, observing her rescuers preparing to place her arm back into the shoulder socket. Both men were preparing themselves to violently shift the limb back to its normal position. Ron tightly gripped her arm at the elbow and bicep. Tim braced under her upper arm and collarbone; the position brought Tim and Rachel nearly cheek to cheek and put McManus' hand in almost compromising position. The injured student tried her best to flip her hair out of her eyes and flashed a courageous semi-grin at McManus.
"Don't get any ideas," she quipped in the din.
Tim attempted the same look. "Wouldn't dream of it."
Rachel shut her eyes tight. Ron counted down softly, then jerked her arm up and into place. They heard a sickening but correct pop, followed immediately by Rachel screaming in blinding pain and almost dropping to the floor in shock. McManus supported her as she regained her footing. She tried to move her arm but pushed the boundaries of the injury, earning her another grunt of pain. She tested her limits again and flexed her hand as the ladder came up to the trio.
"That hurts like a bitch." She said through grit teeth, then pushed her matted hair back and set it in place with an elastic from her good hand. Tim and Ron could not believe what they were watching.
"Tough broad," Parsons noted under his breath. McManus nodded and joined them in climbing down from what would have been a fiery grave.
The trio gingerly walked away as McGoohan now began to be completely engulfed in flame. Tim and Ron were relieved to find their backpacks had not been stolen, and they hurried back to Rachel, who was now standing alone amongst the other Harvard residents, watching the building burn despite the destruction of Boston playing in the background. Tim did his best to put up a gentle but strong front.
"Come on," he said, trying to lead her away, "we're not safe here."
"One more second." Rachel said with resolve, blinking away a tear and trying to get whatever handle she could on the moment. After a minute, she turned and looked McManus in the eye. "Thanks for coming back for me, Tim." She said. McManus scratched the back of his neck sheepishly and did his best to shrug it off.
"It was Ron's idea." He said, looking at the ground.
"Bullshit."
McManus chuckled and met her gaze again. "Yeah."
Ron now jogged up and joined the group. "Just talked with some of the folks back there," he gestured back half-heartedly to the huddled masses gathered in pockets around the quad. "They say the trains have been stopped but Marines are escorting people out of the city. What do you think?"
The trio turned away from the burning building, feeling fatigue and exhaustion gnawing away at their legs and bodies. Tim took out another bottle of water and, after a long swig, offered it to his newfound friends, who gratefully drained it. In front of them, dozens of Phantoms under Banshee escort were touching down around Boston, setting up legions of troops whose only desire was to purge this planet of the species that called it home. Between them all, they had five working arms, two backpacks of food, minor protection from the elements, a kitchen knife, and a do-it-yourself Battle Rifle. But two liberal arts educations, McManus chortled inwardly, that's gotta count for something on post-apocalyptic Earth.
Tim now became aware of two hands on his shoulders; Rachel's good arm rubbed his left shoulder as Ron patted his right in a spontaneous moment of reassurance and hope. For a second, the three of them felt connected and they drew strength from each other's reserves. Above them, the giant bulbous Battlecruiser drifted lazily toward the center of the city. The frightening light of countless fires reflected off the shiny hull like a raised guillotine over Boston. At the very edge of the group's vision, tiny Pelican dropships, only two or three at most, were sneaking into toward Back Bay, and back, they all dreamed, to the last safe places on the planet.
"Well," McManus shrugged, returning the reassuring gestures and tightening the straps of his backpack, "if we're gonna go out on a suicidal journey to escape the end of the world, we better start with a bad ass opening line." A massive explosion echoed in the distance and the wind howled over the conflagration behind them.
"For Boston," Rachel said, nodding in determination and striding off, leaving the boys in her wake.
"I'm digging on this chick, Tim."
"I saw her first."
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