A Story of Cinders: From the Ashes

Chapter 62: The Trooper

           

John knelt by a window on the fourth floor of a small, unoccupied apartment building. It had a clear line of sight to Will's office, though at a slight upward angle. It would do. His sniper rifle is resting on the window sill. Slowly, he turns the knobs on the scope, focusing in and out on the room. His hands shake as the hypovolemic shock begins to set in. He's probably lost well over a quart of blood at this point, drained all down the staircase and on the floor of this building. On the third floor, he'd stopped to bandage his bullet wound. The minor first aid is helping, but it isn't a permanent fix. But he can't afford to pull out to see a medic right now. Not with what is on the line.

     Finally, he focused his scope on the back of Karlov's head. Five hundred yards out. As he peers down the scope, it begins to blur again. He reaches up to readjust his sights, thinking maybe he misestimated the distance. If ever there was a time for a spotter, he thinks. If only mine made it long enough to see this. As he peeks up from his scope to check behind him, he realizes that it's his vision that's blurry, not the scope. He blinks his eyes to refocus them. It helps, but not by much. But it will have to do. Now more than ever, he realizes how much he needs Ben. How much he misses Ben. He'd promised to keep Ben safe. Just another person he'd failed. What's one in eight billion?

     It was mid-summer around three years ago when he and Ben first met. Just a few months after John returned to America after being stranded in Moscow on the Day of Fire. It was in Winnipeg, in what used to be Canada. Now Winnipeg was its own independent city-state. It was in such good shape, it seemed as if the war had just passed it over. Only the occasional charred timber lying in the street gave any evidence that they had been bombed once. The people were more vibrant and cheerful than he had seen in any other city. "Excuse me," he asked a random passerby. It was nice knowing someone for sure would understand his language. It was a straight-haired Aboriginal woman in her early thirties. "Bit of a long shot, but do you know where Major Michael Sullivan is?"

     "The Major? Of course!" she said. "He's in his office in city hall. If you want to talk to him, be sure to get an appointment."

     "What does he do there?" John asked. "I'm not exactly from around here."

     "Well, he's the mayor! He rebuilt this town from the ground up!"

     John thanked her for her time, then made his way over to city hall. It was a fairly run-down looking building made mostly of soot-stained concrete and patched-together glass. Its architecture was very mid 2000s. John wasn't surprised by the look of it. If the man who rebuilt this was the Sullivan from his memory, then he would've willingly taken the shoddy materials for his own use, and let everyone else have the good stuff. When he got to the doors, he was stopped by several alarmed, armed guards. It was only in that moment that he remembered that he was openly carrying several weapons. He willingly handed them all over, knowing he would have no need for them in there. Then they escorted him through the hall, as a small precaution. When he got to the doors, he was greeted by a younger kid, still in his mid to late teens.

     "Are you the one I have to make an appointment with?" John asked the boy.

     Before the boy could respond, a man shouted from inside the room. "If that's who I think it is, he never needs to make an appointment!"

     "And who do you think this is?" John responded.

     "You're that damn Ranger I used to serve with."

     "And you must be that lousy captain who tried to lead us."

     "Please. I'm that lousy major."