Battle for the WestSide
Adventure fiction by Peter Welmerink
Part One: Defense Down
Mayor Ondesen had
brought all his men and women in and gained a foothold on the east side of the
Grand. Downtown GR was theirs and the rumors of brainwashing the populace over
there, with drugged food and water, making most lethargic slugs: all confirmed.
The men and women of
Bravo Company and the few thousand straggling holdouts along the west side of
Grand Rapids were all that survived with sound mind and body.
“I want those civilians
off the street and under cover,” I yelled, not needing to do so with the
sensitivity of the throat microphone encircling my neck. Hugging the wall of
the old paint store at Bridge and Broadway, I waved my team back along with the
WestSiders who scampered for shelter.
A rain of hot lead spat
vertically from the 131 overpass over Bridge, pocking pavement and building as
far down as the boarded-up Anchor Bar and GRFD Station 3.
Gruss, one of my Recon
team, hunkered behind an old rusted Durango, filled my earbud: “They’re
launching drones. They’re going to swoop in and ping us then send AP rockets.”
Ondesen’s hired
goons--soldiers of fortune, mercenaries, the majority of them--had pulled this
stunt before. Keep us on the down-low with gun fire while sneaking SOMETHING
into our domain. Drones were the most common and most pesky.
“That’s why everyone
needs to stay off the streets,” I replied as the enemy gunfire died giving me
an eyeblink moment to peer around the corner and up at the expressway overpass.
There came a metallic
groan from down Broadway, past St. Mary’s Church. We had set up heavy metal
barricades on all entrances to the west side of town. Bridge Street. Pearl
Street. Fulton Street. All had thick welded metal “gates” reaching the top
girders of the expressway underpass in each area. I surely did not like anyone
from the opposite side messing with our work.
“Drones launched. I have
one in my sights,” Gruss said.
A squeal, then a
metallic clang, like someone dropping a metal trash can lid onto the ground. I
tried to peer beyond the trees and buildings at the Broadway barricade.
“Someone or something
has gotten through the 196 barricade. I can’t see movement though. I can’t ID
who or what has come through,” I yelled over the comm as more bullets buzzed in
from the 131 overpass.
“Captain, you’re out in
the open,” Gruss reminded me. “The drones…”
Even over the rap of
machine gun fire and bullets cracking off the asphalt, I could hear the steady
hum of the multi-propped aerial drones overhead. I glanced up, seeing a
white-bodied aerial hum above and by my location.
A heavy assault rifle
boom. Gruss’s shot dead-on. Plastic and metal fragments of the downed drone
clattered onto Bridge Street.
Unable to re-load and
nail the second drone, it zipped away west down Bridge. It assuredly was
snapping pictures, capturing video and marking anyone on the street and their
hiding spot.
“We need to get back to
HQ, gather everyone. Whatever compromised the Broadway barricade…”
I saw movement behind
me. It came up quickly around the corner of the paint store building, on the
Broadway side. Soldiers. Mercenaries, dressed in Ondesen’s dark navy vestments.
“Shiii…” I started to
say as the lead man, assault rifle drawn and aimed at me, stepped up.
A metallic groan emit
from the Bridge Street-131 barricade. The ground rumbled. Something big was
coming.
“I didn’t know there
were big corn-fed girls on this side of the river,” the soldier said with gun
aimed at me. A red beret on his head. Dark goggles covering eyes though I could
feel his gaze running me up and down. A skull-face bandana covering his nose,
mouth, chin. “I figured we’d have starved you out by this time.”
“Captain, SITREP?” Gruss
called in my earbud.
“Name?” the merc said to
me as his other cronies lined up behind him.
The machine gun fire
from the 131 overpass had subsided though the heavy metal groaning of the
Bridge Street barricade continued. Out of the corner of my eye, above, I could
see the remaining drone hovering.
“Name!” the merc barked
at me again, irritated, anxious.
I dropped my arms,
lowering my own machine gun.
“Captain Rachelle
Gibson, Bravo Company.”
The merc lowered his
weapon as the others behind him had theirs still raised. He pulled down his
bandana, letting it hang at his stubbled neck. A big toothy grin split his
face. “Dang, gents, we’ve just caught the leader of the WestSide Rebellion.”
“Captain, answer me!”
Gruss yelled again in my earbud.
The Bridge Street
barricade collapsed with a groan and loud metallic BOOM, but the ground
continued to tremble.
I took a chance to move
a bit, even with all the guns on me, and peek around the corner onto Bridge,
and up the street towards the 131 and Bridge Street overpass. If the machine
gun fire still continued I would’ve gotten my face shot off.
I almost wished it would
happen.
Driving across the
downed barricade, flattening it further like pancake, a giant, armored and
tracked beast grumbled and snarled into the West Side.
“Surrender, Captain. The
day is lost,” the merc said with a evil sneer.
“Tank!” Gruss yelled in
my earbud, seeing the same giant, modified M2A4 Abrams-Sully main battle tank
slowly entering our locale.
I turned back to the
merc.
“It’s all lost, baby,”
the merc grinned.
I looked beyond him then
smiled back at him. “Not quite,” I replied, balling my fist behind my back.
“And don’t call me baby.”
TO BE CONTINUED
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Battle for the Westside copyright 2020 Peter J Welmerink
