seymoure

Apocalypse K.C.

“Battle is an orgy of disorder.”
-George S. Patton

Halfway out to the parking lot Hugo stopped, put his hands on his hips, then bent over and put his hands on his knees. It was an attempt to catch his breath.

“You should still be in the hospital,” I chided him.

“Boss, I’m okay. Just not gonna be doin’ any foot races,” he coughed as he brought himself up again. Then he was off. “I’m gonna drive you, that’s all. Yer’ ‘spossed to be in the hospital, too, ya’ know.”

“I just died,” I told him as we both slowed our progress. “You got hurt.”

We reached the car and he stood another moment, and then we loaded ourselves into the convertible. The car started up, and I was glad to have the wind in my face.

Neither of us was very talkative on the drive. We were both the walking wounded, and we were heading for another war zone.

But it was a battle we would not miss.

I am not a vicious man, but if I could put a shot in the middle of MacPherson’s forehead, it would not rob me of sleep at night.

I saw a familiar face in a car that was parked just before us.

“Stop, Hugo,” I yelped.

I hopped out, immediately reconsidering the wisdom of that move. That thinking took a split second, and I almost missed my target. Hugo stayed in the car in the case of a quick getaway being needed.

Her name was Jill Aronson, and she was a freelance reporter who got a byline in a national news service with my story from the Cavano kidnapping.

She owed me.

“Jill!’ I called out. I had to repeat it to get her to stop and turn.

“What is it, Savage?” she said impatiently. “I’m on my way to get a story.”

“Just wanted to follow somebody who knew where she was going.”

She considered for a moment, decided and then gestured for me to come on.

We went into a parking garage and rushed up a ramp. The sound of a gunshot reached us every three minutes or so.

“I heard you were dead,” she looked back at me.

“You should check your sources,” I said and pulled my gun. All she had was a camera.

Machine gun fire echoed through the concrete floors.

We hunched down and walked to a perch to look across at the field of the firefight. We could see the flare of guns now and then, but most of the shooters were hidden well behind walls and windows.

“We’re going to have to get closer,’ she told me.

“I was afraid you were going to say that,” I admitted.