Session 4 - Fight or Flight

Cassian wheels around the back corner of the van and levels both his 9mm Berettas at the man igniting a Molotov cocktail. The crude cloth fuse catches flame and he hoists the bottle aloft precariously, squinting through a halo of greasy smoke, preparing to throw. He hasn’t seen Cassian approaching from his blind side.

Combat tactics and Army training take over. Cassian’s brain expects the jolt of adrenaline… but nothing registers. No gasp of air escapes his lungs and open mouth in response to his exertion. What the hell? His heart remains a frigid, motionless lump of coal in his chest. And yet, his movements are every bit as athletic, fluid and dynamic as his days kicking in doors in Iraq during the Gulf War.

What his brain does register is a flood of new messages exploding like fireworks in his mind: Lumbar pain: gone. Fire is death. Feed. Check your corners. Flank and enfilade. Feed. Small targets. Steady hands. Eyes above muzzle flash. Brace for recoil. Track your ammo. FEED.

The M9’s buck like twin stallions — left right left right — as the slides jackhammer back and forth in answer to each other, ejecting hot shell casings into the night air. All four bullets find their mark tightly grouped on the man’s upper chest, but not before he releases the Molotov toward Jack’s position near the van’s passenger side door. The man spins backward with the impact of the shots causing his throw to careen off-target. But he never hears the glass bottle break; nor does he see the flames erupt as the alcohol explodes in a fiery cloud along the side of the van. His body slumps to the ground heavily.

May Christ forgive me. 13 rounds: left. 13 rounds: right.

Cassian advances to the empty pickup truck and hastily makes his way into the driver’s seat. The engine is still running. Setting the smoking pistols on his lap, he slams the pickup into reverse, spins the wheel hard to the left, and stomps the accelerator pedal to the floorboard. Tires screeching, the pickup lurches backward in a tight curve. With clenched fists on the steering wheel, Cassian sees Jack burst from the sheet of flame enveloping the van, arms folded protectively over his face. A gutteral, inhuman scream emerges from his mouth as, with preternatural agility and power, Jack leaps over the second pickup truck, clears the bridge railing and vanishes into the blackness.

The headlight beams of Cassian’s commandeered truck line up on two armed figures silhouetted in the halogen light. A male wearing what appears to be a tactical Kevlar vest with wooden stakes in MOLLE pouches is raising a hunting rifle with his eyes on the burning van. He fumbles with the bolt. But the female mercenary next to him is pointing her shotty right in Cassian’s direction.

“‘Aw, shit’ is right, Cassian!” comes the mocking voice from the bench seat behind him. Startled, Cassian stomps the brake and his eyes flick to the rear-view mirror. Though there is no one in the back seat, the janitor Phil leers at him hideously in the reflection. “You gonna fuck ’em up, Cassian, and damn yourself. Take their lives and damn yourself to Hell!”

Cassian puts the truck in drive, his right foot mashes the accelerator back on the floorboard, and the pickup careens forward. The windshield explodes in a spiderweb of cracks as the first shotgun slug impacts it.

The second slug collapses the entire passenger side of the windshield inward, leaving it a lolling mess of smashed safety glass and aluminum trim. The night air mixed with acrid smoke and the faint putrescence of the waste disposal plant rushes into the pickup’s cabin through the gaping hole as Cassian accelerates the final distance into his attackers. Before the female can get a third shot off, a bullet from one of his companions strikes her in the temple, the impact forming a pink mist as her head snaps to the side violently. Helluva shot, is Cassian’s first thought. The blood!, is the second.

Haaa-ha-haaa! laughs Phil maniacally.

The pickup’s engine reaches a high pitched whine. Too late, the remaining mercenary spins to see the oncoming high beams. With nowhere to go, he raises his hunting rifle defensively across his body. Cassian grits his teeth, feeling the canines emerging, and his mouth curls reflexively into a snarl.

The truck slams into the mercenary, crushing him against the second pickup with gruesome lethality. The impact of the collision violently launches Cassian forward. A moment later, he tastes the bitter residue expelled by the deflating airbag. Glancing to his left, he sees the hulking shape of D’Angelo framed by the flames engulfing the van, dangling another of their assailants by the hair. A helpless fly caught in a spider’s web. A giant, ungodly custom-made cleaver appears in D’Angelo’s other hand. With sickening precision, he draws it slowly across his captive’s exposed neck. A black river of blood flows down the man’s body, which twitches spasmodically as shock gives way to fear, and fear gives way to death. D’Angelo brings the dying man’s face close to his, throws his own head back in mockery, and laughs throatily.

All around Cassian is smoke, flame, the smell of burning flesh, gunpowder and blood. D’Angelo’s deep, guttural laughter rings out into the night air. Cassian braces for a wave of horror and shock to wash over him at any second. Expects his heart to sink. Awaits the guilt of the kills to burn like acid in his mouth and churn his guts.

But nothing registers.