North of the River

At last he made it to an overlook position about three blocks from the riverbank and about half a mile east of the bridge approach itself. The sound of falling artillery was constant now, the ground vibrating with the concussions of the exploding shells and the louder secondary explosions of exploding vehicles. Three abandoned American M1-A4 battle tanks were in positions around the overlook, all three of them burning feverishly, sending greasy black smoke into the air, the obvious victims of Spiral anti-tank missiles fired from a flight of Mi-35s. Two bodies, both burned beyond recognition, were lying on the ground next to the closest of the tanks. Another appeared to have been caught trying to extricate himself and was half in and half out of the hatch, his blackened skull forever frozen into a horrified scream of agony. Conner ignored these sights, which were as common as ants in an ant farm to him by now, looking instead out to the west, to where the bridge was.

"Still there," he whispered to himself. And indeed it was. The twin span of the interstate bridge stretched across the gray water of the Columbia and into downtown Portland. Its roadway was choked with tanks, half-tracks, deuce and a half trucks, and countless pedestrians all trying to flee the advancing Chinese. Smoke rose from multiple places where vehicles or armor were burning out of control. But the bridge itself was still there, still capable of taking him to the relative safety of the south side of the river.

And yet, even as part of him reveled in the continued existence of the bridge, another part of him saw that escape across it was not going to happen. On the northern approaches, where a hideous traffic jam of vehicles, soldiers, and civilians had gathered, all waiting their turn to move across the span, chaos had broken out. Chinese infantry troops and armor had appeared, their numbers increasing by the second. Firefights raged back and forth as the soldiers took what was basically a last stand. Tank rounds and anti-tank missiles flew back and forth, exploding vehicles and slamming into buildings. Civilians, trying to flee, were caught in the middle of the two groups and were being blown up and shot down. It was clear that this last stand wouldn't last more than ten minutes or so, that the Chinese would overwhelm the remaining resistance quite easily.

Conner watched helplessly, his hope fading, as the volume of fire picked up to a vicious ferocity and then began to slack off as the American units surrendered to the Chinese one by one. That was the final signal for the commanders across the river. The bridges were within minutes of being captured. Somewhere on the other side, probably from the safety of a reinforced concrete bunker in South Portland, an order was given by someone with stars on the lapel of his undoubtedly clean uniform. Seconds after that order was given, buttons were pushed and electricity was sent coursing through a series of wires to a series of high explosive charges that had been installed on the bridge days before by combat engineers.

It was over in less than five seconds. Conner saw flashes detonating all along the bottom of the roadway section and the spans crumbled, falling into the river below with a tremendous crash, water spraying hundreds of feet into the air. Hundreds of tanks and armored vehicles and thousands of men, women, and children went down as well. Most of the people were killed outright, either by the initial explosions or by being smashed in the debris, but many -- particularly those in the armored vehicles -- survived long enough to drown. In all, less than twenty people would emerge on one of the riverbanks.

Conner watched all of this in horror, not at the tremendous loss of life but at the loss of his only escape route. Further downstream, through the haze of smoke, he could see that the I-5 span had been dropped as well. He was now trapped on the wrong side of the river and there was no way to get across.

+++++

The first light of the next day found Conner alone, sequestered beneath the partially collapsed roof of what had once been a Macy's department store. The store itself, along with the rest of the fashionable shopping mall it was attached to, had long since been destroyed by artillery and bombings and looted of anything even remotely useful. Before him was a multitude of concrete debris mixed with dismembered mannequins, overturned display shelves, and broken cash registers. The smell of spilled perfume and cologne was heavy in the air. From above the sound of heavy artillery shells streaking overhead continued unabated as the Chinese pounded the American positions on the south side of the river, softening them up for the inevitable forced river crossing that was in the works. While working his way to this position of relative safety, Conner had seen hundreds of Chinese amphibious tanks and APCs moving towards staging positions near the riverbank.

Whether or not the Chinese would be successful in their river crossing was no longer much of a concern to Conner. He was trapped on the wrong side of the line, with no way to get back where he belonged. All organized American resistance on this side of the river had collapsed with the bridges. The Chinese had captured or killed all of the large groups and were now roaming the city in trucks and APCs, gathering up stragglers and securing their occupation. Conner was amazed he had made it through the night without being mopped up himself. He had moved from building to building all night, trying to work his way east, towards the residential section of the city. He had dodged patrol after patrol, mostly by blind luck since his night vision gear had been left in the building where his platoon had been massacred. Four times he had been fired upon and twice he had actually returned fire, expecting to be killed at any moment, but always managing to fall back and lose his pursuers. The fact that he was alone was probably what helped him more than anything. The Chinese occupation troops weren't going to waste much energy chasing after one scared kid with an M-16.

Finally he had ended up here, less than two miles from where he'd watched the bridge go down. He didn't dare go any further now that it was getting light. Not that he had any idea where he should go anyway. He wondered if there was even any point to fleeing. Wouldn't it just be easier to drop his weapon here and go find the nearest Chinese patrol so he could surrender? He had no food and less than a cup of water in his canteen. He had lost his helmet sometime during the night. He was armed with two frag grenades and a grand total of 43 rounds for his rifle. His radio had long since died of battery failure. He hadn't slept in nearly forty-eight hours now. The prospect of being captured was actually starting to look like the sanest thing he could do. At least he'd get some chow and some sleep once they put him in a barbed-wire cage somewhere.

He decided his mind was not working coherently enough to make such an important decision right now. He couldn't do anything about the hunger, but he figured he was in a safe enough place to catch some badly needed sleep. Maybe after an hour or so of slumber he would be able to think clearly, to put his unenviable situation into perspective. He yawned and then leaned back against the support pillar he was sitting next to. He closed his eyes and listened to the ominous roaring of the artillery shells passing over his head and the distant thumping of their explosions south of the river. It was about as effective of a white noise as he was likely to get in Vancouver and within moments he began to drift towards sleep.

Before unconsciousness could completely claim him he was jarred back to alertness by the sound of something thumping to the ground in front of him. Her jerked his head up, his hands instinctively picking up the M-16 from his lap and socking it to his shoulder. He looked towards the sound and saw a fat white seagull lying on the ground about twelve feet in front of him. The bird was dying fast, its beak opening and closing spastically, it's wings twitching as if in seizure. There was a large bloodstain on its breast.

"What the fuck?" Conner whispered to himself, his eyes going from the bird to the open roof from which it had fallen. Seagulls were fairly common around here, particularly since there was so much carrion for them to feast upon these days. This one had seemingly been perched near the roof opening when... when... something had happened to it. But what? There had been no gunshot, at least not close by. Had a stray bullet from somewhere else struck it? That didn't ring true in Conner's mind. What would the odds of something like that be?

He heard a shuffling footstep from behind a pillar deeper in the store. He turned his rifle in that direction, his finger tightening on the trigger, his eyes peering down the sight. One squeeze would send a three round burst into whoever was approaching him. The range would be less than twenty yards, practically point blank for a man who had become skillful enough with his weapon over the last six months to effortlessly shoot down moving Chinese soldiers from nearly three hundred yards.

But it wasn't a Chinese soldier who appeared from behind the pillar. It wasn't a soldier at all. It was a girl, a teenager by the looks of her. She was dirty and disheveled, almost as dirty and disheveled as Conner himself. She was dressed in a pair of designer blue jeans that were now tattered and torn, with holes in the knees. On her upper body was a forest green winter jacket that was smeared with enough mud, dirt, plaster dust, and other unidentifiable stains that it had achieved a fairly decent state of urban camouflage. Her light blonde hair was dirty and uncombed, falling loosely around her shoulders. In her right hand she held something that Conner immediately recognized from his own days of youthful innocence -- before the war and the death and the destruction that was now commonplace. It was a metal slingshot.

"Don't move," Conner ordered, his voice just loud enough for her to hear.

She nearly jumped out of her skin at the sound of it. Her eyes locked onto him and she let out a startled scream. She tensed as if about to run.

"I'm not gonna hurt you," Conner told her.

"Then... then... why are you pointing your gun at me?" she squeaked, her voice terrified.

He realized he was indeed still pointing his rifle at her, his finger still on the trigger, still exerting several pounds of pressure in fact. He eased up on it but kept the sight centered on her chest. "Are you alone?" he asked.

She didn't seem to know how to answer that question. Her eyes shifted from Conner's gun to the passage that she'd entered from and then back. She swallowed nervously. "Uh... yes, I mean... uh no... I mean... I mean..."

"You're alone," he said, convinced more by her demeanor than anything else. He lowered his rifle, setting it back in his lap but keeping his hands resting on it. "Don't worry. I'm not gonna rape and murder you or anything like that. I'm too fucking tired to rape and murder anyone right now. I just wanted to make sure there weren't any chinks with you."

She shook her head slowly, her eyes remaining riveted on his face. "No chinks," she said. "I'm just here... well... you know, getting some... some food."

"Food?" he asked, his eyes dropping to the seagull -- which had now stopped its death throes and was lying still.

She nodded sadly. "Food," she confirmed. "They seem to have closed down all the McDonalds'."

A smile touched his lips. The first one in... well... in forever. "Yes, I guess business hasn't been too good for them lately, has it?"

Something that almost looked like a smile touched her lips as well. "No," she agreed. "It really hasn't."

He looked down at the bird again. "Pretty good shot with that slingshot," he told her.

She took a step closer to him, seeming to relax a little. "I've had more practice with it than I really should have to admit," she said. "Thank God my older brother left it in the house before he... well... before he left."

"He's in the war?"

She shook her head. "Not any more," she said. "He got killed in the Battle of the Border. Napalm."

Conner nodded sympathetically. "I was there," he said. And he had been. The Battle of the Border had been the near-fanatical last stand the American forces had taken just south of Vancouver, British Columbia, two long months before, as they had tried in vain to prevent the Chinese from becoming the first foreign armed force to enter the continental United States since the War of 1812. Tens of thousands of American men and women had died there, as well as maybe a hundred thousand Chinese. And it had all been for nothing. The Chinese had pushed through them in less than 100 hours, shattering the crust defense and capturing five times as many men as they'd killed. Conner had barely escaped, making it through a choke point less than ten minutes before the Chinese had closed it off.

"Glad to see you made it," she said, a scowl on her face. "Can I get my bird, or what?"

"Go ahead," he replied, nodding towards the carcass.

She walked over to it and kneeled down, her eyes keeping a careful, though furtive watch on him. She picked the bird up by the neck and stood again. Her blue eyes examined it for a second and her face turned sour. "I don't suppose," she asked, "that you have anything else to eat?"

He shook his head. "We ran out of MREs two days ago, when the chinks started hitting us hard. The last thing I had was a can of ravioli sometime yesterday."

"A can of ravioli?" she said, nearly drooling.

"I bought it from a sergeant before everything went to shit," he said. "Cost me ten bucks but it was the best goddamn thing I've eaten in months."

"I'd kill for a can of ravioli," she said in envy. "I haven't had any real food in almost a week now, since the chinks started pushing in hard. That's when I had to... you know... start living off the land."

He looked at the bird carcass. "What do those things taste like?"

She rolled her eyes. "Like greasy, stringy, tough chicken that's been overcooked and then left to sit on the counter for a week or so. And that's if I cook it right."

He laughed -- a tired, pitiful laugh, but a laugh nonetheless. "You should go into food sales, you know that?" he asked. "You have a way of selling things."

She laughed as well. "What's your name?" she asked him.

"Conner," he said. "Conner Boreman. I'm either a corporal or a sergeant or a lieutenant. I kinda lost track somewhere."

"I'm Madison," she said. "Madison Richards. They call me Maddie. Do you want to join me for breakfast, Conner Boreman?" She hefted the bird invitingly. "It ain't much, but it's all I got."

He looked at the bird carcass in distaste once more but the rumbling in his stomach pushed it to the side. "Thank you," he said, standing and slinging his rifle over his shoulder. "I'd be honored."

+++++

She led him through the bowels of the Macy's store, through a maze of debris and rubble, until they arrived at a set of elevator doors. She used her hands to push them open. Inside was the dead and dark elevator car.

"Up here," she said. "Follow me." She stood on a packing crate and pushed on the access panel at the top of the car, shoving it to the side. She then climbed through the hole in the ceiling, her legs disappearing from sight. "There's a ladder up here," her voice told him. "You can't see much, but just grab it and keep climbing until you get to the top. And be sure to push the panel back in place before you climb. This is the only way up to where we're going since the stairs are collapsed."

He looked up doubtfully for a moment but finally climbed atop the plate and pulled himself onto the roof of the elevator car. The smell was dank and oily. He stood and pushed the access panel with his foot until it clanked back in place. The darkness became absolute. He groped blindly around. His hands contacted several cobwebs before finally finding the rungs of a steel ladder. He pulled himself upward until he was able to get one of his feet on the rungs.

"You still there, Maddie?" he called.

"Keep climbing," her voice said from somewhere above him. "You'll know when you get to the top."

He climbed, his arms and legs pushing him upward until they began to get sore. He knew the store was three stories high, which translated into about sixty feet. He tried not to think of the drop below him as he ascended. Finally a shaft of dim light appeared and he found himself next to the partially opened doors of the third floor elevator stop. Maddie's face was looking out at him.

"Now step across over to here," she said, holding out her hand.

He took a few deep breaths as he pondered the drop he would suffer if he missed his step. Finally he screwed up his courage and stepped across, taking her hand and pulling himself through. It was easier than it looked. He was now in a dim hallway with office doors on both sides.

"I've been staying up here for about a week," Maddie told him. "In the security office. No one has found me here."

"I can see why," he said, following her down the hallway. "How did you find out about the ladder and all that?"

"I was chased in here," she said. "A squad of soldiers out on patrol saw me and my friend Ashley when we were getting water from the old fountain outside."

"Our soldiers?" he asked, although he knew it would have to be. A week ago the Chinese were still on the outskirts of the city.

"Yes," she said softly. "A squad of them. They were drunk and they surrounded us, started telling us to... well... do things for them. We ran from them. They caught Ash outside but I ran into the store and found the elevator and shut the doors behind me. I heard them looking for me and... and that's how I found the trap door in the top. Then I found the ladder and climbed up to the top."

"What happened to your friend?" he asked.

She sniffed a little. "I heard them raping her down on the bottom floor, just about where you were lying. She screamed for the longest time, begging for help, but there wasn't anything I could do. When they were done with her... they..."

"Shot her?" he asked, unsurprised. He had witnessed such atrocities many times himself though he had never participated in them. Many of the draftees fighting this war were criminals who had been given a choice between remaining in jail under wartime conditions or fighting. The fact that the girls they were raping were American citizens and the houses they were looting were American houses didn't seem to bother them in the least.

"I found her body the next morning," Maddie said. "She was lying naked down there, all bruised up, her head blown off. I buried her over by the fountain."

"I'm sorry," he said, although he wasn't sure just what it was he was apologizing for.

"You didn't do it," she said with a shrug.

"No, I didn't," he agreed. "I'm surprised you invited me up here though. I am wearing the same uniform, ain't I?"

"You're different," she said.

"How do you know that?"

She barked out a little laugh. "Maybe I don't," she admitted. "Maybe I'm just so tired of being alone and scared all the time that I just don't care anymore."

He nodded thoughtfully. He could certainly sympathize with that point of view.

The security office was not a large room. It was maybe fifteen feet by twenty. It was windowless, but a two-foot hole had been blasted in the far wall -- probably by an air-launched rocket -- allowing basic ventilation and a view to the outside if one stood on the bench just below it. The bench ran the length of that wall and had steel rings installed in it where shoplifters could be handcuffed. On the other wall was a bank of security monitors -- all dark of course -- and a complex control panel for controlling them. A few writing tables were next to the door. Sitting on one of them was a camp stove which Maddie had apparently lit before she'd come down after the seagull. Sitting atop the flame was a large, stainless steel pot full of boiling water.