The helicopter cabin was military surplus standard; an old UH-1 Huey with the canvas benches to sit on, open bay doors and even a pair of door gunners, toting the cargo out; in this case, it was four convicts.
Sanger was fairly sure that he wanted to kill one right off the bat, the mouthy wiry one with all the gang tattoos, bragging about what a badass he was back in West Virginia, cooking meth and running whores and what he did to get on this show. Over and over, trying to impress everyone else with his horrible career criminal record. Reality? The guy was a petty crook who eventually graduated to something big and got turned in by another toothless hick buddy for a reduced sentence.
Everyone was heavily armed, though the helicopter's crew chief had the key to the trigger locks in the form of an electronic device that would broadcast the signal. The criminal scum being dropped into the city were separated from the crew of the helo by a cage, though they were perfectly free to make a jump for it – if they wanted to die. The doors were open. Gunners, behind the cage, were there to keep the helicopter from taking fire from embittered residents of Baltimore intent on shooting down the criminals before they could land. Malleus, of course, was pimping the drama for more viewership.
“Yeah, boyeeee, this here’s gonna be great. I mean, shit, they’re givin us all this stuff to kill people and take their shit. We’re gonna be kings of this city and shit.” Huckleberry-Bob, so Sanger tagged him in his head, was making faces at the camera and arm-pumping with his Desert Eagle, clearly getting off on the attention he never got when he was being raised in the trailer park.
Huckleberry-Bob continued to wave the gun around and talk, but Sanger tuned him out even while looking at the man's weapon and contemplating the choices these guys, criminals mostly, were making. It was the dumbest gun in the world to bring to this shit, but the kid thought he was the alpha dog here when he compared his sidearm to the more staid options, like Sanger’s Kimber, a modified, custom 1911. The kid was all impressed with his Uzi too, but kept asking to look at Sanger’s Remington. And he kept ignoring the question. That stayed in a soft-case, strapped to his back, along with the ghillie suit and other supplies in an assault pack, which was military parlance for a knapsack sized pouch done up in the same camo as his outfit; Crye multicam. Unlike Huckleberry-Bob, he’d gone for the functional clothing, and opted for a ballcap in the same. He looked subdued compared to some of these leather biker psychos and flamboyant gangsta wannabes with that HK416 across his lap and dressed for war, but that was the point. This was now a war.
So the kid was a hick and no connoisseur of firearms at all. But worse, he didn’t shut up. It was the meth. Malleus was feeding the ‘contestants’ whatever they wanted to keep them happy. Most of them drank, doped up and amused themselves by masturbating to porn. Sanger trained for the mission, hours a day on fieldcraft, weapons, conditioning. He intended to survive it all, and maybe pull down a lucrative longterm contract with Malleus.
He was a skinny kid with methhead sores on his face, wearing an oversized Zed Handy t-shirt with ‘retro’ tattoo designs on it, and pants too big. He had that stupid gun shoved down his pants, and thought it was jaunty. He pissed off Sanger just by existing, and even more for Not. Shutting. Up.
Looking out, he could see the towering skyscrapers of the Inner Harbor and the smaller buildings of the residential neighborhoods; they were coming in from the southwest, coming down towards M&T bank stadium along I-95, with the huge overpasses indicating that they were in the built up area near Port Covington. He knew they were close, because camera drones were flying over head, trying to catch all the action; this show was a huge investment for Malleus, but not nearly as much as restoring Baltimore would cost. It was a decaying urban sprawl, a small cluster of financial office towers and cosmopolitan downtown that abruptly turned into run-down rowhouses and industrial neighborhoods, like the one they were flying over.
Then, Huckleberry-Bob blocked his vision, while machinegun-rattling away his observations in that loud, irritating, voice.
“Hoo dangy, lookee here, it’s big, ain—“
One kick was all it took; and Sanger was gratified to see two of them fly over to catch the sudden action.
One of the door gunners guffawed, “Damn man, you’re getting an early start on this shit.”
Sanger grinned tightly, like a death’s head, “Yeah, well I wanted at least a few minutes to enjoy the nice ride and the view. Quietly. Hope that one counted for my kids’ college fund though.”
He didn’t even look to the other two convicts for the rest of the ride, just closed his eyes.
--
“OUT! OUT! OUT!” the crew chief of the helicopter didn’t want to stay on the ground any longer than he had to, and the incoming fire from around them in the kiddie playground they’d used as an LZ confirmed that. Sanger was off the helo before it even touched down, head down and moving for the treeline, for cover. He’d done this sort of thing before in many air assault training exercises, and then for real in shitty third world countries. But this time, he was pretty sure he was on his own.
The rounds pinged all around him, but he couldn’t fire back, because the locks were still on the trigger. Instead, he dived for cover, waiting for the locks to come off, even as the chopper lifted off, door guns blazing away, and tried to lurch away.
But UH-1 hueys were notoriously thin-skinned, and the greasy smoke trailing behind it as the tail swung back and forth was an indicator that it was potentially doomed.
Great, maybe they’d go down and never click off the trigger lock.
He couldn't operate his weapon, but he'd brought smoke grenades along – he got one of these out of its pouch, pulled the pin and held the spoon in place with his hand for a moment before picking a spot and releasing.
But then, miracle of miracles, three beeps went off at the same time; he was in business. He brought the -416 up to his shoulder, the reflex sight, the Israeli kind, moving with his eyes to track any potential emerging threats through the bank of smoke that had blossomed from his grenade even as he fell back. Meanwhile, some of the guys he'd dropped with decided to fight, screaming and firing their weapons. Sanger just fell back – he had no loyalty to these fuckers.
Instead, he tried to get his bearings visually. He needed a good spot from which to start hunting. He'd spent six years in military prison, his kids didn't get shit out of him unless he performed here – college bucks for kills, that was the deal with Malleus.
No boys, you ain’t caught you a Josey Wales.
***
”An entire city turns into a warzone. Convicts, miscreants and normal every day people, forced to fight for their very survival on a daily basis. See YOUR cable or satellite provider about subscribing to the deluxe version of URBAN APOCALYPSE today, with all sorts of contestant interviews and point of view cams. Or go to our website! The first one thousand new members get a free Zed Handy t-shirt and a year’s supply of Budsteiner beer!”
