Outcasts by Alan Janney Page B

preparing to drop on that tower within thirty minutes. If we’re lucky, he’s still there.”
    “No! Anderson, don’t send them! I’ll go,” I shouted.
    Samantha said, “Those little boys will get chewed in half. You need monsters. Just get us a chopper.”
    “SEALs are going in. I fielded a call from the Secretary of Defense, personally authorizing us to escort you two in also.”
    “Great.” She ground her teeth. “Babies for us to take care of. Tell them they need semi-automatic shotguns and grenades. As much as they can carry.”
    Anderson said, “I’ll be there in twenty minutes. My helicopter is already spinning up. But I’m worried about Katie. She can’t go with you and she can’t stay there.”
    Katie sat on the edge of the bed, posture erect, beautiful brown hair pulled back, watching me, excited and worried. I said, “I’ve got an idea.”
     
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    Twenty minutes later, we pushed out of our private barracks and into madness.
    Our protective wall of United States servicemen had grown to over a hundred bodies. A complete ring of armed marines and airmen encircled our small building, three deep. Unified, they faced down a rising tide of greed. Night had fallen and our corner of the base wasn’t well lit, but the sounds alone were frightening enough. Hundreds of men and woman massed on Liberty Avenue, armed with flashlights and firearms. They wanted me. They wanted us. Dead or Alive.
    The love of money is the root of evil. The promise of unimaginable money to armed servicemen living below the poverty line…causes berserk mobs. That amount of cash doesn’t set you up for life. It sets up vast dominions. Builds kingdoms. Creates emperors, and frenzied hordes. We held the keys to these new kingdoms.
    There were very few safe places left for us in the world. The Chemist banished them.
    The MP at our door grabbed my hand and shook it. He was a lantern-jawed, hard man. “Sir, we need to move quickly. There’s going to be violence. We’ve already arrested five.”
    Samantha’s eyes were afire. “Violence is my love language.”
    I said, “Cool it, Gear. We need to avoid this party.”
    Colonel Brown was out there somewhere, hidebound and furious, bawling orders through a megaphone, but the massed bodies began to flow like crashing seas at our arrival. Our guards constricted around us, sweating and casting nervous glances.
    The angry crowds surged, calling for our surrender, calling for our deaths. Colonel Brown and his cadre threatened to shoot dissenters. I believed him.
    A Black Hawk roared overhead, en route to the base’s airfield. Isaac had arrived, our escort to the military’s incursion against the Chemist, but the path was barred by crowds that may as well have been waving torches and pitchforks. More and more troops arrived, adding to the numbers of both sides.
    “We need to get to the airfield,” I told the MP. “Now.”
    “Roger that, sir.” The sergeant turned to his small contingent of Military Police and shouted above the ruckus, “Men, we’re escorting these three to the airfield via an alternative and longer route, going around the National Guard building on Saratoga. If approached by an unknown party, we use force. Colonel Brown’s orders.”
    “Yes sir!” they barked.
    “Move out.”
    Our squad moved east, away from the showdown. We pushed through startled guards, moving quick, moving in darkness. Some of the guards broke away and trotted alongside. Behind us, the melee intensified and shots rang out. Samantha stiffened, yearning to go play.
    We kept our heads down, going against the tide of soldiers rushing past. Our sergeant brandished a flashlight and he shined it in the eyes of anyone getting too close. The three of us had donned camouflage caps and made eye contact with nobody. Well, except Samantha. She glared at everyone, hands at her holsters.
    Our helicopter hummed and rattled on the tarmac in a cone of brilliant illumination. The tower’s searchlights