Long Beach Evacuation Area

  The flow of evacuees continued at a surprisingly orderly pace. Long lines and crowds were efficiently loaded onto any craft that floated. Despite the darkness of night still gripping the California coast, the displaced and fleeing masses were not panicked. The night had not brought any surprises; good nor bad.

  Despite the calm at the pier, the situation was perilous and gunfire could still be heard ringing out into the night. The safe zone that the LAPD, and the remainder of the Army Military Police, fought to maintain was shrinking by the hour. The vampiric forces harassed them at every step. Stragglers had to be practically smuggled into the safe zone to avoid the cultists and their thrall handlers. They engaged in the same depraved defilement and horrific mutilation that those who invaded Kotlin had. Those who resisted were captured and no matter how slight their defiance, were hung from lampposts; their bodies left on display for all to see. The only reprieve for the evacuees was that the forces of darkness were less intent on slaughtering the hapless civilians wholesale, as much as they were intent on capturing them. Everywhere along the perimeter, valiant defenders, often aided by ad hoc civilian militias armed with whatever tools they had available, played tug-of-war trying to save as many people from the vampire’s thirst as possible.

  Sheriff Mark Clegane looked out over a grey water-wetted street, struggling to see through the rain. He let the rainwater roll off of his rough and wrinkled features, not caring to take any measure to stop it. It was the least of the old man’s worries. He was de facto in charge. His office had taken over low-level police duties after the annihilation of the former city force. Now he was the only authority left after the Army MP’s chain of command was decimated. The number of effective fighters he could muster was sparce and dwindling by the hour.

  Ships had stopped coming. He had one over-filled cruise ship and two harbor tugs left at his disposal. As it stood, there was barely enough space left for the poor citizens left on the pier. He had given the order that no badge or uniform was to board the vessel. Alongside any civilian brave enough to join them, he intended to defend his shrinking position to the man. It was a race against time to see who got there first; the Vanguard or the vampires.

  His only glimmer of hope was the report that the Terra Vanguard was preparing to siege the city. He had seen one of their goliath Sky-Carriers floating on the horizon, just above the curvature of the Earth presented by the sea. It inspired hope as well as fear. Help was coming, but this city would soon be engulfed in the fires of war once again. This time, he expected L.A. would be made level… with the soil.

  He gave a glance to his right at the big armored man that manned a machinegun next to him. The Vanguard Rifle was in bad shape. He cradled a broken arm, but hefted the machinegun on its pintle mount easily with his good arm. His plate armor had scores and deep pits on it. He had discarded his mangled helmet long ago. The sheriff couldn’t quite believe it. The soldier was young, but far wiser than anyone he had ever met. Clegane had 15 of the wounded soldiers in his line. Most were in worse states than the one next to him, but they insisted upon making themselves useful. So he put them on the line wherever he could put them despite their injuries. One particularly badly wounded one, Commander Whitaker, had been helpful in advising him to ensure the Long Beach perimeter was seamless and couldn’t be infiltrated.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  The sheriff spotted movement down the street, obscured by rain. Despite being unaided by a lens, the Rifle spotted it too. The barrel of his machinegun slewed onto the possible target. It appeared to be a vehicle. The evacuees had all been coming in on foot, as vehicles attracted too much attention. This could only mean cultists. The Rifle charged the handle on the machinegun.

  All along the line was the sound of weapons charging, slamming cartridges home into their respective chambers. Tense silence prevailed.

  “Your boys better be coming soon.” Clegane remarked dryly.

  The Rifle replied while sneering at their approaching enemy. “Don’t worry, they will be. We just have to be here when they do. Just be sure to hold on to your teeth. They’re gonna be coming in pissed off. And they’re going to drop a lot of ordnance.”

  There was a commotion to their right. The gate in their makeshift wall was prevented from being slammed shut. A female was arguing with his Clegane’s deputies. His mood soured and he began walking towards them to resolve the situation. He expected he might be dealing with a spoiled housewife or youngster. Someone who didn’t understand the situation they were in. To his surprise, it was a woman a patrol had brought in and a Rifle. They were arguing.

  “I am telling you, there is not time.” Amelie was on the verge of shouting at the Seargeant before her. “I need to collect on that light at the top of the tower.”

  The Rifle held out his hands trying to calm her. He looked beleaguered and unsure. The Chief Rifle was the highest ranking one left out of the ill-fated strike, sans their Commander.

  The CR was preventing the woman from leaving. “I thought you were a white-collar spy? All bureaucracy and cocktails. If you go out there you are going to die.” He argued.

  Amelie wanted to roll her eyes at his poor understanding of her trade. But the gist of his argument was completely correct. This was field work. The kind done by operators and natives, not sleuthy felines like her. But she would not be dissuaded.

  “Intelligence collection is going to be limited. That storm is exhibiting paranormal characteristics and impact, and you can forget getting a satellite visual, the Vanguard is going in blind. You need somebody on-scene to report on what is happening in that tower.”

  The CR countered. “There’s nothing you can do that ISR in all its hugeness can’t. Satellites beat Mark-One eyeball.”

  Amelie threw her hands up, her frustration peaking. “We have no way of knowing if they can see through that storm. But I do know, with absolute certainty, that you Vanguard will launch an assault anyways. I’m trying to save lives, Chief!”

  “I can’t guarantee your safety!” The Chief shouted. “And I can’t spare the men.”

  The two were about to go at it again when Clegane interrupted. “Then let her go alone.”

  Both stopped arguing to look at him.

  “Works for me.” Amelie said.

  The CR calmed himself but dug in his heels. “If she is captured she will be tortured. They will flay her mind and learn everything she knows.”

  Amelie licked her lips. “Then I’ll make sure I’m not taken alive.” She patted the pistol in her waistband. The compact weapon suddenly felt heavy.

  “Let her go.” Clegane met the Rifle’s eyes. “I can’t pretend to know anything about how war, especially this kind of war is fought. But I am charged with the safety of this city. Bad intel begets destruction. Let’s not turn the City of Angels into Stalingrad.”

  Shots rang out nearby. Defenders dove for cover or returned fire in stilted bursts. Amelie turned on her heel and disappeared into the rain.