The Breach - Ghost Country - Deep Sky

like a St. Patrick’s Day reveler drunk off his ass, came scrambling up out of the pack wielding a steak knife, aiming for the thigh of one of the reloading snipers, who wasn’t even looking his way. Travis pulled the trigger and took most of the old man’s head off. The body pitched back and was immediately grabbed and hauled upward, out of the way, by the next two attackers: a teenage boy and a woman no older than thirty. Travis shot them both in the chest, and didn’t stop shooting as each new target presented itself. He understood within seconds what it took to do it: you just didn’t look at the faces. That was how the snipers were managing. It was a miserable fucking tactic, he knew. And it wasn’t a real coping method for what he felt. It was just a kind of debt. He’d pay it back later. If there was a later.
    Behind him there came a violent crash. He turned, along with the others, to see some kind of steel shelf unit sticking up through the floor, having broken a wide hole through. It dropped away a second later, and then there were hands gripping the edges of the hole, people below no doubt hoisted on the shoulders of others.
    “Fall back to the stairs!” Travis shouted.
    A head came up through the hole. Covered in someone else’s blood. Could’ve been either sex, any age. Travis put a bullet into it and watched it drop back through the opening, like the shelf had.
    He and the others were moving now. Backing up in stutter-steps so the crowd on the basement stairs didn’t surge. They reached the stairs to the second floor and made their way up, reloading and firing as they went, the throng matching their pace as they climbed.
    Paige rounded the landing on Level Seven. Miller was still there, doubling ammo and spare rifles. Feeders were running armloads to the snipers.
    “Get some down to ground level!” Paige yelled, and didn’t wait to see her nod. She continued on. Up to Level Eight, then Nine.
    The warhead. The red star like an eye, watching her. Daring her.
    This would either work or it wouldn’t. If it didn’t, well, there were worse ways to die than standing near the heart of a thermonuclear blast. Truth be told, there was probably no better way. It would reduce her to loose atoms about ten thousand times faster than her nerves could send the pain signals to her brain. Faster than her eyes could report the sudden light to her visual cortex a few inches behind them. It would literally feel like nothing at all.
    Still, pretty goddamned scary.
    She knelt before the thing. Considered the grenade and the available space inside the warhead. Right against the primary would be the best place to put it. This primary was an implosion type. A uranium sphere surrounded by shaped charges, precision wired to a detonator. Properly triggered, the shaped charges were designed to blow in millisecond unison, crushing the uranium to critical mass and setting off a fission reaction. That was the A-bomb aspect of the device. The A-bomb, in turn, would set off the H-bomb portion. But if the grenade went off right up against the shaped charges, and scattered their careful arrangement before any of them blew, then none of that would happen. The uranium crush would fail, and the whole sequence would stall.
    That was the idea, anyway. It wasn’t the sort of thing anyone had tested.
    She set the grenade in place, between the shell of charges and one of the aluminum struts that braced the primary. She held it in place with her left hand, and with her right she pulled the pin. The handle swung open, and she heard the fuse ignite with a pop.
    Turning now. Running hard. Into the room full of blazing white-orange light and not much else, past the inscription in the floor, past the nest of wires and the Ares and the amplifier and the silvery bond between them. To the far side of the room, putting as much space as possible between herself and the grenade blast. Wondering if she’d hear just the first crack of it before her life ended mid-thought.

CHAPTER THIRTY
    Travis brought up the rear, two steps below the other shooters, the advancing crowd just another six steps below him. Slowing them was a lot harder on these stairs; they were wider than those in the basement.
    “Landing!” one of the snipers shouted at him, and his next step put him on the flat surface of the second floor. He pivoted around the banister and continued upward, the rifle running dry at that moment. He ejected the clip, took another from his