Free The Nervous System by Nathan Larson Page A

south toward the rear of the vehicle, which I notice is smoking, thank God for the metal skeleton on these rides or I’d be chocolate flapjack, I’m not the fastest thing on one and a half legs but I am able to lunge sideways behind the JLTV as the gun on the chopper coughs at me again, taking out what remains of the rear windows, bullets pinging hither and thither off its armored shell.
    Shit is getting real here. Way too real.
    Don’t I wish I had a minute to think this through, aw jeez, it occurs to me I can’t stay here, once the heli gets in front of me I’ll be wide open, no choice but to move, note the four-story corner building south of me, façade fire escape on the front facing Sixth Avenue, I figure hey, I’m up again, hunching over, hustling across the street, making for a doorway, you know, I have to hope and pray it’s unlocked, a ragged orange awning advertising POLISH ME , chopper loud loud loud like it’s already on top of me but I don’t look back, hit the bar, and boom through the entry, praise Jesus, into darkness, the outline of a stairwell, and as I mount this I reckon I clock some heavy rain but those are only bullets painting the space I just occupied, halfway up the stairs now and bam, a wall of stink gets me face-on, physical and unmistakable, it’s the reek of dead animal, press my mask to my face and take air through my mouth, no choice but to move into the cloud of body stench, death in front and death behind me, and sure enough, on the first landing is a balled-up form covered in black plastic, I make it as once-human, little nuggets bubbling under the tarp, probably feeding, shit, I leave this mess alone and keep on keeping on, looking forward to my next opportunity to disinfect.
    Do believe I hear the chopper head past me along Sixth Avenue, probably in order to spin around again, second floor I kick down the flimsy plasterboard door and I am in what remains of the nail salon, yes, wall of windows facing Sixth Avenue, rows of sinks and footbaths full of fetid water, white and purple plastic scattered every which way, blots and trails of color and sparkle decorate the floor like a nail-polish de Kooning, I’m looking for something heavy, something substantial, I see nothing, it’s all flimsy crap, think about some Purell TM , nope, I’m out of time.
    Shove my 99 into my waistband, rack the shotgun, and approach the windows low, helicopter headed north my way, back up the avenue, soon it’ll be on me, and in a heartbeat blades and engine are all I hear as the big black thing swings exactly level to my second-floor foxhole, thinking it’s balls-out but this is never going to work my man, stand up and unload both barrels through the blackened window, approximately where I assume the front cabin would be, boom, and I duck back down.
    Based on what I hear the chopper loses altitude fast, falters for just a moment, a short sharp raking of metal on brick, but the engine regains and the boys bank back up, guess I missed the pilot but I must’ve ruffled their feathers, again they arc skyward, hear it turning around, which is what I want.
    Toss aside the shotgun, pull the pistol, and fumble around in my pocket for that second limpet mine, got it, kicking out the windows but waiting inside, hear the chopper come level with me again to the north, heading this way, wait for it, I hop awkwardly out onto the decaying fire escape, one guardrail giving a puff of reddish dust as I go to hold myself steady, fuck it, I swing my gun left and am firing on the Cyna-corp soldier leaning out the side door of the chopper, he’s doing the same, the matchstick stairs vibrate as they’re smacked with bullets, I don’t hear any of it over the helicopter, dude goes slack and falls out the side, bouncing off the runner, not watching him hit the sidewalk thinking, shit, as tedious as this action-movie noise is, it’s a rush no doubt, wakes you up,