It was like something out of a movie and, despite everything he’d seen off-world, Makepeace couldn’t quite make himself believe that this — here — was real. No more than he could accept that his own actions had brought the catastrophe down on their heads. It was simply too enormous to be true, his mind rebelled against the reality of it.
But there was one thing he did understand, one simple human thing, and it was the flash of disbelieving shock he’d seen in Hammond’s eyes in the moment he’d understood the truth. His grievous disappointment, his hurt, cut deep and Makepeace knew that, somehow, he had to try and make amends. So he blocked out the sight of his home in flames, ignored his guilt — so enormous it could swamp him — and just kept on driving.
The road down the mountain was empty, but he could see that I-25 was jammed as the whole city tried to flee before this unknown terror. He tried not to imagine those people, the frightened men, women and children dying at the hands of the Goa’uld, but it was impossible to ignore as another wing of gliders screamed overhead. In the far distance, a fighter fell from the sky, impacting in a ball of flames somewhere in the city. He couldn’t tell if it was one of the enemies or one of their own. To the people below, it wouldn’t matter; they’d be dead either way.
The city was lost from view for a moment as the road curved around and down, and then it spread out again before him as he rounded another corner. He could see the overpass now, where he had arranged to meet Maybourne. He just hoped he’d made it; if the bastard had died without giving up the gate address for his Alpha Site then everything was lost.
As he got closer to the highway, he started to hear the frantic blare of car horns, the wail of emergency vehicles stuck in traffic, and the screams of panic and anger as the road clogged up. There were people running along the highway, cars abandoned. It was chaos.
He pulled off NORAD Road before he reached the overpass, not wanting to get trapped in the traffic jam. He reached into the back seat, slung his MP5 over his head, and started running. Above, he felt rather than heard the gliders approach and dropped to the ground before the compression wave knocked him down, hands over his head as staff-cannon blasts peppered the scrubby ground around him and the road behind. He was back on his feet and sprinting as soon as they were gone, and didn’t spare a look for the people behind him even though he could hear their cries for help. There was nothing he could do for them but this.
“Hey!” Someone grabbed his arm, dragging him to a halt — a middle aged woman with blood on her cheek. Her car was jammed in on the highway and Makepeace could see a man crouching next to it, holding two small children, their faces pressed into his shoulders, dazed with horror and disbelief. He felt sick. “What’s happening?” the woman said, staring at his uniform like it meant salvation. “What is this?”
Makepeace shook off her hand, catching his breath, and backed up a step. “Alien incursion,” he said. “Get off the road.”
“What?” She stared up at the sky. “That can’t be true…”
“Get off the road, ma’am. Take your family and head into the mountains.”
Owlish, glasses knocked askew, she looked like she was an accountant or a lawyer, maybe. “The mountains,” she repeated, as if Makepeace had suggested she go to the moon.
“Get as far from the city as you can.”
And with that, he started running again, dodging between the cars stopped on the onramp, over more dry grass and under the overpass. “Maybourne!” he yelled, his voice echoing against the concrete. “You bastard, where are you?” As his eyes got used to the comparative gloom, he saw a dark sedan pulled off the road further under the bridge. “Maybourne?”
A figure rose from where he’d been hiding behind the car. “What?” Maybourne said. “No military escort?”
“I’m it,” he said roughly. “Let’s go.”
“Wait a second.”
As he moved, Makepeace recognized a gunmetal glint in Maybourne’s hand. “You have got to be kidding me,” he said.
“I need assurance I won’t be prosecuted.”
Makepeace stared at him. “Prosecuted? Have you seen what’s happening out there?”
“I won’t just hand myself in,” he said, moving out from behind the car with his pistol leveled. “I want assurances.”
“Fine. If you stay here, you’ll die,” Makepeace growled. “How’s that for an assurance?”
“You can’t —”
The scream of an F-16, followed by the wail of a Death Glider in pursuit, cut him off. Weapons fire impacted on the road overhead, gliders strafing the length of the highway, sending chunks of concrete crashing down around them, filling their lungs with dust. Above, a crack ran across the bridge, widening as it snaked through the concrete. Makepeace could see daylight expanding through it. “Move!” he yelled, grabbing Maybourne’s arm and hauling him toward the light as the overpass began to collapse.