“No, nothing new since you last asked two minutes ago.”
Sam paced across the dark, dusty room. James sat on a crate, fingers tracing the duct tape that held the battered handheld radio in his hand together. Soft static occasionally emanated from the radio’s speaker, but nothing else.
“They’re late,” complained Sam.
James looked at him, annoyed. “Stop that, you’re making me nervous.”
Sam shot him a an angry look and continued to follow his own tracks in the dust.
A voice squawked from the radio suddenly. “Nest, we have a tail, we’re trying to lose them. Inbound in five, if we survive.” The voice was urgent, under stress.
James and Sam looked at each other. “Fuck,” said Sam. “Fuck me all to hell.”
“How’s Angel?” said James into the radio.
No response. James repeated his question seconds later, louder. “Is Angel with you Tom?”
“Negative!” Gunshots in the background came through the static. “They have her, if we tried to move her she would have died. Lost too much blood during delivery.” More gunshots. “Mark’s hit! We….” A burst of static ended the transmission.
James tried to raise them back on the radio, but got nothing more.
“We need to help them,” said Sam.
“We don’t even know where they are,” replied James. “We’re staying here, as agreed.”
Minutes passed. They seemed like hours.
Sam and James heard the trapdoor open. Both rolled behind crates and drew their guns.
A heavy weight fell down the stairs, thumping as it bounced across the steps.
Sam moved to cover the stairs. “Clear,” he said, “for now.”
“Hurry,” came the voice weakly. “There’s no time.” Tom pushed something wrapped in thick cloth towards James. The cloth was stained red.
James knelt by the package. Tom was bleeding from several places in his back. Blood dripped from his nose and mouth. He reached out and gripped James’s arm, weakly. “Mark’s dead. You know where to go. All hope is in your hands.”
The light went out in Tom’s eyes.
Picking up the cloth package, James moved back among the crates and gingerly unwrapped the cloth. Two bright green eyes looked up at him. The baby cooed.
“Fuck me,” said Sam, looking over James’s shoulder while continuing to glance up the stairs at the trapdoor. “Is it?”
James cradled the baby, and inspected. “Girl all right,” he said in awe.
“First fucking baby girl in three years and change,” growled Sam.
The package was a modified carrier. It had been reinforced with a plastic shell. James strapped it across his chest while Sam pulled as much ammunition as he could carry from their weapons cache. “This is going to be a hell of a trip bro.”
James looked at his brother grimly. “We need to make it. For Mark and Angel. For our niece.”
“Our new niece is going to make us the most hunted men on the planet,” said Sam. “You have a plan?”
“Yeah,” replied James. “I have a plan. And I have hope. That’ll be her name. Hope. Let’s go.”
Sam nodded and started up the stairs, assault rifle at the ready.
This post is a response to the Daily Prompt of February 9, 2015.
“Take a quote from your favorite movie — there’s the title of your post. Now, write!”
The post title is a quote from Francis Ford Coppola’s The Godfather.
Luca Brasi: Don Corleone, I am honored and grateful that you have invited me to your home on the wedding day of your daughter. And may their first child be a masculine child.
After writing the story, the way it turned out kind of reminded me of Alfonso Cuarón‘s Children of Men. Haven’t seen that movie in a long time. Should rewatch it soon.