Project Babylon – Prologue 5
After emerging from the sewers, Wyatt immediately sensed that the battle had changed. The chaos now swirled around him—a cacophony of gunfire, mortars, and the ceaseless roar of engines—echoing down every ruined street. The local insurgents were pressing hard toward the government district, their forces flooding the avenues in a wild, reckless surge. Yet, something was off. The Russians, who had been a steady, menacing presence until now, were no longer in full pursuit.
Sure, a handful of Russian units still moved with the insurgents, pushing toward the city’s heart, but the majority had shifted in another direction. Wyatt listened closely, discerning the subtle differences in the sounds of combat. The clatter of heavier ordnance, the lower rumble of sustained fire—these were not the sounds of an insurgent attack; they were signatures of a deliberate, well-coordinated advance. They were gunning for the hospital.
His grip on the rifle tightened as he melted into the shadows, every muscle tensed and his mind running a silent tally: weapons, ammunition, escape routes. The hospital was so close now—just one street away—but the corridor in between was a battleground in itself.
Up ahead, a thin defensive line had taken shape. A small band of local fighters, their movements calculated and purposeful, held the Russians back just enough to buy time. Wyatt watched them with a mixture of admiration and envy. They didn’t fight with the desperation of the hopeless; they moved like clockwork, as if every action was part of a larger plan. They weren’t stalling for survival—they were buying time. But for what? For him? Or perhaps for something else entirely?
His eyes swept over to the hospital—a massive complex that once symbolized healing, now transformed into a grim refuge for the wounded and trapped. Drones circled overhead like vultures. Wyatt exhaled slowly, his fingers tapping nervously against the butt of his rifle. After his last encounter with a drone, he was determined to avoid another unwanted confrontation with its unseen operator.
What was his play? If he charged headlong toward the hospital, wouldn’t he be an obvious target? A lone figure sprinting toward a fortified building, fully geared and unmistakably armed—he’d be spotted in an instant. His pulse steadied as he weighed his options. In that charged silence, his mind wrestled with self-doubt. Was he making the right call? Was his unparalleled competence enough to outmaneuver forces that seemed to anticipate his every move? He could eave, he could melt into the shadows and just disappear. No, something surged from within him. He had to make it to the hospital
Before he could decide further, a distant, metallic screech shattered the stillness. His stomach dropped as he realized what it meant—artillery. Wyatt’s breath hitched in his throat as the whistling shells began their deadly descent. Then, with a resounding impact, the first shells struck the hospital.
He could almost hear the screams before they began—a chorus of agony that momentarily froze him in place. But then, as quickly as it came, the horror melted into cold, razor-sharp determination. They were shelling the hospital, and that signified two grim facts: one, they weren’t expecting any survivors; two, they weren’t prepared for anyone to charge in.
Wyatt’s fingers clenched around his rifle as he acknowledged the madness of his situation. It was a suicide run masquerading as a tactical opportunity. Yet it was his only chance to reach the target in time. And if the target was already dead inside, then he’d at least fulfilled his part of the contract. A familiar bitterness crept in—a ghost from old battles—but he shoved it aside. Now was not the time for regret.
The first round of shells struck the street, the very ground trembling beneath him. That was his cue. Without hesitation, Wyatt broke into a sprint. Explosions blossomed around him, fire and steel tearing through the air as he ran headlong into the chaos. He weaved between shockwaves, leapt from crater to crater, his lungs burning as smoke and debris clawed at his throat. Shrapnel grazed his skin—a sharp, stinging reminder of how close death could be—but he kept running.
Then, with one final burst of adrenaline, he made it. Collapsing to his knees on the broken pavement, he gasped for air as sweat and blood mixed on his face. In that brief moment, he gave himself three breaths:
One—to acknowledge that he was still alive.
Two—to confirm that he was intact and mission-capable.
Three—to force himself back to his feet.
Rising shakily, Wyatt’s relief was abruptly cut short. He froze as cold steel pressed against him—guns pointed squarely in his direction. His focus snapped to the source of the threat: not Russians, not insurgents, but local police, enforcers, soldiers who had chosen to stand with the civilians.
A tense standoff ensued in the ruined street. Wyatt’s heart pounded as he scanned the faces of the armed men, uncertain if they would understand his situation. He didn’t know if they spoke English, and he certainly didn’t speak their language. In that precarious silence, the only thing that mattered was whether he was friend or foe.
Swallowing hard, Wyatt broke the silence with a tentative question, “English?”
His voice was barely above a whisper, laden with a mixture of hope and desperation. In that moment, as sirens wailed faintly in the distance and the din of battle roared on, Wyatt’s mind churned with self-doubt and resolve. Every step he’d taken had been a calculated risk, every decision a delicate dance with death. And now, standing on the knife-edge between survival and capture, he couldn’t help but wonder if his instincts would be enough to see him through the chaos that lay ahead.
