The 7:59

Subway service in NYC has sucked the last few days. I was waiting for the train today and thought to myself that I should just steal a train. My next thought was the closing line of the story.
I’ve wanted to try an action/comedy piece for a while. I have no idea if I got the timing of the action piece right. Let me know, along with any other comments/criticisms. .

The 7:59
_____Bullets ricocheted off the hard concrete platform as the team took cover behind the girders. The chewed, congealed gum that had been on the cement for years split like angry welts with each zing from a missed shot.
_____Jimmy’s voice spat out of the radio, high-pitched like it always was when he was stressed. “He’s late!”
_____“I know” answered Rick, the leader of this mission. “Hold it together Jimmy! Everyone, we just need to protect the crate. Tom will be here soon.”
_____The rate of fire from the other side decreased dramatically. “You guys running out of bullets?” shouted Jack, his voice echoing against the ceramic tile that lined the tunnel. A burst of automatic fire answered him.
_____Jimmy darted behind the crate and came up behind the same girder Rick was using as cover.
_____“What the hell, man?” he whispered, his voice a little deeper now that they had a moment to breathe. “Is he gonna make it? Because I really don’t wanna die here.”
_____“Me either” answered Rick, tilting his head to stare back down the tunnel. It was pitch black, dark, like their chances if Tom didn’t cover his end. “I don’t like the silence…they’re probably regrouping to charge us.” He reached for his radio. “Sound off, quietly. I need an ammo count.”
_____“Three clips” whispered Jack. “No, wait. Two and a half.”
_____Elliot was next. “I’ve got half in my revolver, maybe eight rounds in the Glock.”
_____Jimmy’s gun clicked as he checked his load. Rick heard the slide of the clip going back home. “Nine rounds, man.”
_____Rick checked his own reserves. “I’ve got three Desert Eagles, one clip each, one grenade.”
_____“We’re screwed” someone whispered over the radio.
_____“Max?” asked Rick. “What about you?”
_____Silence. Then Max’s gravelly voice echoed from the radio. “Four caddies for the revolver. Three clips for the Eagle. I’ve got two flash grenades, three fragmentation, a pair of smoke bombs and nineteen shotgun rounds. And if that doesn’t do it, we can always throw Jimmy’s socks at em.”
_____“Jesus, what the hell are you carrying all that for? This was supposed to be an in-and-out” came a response from Elliot.
_____“Bet you’re not sorry I brought it. What’s the plan, Cap?” asked Max.
_____Rick thought for a moment. “Ok, remember Newark?”
_____The tunnel echoed for a moment with groans. “Yeah” answered Jimmy. “We remember Newark. How could you forget a shitstorm like that?” There was a pause, then Elliot spoke. “On the other hand, there are no Nuns here, so maybe this time it will work.”
_____More groans, this time broken by a voice from the stairs at the far side of the platform.
_____“We want our property returned” boomed a voice through a megaphone. “We know you are low on resources, and we are prepared to let you go – as long as you leave the crate behind. We have the only exit covered.” When the echo faded, the voice, continued. “Be smart. There’s no reason this has to end with your deaths. We just want what is ours.”
_____Jimmy looked at Rick. “Not the worst offer I’ve ever had.”
_____Rick looked back and sighed. “How can we trust you?” he yelled.
_____“I give you my word” replied the voice.
_____Rick sighed again. He whispered into the radio. “Everyone stay put.” Then, loudly he called out “I’m coming into the open!” Taking off his Disney World baseball cap, he hung it on the barrel of his gun and slowly moved it out from the girder.
_____A triple burst of automatic fire left two holes in his hat. “Dammit”. He clicked transmit on the radio. “Newark. In ten. And so help me, don’t shoot any of our guys in the ass this time, Max.”
_____“Where’s the fun in that?” came the retort.
_____Ten seconds passed. Jimmy popped out behind the girder. Bang. Bang. Bang. Nine shots, evenly spaced into the center of the space behind them. Just enough time for the first of Max’s smoke bombs to land and detonate. All the men had their goggles and earpieces in as the flashbang exploded amid the smoke.
_____Rick rolled off the platform and dropped to the tracks, sprinting to the other end of the platform. He turned sideways as he ran, firing over the edge of the platform as he made it to their side. He was rewarded with the wet smacking sound of bullets finding flesh, and the thuds of bodies falling. He kept running, past the platform to the small maintenance staircase leading back up. The stale air was thick with the smell of cordite as he launched himself into the center of his opponents.
_____His first Desert Eagle was empty. He dropped it, reaching for the next. Bam. Bam. He fired rapidly at the shadows in the smoke, aiming low so his misses wouldn’t hit his men. There was a scream, and one more thud. He spun and jumped to keep moving and be a harder target. He smacked into something and his vision blurred. Another smack – a punch to the head that drove him to his knees. One more knocked him sideways and he rolled off the platform. His ears rung and his eyes teared from the pain.
_____Distantly, he heard the bellow of Max’s shotgun, almost drowning out Elliot’s battle cry. A body flew over hi, smacked against the tunnel wall and slid down. Black uniform. The bad guys. Rick got to his feet and pulled himself back on the platform.
_____Max was there, calmly lighting a cigar, his foot on the neck of a writhing body, it’s eyes wide with fear.
_____“Settle down, you” , muttered Max. “You lost. Be happy you aren’t dead.” Rick looked around. Jimmy had his gun on a man who’s face was clenched with pain, hands behind his back.
_____“Ha!” laughed Jimmy. “Who got shot in the ass this time!”
_____The platform started to shake. A low rumble in the distance grew, the sound of steel grinding against steel. The team turned as one to look down the tunnel. A subway car rushed in, the push of air clearing the swirling smoke up the stairs. The sides of the car were pocked with bullet holes. Most of the glass windows were shattered, and it looked like the car’s frame had been twisted.
_____The engineer window dropped down. A scarred head with vivid orange hair stuck out. “Hey fellas!” called Tom. “Need a lift?” He looked around the platform. “Damn. Looks like I missed the real party.”
_____Rick turned to him. “You’re late.”
_____“Dude, do you have any idea how hard it is to steal a train?”

Everyday Objects: Trash

I once read an author’s explanation of how she came up with some of her stories: Look at an ordinary object. Is it really ordinary? Maybe that piece of paper floating on the wind is an alien. Why is it here? What is it looking for? Why does it look like a piece of paper.
I wondered what a piece of trash in the gutter might see. Here’s what I came up with.
I wondered if there should be several vignettes here, but I just went with the one. Is it enough? Any thoughts/criticisms? Let me know in the comments.

Gutter Garbage
Everyday Objects: Trash
I’m a piece of trash. I just lie here in the gutter. The rain falls on me, the cars roll over me, and every day, I degrade a little more. I’ve been here a while. Even though I can’t remember how I got here, I can still remember some of the things I’ve seen.
There’s the old woman who stands on the corner at midday, every day. She leans frailly against the lamp post, cane in one hand, looking for someone to help her cross the street. She grips an offered arm tenaciously when it comes, smiling and chattering all the way across the wide boulevard. I’ve seen her wait a long time for an arm to support her.
I think she’s just waiting for company…