The rotor blades were deafening.
I was reaching down to him
to clasp hands and lock on hard enough,
dislocations aside,
to haul him up
because science doesn't play games
when it comes to survival.
I was close.
The zombies were
clawing
their
way up
the body of the mech
that shut down.
It ran out of fuel or battery or whatever was making it go.
Its difficult to remember.
The last thing he did was command it
to reach up its hand as high as it could go
and blow the cockpit in it's chest and climb
for all he was worth
along the arm plate armor
after stomping out every last undead soul
his eight ton boot could mash
into red paste.
The helicopter went too fast on its first pass and wheeled back
for another one.
They climbed and climbed harder and faster,
the mech a statue, and the beacon firing off in my ear piece
shouting "you're here, you're here, you're here"
like a bird for an arrow tip
and swinging in
feet from his hand
the helicopter missed.
I watched him jump and brake against the second tier
and break apart on the third tier of a sky scraper beside it.
I pulled my rip chord in dreamland
and landed
conscious and in one piece.
Happy to be breathing;
wishing I was dead.
