The squad moved them toward the western half of the rooftop. Soldiers checked the loose objects along the route, pushed two empty containers against the maintenance wall, and kept the civilians below the edge while the aircraft approached.
The sound reached them.
A heavier rhythm rose beyond the buildings, steady and mechanical, until loose dust began moving across the roof.
Falcon One appeared from the west.
The helicopter cleared the neighboring structure and slowed above the block. Its landing gear lowered while it turned toward the open section marked by the soldiers.
The civilians stared in awe.
The Falcon carried no faded paint, exposed wiring, or mismatched panels taken from another aircraft. Its fuselage remained clean despite the operations it had already completed that day.
The rotor held an even speed above it, while the engines produced the same uninterrupted note as the pilot brought the aircraft lower.
The boy wearing the metal plates narrowed his eyes.
"Where the fuck did they get that?"
Nobody answered him.
The soldiers crouched as the rotor wash reached the rooftop. Dust, loose paper, and rainwater scattered across the concrete. The civilians covered their faces and leaned into the wind while the Falcon settled onto its landing gear.
The side door opened.
A soldier waited inside beside one of the mounted machine guns. Lights remained active along the cabin ceiling, revealing seats secured against the inner walls and harnesses hanging in place. Nothing inside looked patched together. There were no loose cables, torn cushions, or containers of scavenged parts occupying the floor.
The crew chief stepped onto the roof.
"Eight passengers?"
"Eight," the squad leader confirmed. "Two secured firearms."
The crew chief looked over the civilians.
"One bag each. Weapons remain with the escort."
The older man opened his mouth.
The crew chief had already turned toward the Falcon.
"Board."
The woman with the backpack moved first.
She crossed beneath the rotor with one soldier beside her, climbed into the cabin, and stopped after seeing the interior more clearly. The teenage girl followed and sat where the crew chief directed her.
The two boys remained near the maintenance structure.
The one with the machete stared through the open side door toward the cockpit. Displays shone beyond the crew seats, while the pilot and co-pilot continued speaking with Flight Operations through their headsets.
"This thing is new," he said.
"Stop dawdling," the squad leader answered. "Get inside."
The boy looked at him.
"Where are you taking us?"
"Somewhere safe."
"And then?"
"You will be checked, given food, and placed somewhere away from the fighting."
"Placed?"
"Move."
The boy muttered something under his breath, though the wind carried most of it away. He climbed into Falcon One without forcing the soldiers to repeat themselves.
The teenager wearing the road-sign plates remained last.
He looked toward the bridge connecting the neighboring rooftop, then toward the streets below. Several infected had reached the building opposite them. Others continued gathering around the APC’s firing lane.
The route he had trusted was still there. It no longer led anywhere clear.
He removed the largest metal plate from his jacket before boarding. It had been tied across his chest with electrical wire and prevented the harness from fitting properly.
The crew chief took it from him and placed it on the floor beside the secured weapons.
"Don’t worry. You’ll get it back."
The boy sat across from the others.
The crew chief pulled the harness over his shoulders and locked it into place. The boy tested it once, then looked around the cabin again.
The floor remained clean beneath his boots. Every seat had its own restraints. The machine gun mount beside the door moved without scraping, and its ammunition container fitted beneath it without tape, wire, or improvised brackets.
His mouth stopped cursing.
The veteran squad remained on the rooftop. Their APC still waited below, and more survivor locations remained along the route.
The squad leader stepped away from the Falcon.
"Recovery Two to Fairy. Eight civilians aboard Falcon One. Returning to our APC transport."
"Fairy receives," Matilda replied. "Get them out of there, Falcon One."
"Falcon One copies," the pilot answered.
The side door closed.
The teenage girl almost jumped in her seat, watching as the building shrank in her view.
"Wait, what about them?!"
"You don’t have to worry about them," the crew chief laughed. "Hang on tight. It’ll be wild ride for you all!"
Most of the rotor noise disappeared from the cabin. The teenagers still felt it through their seats as Falcon One lifted from the rooftop.
Several survivors turned toward the windows. They watched Striker Three cross above the eastern street, the Guardian APC firing from the intersection, and the infected spreading through the blocks the survivors had insisted they could defend.
The boy with the machete leaned closer to the glass.
"We could’ve made the next roof."
The teenager beside him looked down at the streets.
"Shut up."
Falcon One turned north toward Site Three.
The boy wearing the remaining pieces of road sign said nothing. His attention had moved from the streets to the crew, following the way they checked the doors, watched the instruments, and communicated without raising their voices.
Falcon One continued climbing.
The buildings below separated into rows of rooftops and narrow streets.
From the second floor, the infected were no different to ants moving past the windows. From above, the civilians could finally see where those bodies were coming from.
Several concentrations filled the roads east of the building.
Striker Three crossed ahead of them and fired into one of the larger groups before turning toward another street. The Guardian APC remained near the structure until the veteran squad reached it, then pulled away beneath the helicopter.
The teenage girl leaned against her harness.
"They made it."
The crew chief looked through the side window.
"They still have more work."
One of the adults shifted in his seat.
"Uhm, sir. No, officer. Where are they going?"
"To the next recovery location."
"There are more people out there?"
"Yes."
The man looked down again.
The veteran squad had already disappeared between the buildings.
The boy with the machete remained near the window. His earlier claim about reaching the neighboring roof had become quieter after takeoff, though he still watched the improvised bridge stretching between both structures.
They could have crossed it.
After that, they would have reached another rooftop with the same streets beneath them and nowhere large enough for the helicopter to land without the soldiers securing it first.
The boy wearing the road-sign plates looked toward the mounted machine gun.
The weapon remained secured against the door. Its ammunition container fitted beneath the mount, while the safety bar and locking assembly held everything in place despite the movement of the aircraft.
He leaned closer.
"Is that loaded?"
"Yes," the crew chief answered.
"How many rounds?"
"That is not something you need to touch."
"I wasn’t going to touch it."
The crew chief looked at the sharpened rod lying beside the secured firearms.
"That’d be for the better."
The other teenager covered his mouth to hide a laugh.
"Fuck off."
"Both of you, sit properly," one of the women said.
They settled against their seats.
The Falcon banked north.
Several civilians grabbed their harnesses when the cabin tilted. The teenagers reacted a moment later, their shoulders pressing against the restraints while the helicopter changed direction above Westgate.
The pilot did not warn them beforehand much to their frustration.
The buildings below changed as they moved north.
The commercial blocks gave way to roads the army had already secured. Guardian APCs traveled between intersections, some carrying civilians while others faced the eastern streets. Infantry occupied positions behind abandoned vehicles and temporary barriers without looking upward as Falcon One passed over them.
The soldiers below barely minded the aircraft, suggesting they had already seen it before. That disturbed the teenagers more than the existence of the helicopter itself.
A machine that looked untouched by the recent tragedy in the city passed over them, and the army below them treated it as part of an ordinary operation.
The boy with the machete looked toward the cockpit again.
"How many of these do you have?"
The crew chief did not answer.
"More than one, then."
The older man beside him glanced toward the Apache moving farther east.
"That one is different."
"It’s armed," the boy replied.
"So is this one. They look very different from what I’ve seen from the military. In truth, I really have not seen something like this before."
"You old man really knows a lot, huh?"
The boy teased.
"What do you know, kid?!" The old man felt exasperated. "I worked with the military before. You think I don’t know how their shit looks like?"
The boy flinched, backing away from the argument.
The crew chief checked the nearest harness before returning to the doorway.
"Remain seated until we land."
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