Dawn of the Planet of the Apes: Firestorm - The Official Movie Prequel

23

“They’re trying to breech the western perimeter,” Corbin reported. “Is everyone ready?”

“Sure,” Clancy said, slinging her backpack over her shoulder.

“Quite,” Malakai said. And he meant it. For the first time since this whole mess had begun he felt complete, with a tranq rifle on his shoulder and a Glock at his side. He no longer felt naked in the land of the clothed or, perhaps more aptly, like a balloon surrounded by needles.

“Everyone knows the drill, right?” Corbin said. “We find the apes, start bagging them while everyone else shows up. This time we will have air support.”

“Got it,” Malakai said. He saw Clancy nod.

They piled into the Humvee.

“Western perimeter, here we come,” Corbin said as he started the engine.

“Nonsense,” Malakai said. “That’s a diversion.”

“Not the way the guys on the line are talking. It’s the full-on thing.”

“So they’re pulling men from the encirclement north and south?”

“Yeah.”

“As I said, it’s a diversion,” Malakai told him. “Do or do you not want to succeed this time?”

Corbin stared angrily at him for a moment.

“I want to get this over with,” he said.

“Then go where I tell you to,” Malakai replied.

Caesar could already hear the helicopter ahead when Koba’s messenger reached him. He brought the troop to a halt, and the scout told him about the fog that stings. He quickly passed the news to Maurice and Rocket.

We go, and we go fast, he said. If we hesitate, mill about, they’ll see us. As it is, with the smoke they’re making themselves, we might succeed. Prepare the apes. Strengthen them. Apes together strong.

He waited a moment for it to be passed around. Then he walked out in front, dropped to all fours, and began to run.

When the power went out, Dreyfus was on his way back to his office from a meeting of what was left of the Board of Supervisors.

“That’s great,” he said. “That’s all we need.”

He waited for the generators to come on, but after a few moments they still hadn’t, and all he had was the light filtering through the window in his reception area. He continued on, and thought he heard a distant popping sound.

Just as he reached his office, the windows shattered inward, and this time he heard the distinct chatter of firearms. Longtime instinct took over, and he threw himself flat, then crawled over to his desk, where his old service revolver was waiting in a drawer.

There was a lot of gunfire now, but none of it seemed to be coming through his window. He got to the wall, stood against it, and peeked out.

Hundreds, maybe thousands of people were gathered below. It was not a peaceful gathering—that was demonstrated by the now constant gunfire. He couldn’t tell who was shooting whom, either.

He heard a noise behind him and whirled.

“It’s me,” Patel said. He had several policemen with him.

“What the hell is going on?”

“Sorry, sir. We’ve been out of communication with the chief, and almost all the news outlets are failing. We should have been following Twitter. There are riots all over the city, but that armed mob from the quarantine—a lot of them still have phones, apparently. They’ve been tweeting about a cure—claiming it’s here. Now that’s drawing mobs from all over the city, including Alpha/Omega, who are here to ‘exterminate the infected.’”

Dreyfus rubbed his forehead.

“I need to talk to them,” he said. “I can talk them down. They trust me.”

“Not this time, Mr. Mayor,” Patel said. “You go down there, and someone is going to shoot you, sir.”

“Just come with us, sir,” one of the officers said. “They’ve already broken through the west entrance.”

“Well, how are we getting out?” he asked. We can’t walk through that.”

“There’s a helicopter on its way,” Patel replied.

“There’s no helipad up there,” Dreyfus said.

“The FAA can fine us later,” Patel replied. “Now we have to go.”

As they entered the hall, Dreyfus could hear gunfire below, bullets ricocheting off of the limestone walls. There was the clatter of footsteps, and as they ran for the service stairwell, gunfire burst from behind him. He saw that it was one of the cops, firing at part of the mob that was running up the grand staircase and charging toward them.

Bullets spattered around them as the mob returned fire.

The officers led them into a stairwell Dreyfus had never been in before. It looked old, with chipped paint, and it was narrow. They had gone up about two floors when deafening gunfire erupted inside of the stairwell itself. He heard someone scream, but that was cut short by another round hammering out.

A few moments later they burst onto the rooftop. There were only two policemen left, and they planted themselves on either side of the door. Dreyfus could see the lights of the chopper coming in the distance. He didn’t think it was coming fast enough.

The door burst open, and the first man through died, as did the second and third. Then one of the officers dropped.

Dreyfus had had enough. He lifted his thirty-eight and walked toward the door, taking careful aim and squeezing the trigger. A man dashed out with an assault weapon. Dreyfus shot him in the middle of the chest. He kept blasting away at the stairwell until the revolver was empty.

For a moment there was quiet.

The remaining cop picked up the dropped rifle.

Then more gunfire flared from the stairwell.

“Sir!” Patel was frantically tugging on his sleeve.

He realized that the helicopter had landed. It was a military chopper, with built-in firepower. He turned to the cop, who was blazing away at the stairwell with the rifle.

“Come on,” he shouted.

“When I’m done, sir,” the officer shouted.

Dreyfus numbly let Patel drag him to the helicopter. He was just boarding it when the cop ran out of ammunition.

“Come on!” he yelled, trying to send his voice through the sound of the propellers.

But the cop pulled out his pistol again. He fired once, then staggered and fell.

“Get us out of here!” Patel shouted.

The chopper began to lift as armed men poured out of the stairwell and began firing at them. The bullets spanged on metal, then the helicopter gunner began shooting. Dreyfus watched the attackers collapse or run for cover.

“Damn,” he said. “Goddamn. Patel, where are we going?”

But Patel didn’t answer. The bullet hole in his cheekbone explained why.

Humans were everywhere now, the hammering of their guns the only sound Koba could hear anymore. Almost every one of his band was dead or dying. Screeching, he led those who remained back into the mist.

He knew it was nearly over.

Two men—two humans—approach Koba’s cage. He holds out his hand for a cookie. One of the men looks at the outside of his cage. Then he looks straight into Koba’s face and nods.

“Koba,” he says. “Hi, I’m Will.”

He talks to Koba like he knows Koba understands.

Koba doesn’t care about that. He knows Will is like all of the others. Like Jacobs. He takes the cookie they give him, then thrusts his arm out for another.

He is doing a trick now. The trick is to seem cooperative. The kind of chimp they can trust to do his part, take the pain, take the treat, lie quietly in his cage. Because in the cage he can do nothing. Jacobs is not in the cage.

Will looks at him.

“This one,” he says.

Koba eats the cookie.

Later they come for him. He goes easily. He knows his job. He lies on the rolling bed, and they put straps on him. He wonders how they will hurt him this time.

“He’s very calm,” Will says.

“I know. Yeah, this guy’s seen the inside of a whole lot of labs. He knows the drill.”

They stop in a room. Koba hears a knock on glass. He rolls his head and sees Jacobs standing outside, grinning, ready to watch Will and the other man hurt Koba.

“I thought I’d join you,” Jacobs says, his voice muffled by the glass. “Watch our progress.”

“Get him prepped,” Will says.

Jacobs comes into the room. He is wearing the blue clothes the other humans are wearing, and like them he puts something over the bottom part of his face. But Koba can see his eyes. His is so close.

They put a thing over Koba’s mouth and nose, too. This has happened before, more than once. Once it made him go to sleep. Another time it had made him cough. He coughed for two cycles.

They turn it on, and a kind of wind starts in his mouth, but all Koba can think about is Jacobs, how close he is. And how the straps that hold him down are looser than usual. And he feels the heat that wants out of him, through his hands, through his feet, through his teeth.

He screams and heaves towards Jacobs, and one of the straps snaps off of him. He sees Jacob’s scramble back, arms raised in fear, his eyes full of panic, and he likes it. Koba strains to get off the table, but then they slam him back onto it, and before he can struggle back up, they strap him back down.

Tightly, this time.

They put the thing back on his face, and he has no choice but to breathe whatever it is.

Koba is back in his cage. He is tired and disappointed. He wants to sleep. But when he closes his eyes, he sees things—bright flashes of light, flickering patterns. He remembers his mother’s face, the smell of Tommy’s smoke-stick.

He remembers outside. He feels as if somehow he is in the sky, getting bigger and bigger. Like the sky is inside of him, or some great space. It was empty, but now it’s starting to fill up.

He remembers the things Will and the other man said. They chose him because they think he is docile, just as he planned. It was easy for him, because for so long he has been docile. The man with Will had seen that in him.

But now they know he isn’t docile, and he understands that his chance to punish Jacobs—for all he has done—might now never come. He should have waited until a better time.

He sleeps, and he dreams strange, colorful dreams, and he wakes with something bothering him. He remembers Will looking at something and then saying his name. How did Will know Koba’s name?

It is a little later when they come for him. As they take him from the cage, he looks back. He sees letters there, and now he remembers how Mary taught him to spell his name. K-O-B-A.

Will can read the letters. The cage tells Will his name.

And now he understands why that bothers him. Because he has dreamt of letters—not the letters of his own name, but those that Jacobs had on the rectangle around his neck. The letters told people who Jacobs was. And those letters are clenched in Koba’s mind as in a fist, along with the face and the sound of his name.

They take him to another room, and this one has toys like he remembers from the place where his mother was. There are two button boards on the wall. He stares at them, remembering. Then he begins to play with one. Outside of the glass, the humans are watching something.

“You’ve done this before,” Will says.

Koba signs, Yes.

“And you sign,” he says. “I knew you were a good choice.”

“Aside from the fact that he attacked us,” Franklin says.

“Enjoy yourself, Koba,” Will says. “I’ll be back later.”

The humans leave him to play.

He tires of the button board, because no one is asking him questions. He finds another game he remembers. It involves circles with holes in them that fit onto sticks. When he gets bored of that he sees something else that looks familiar, a flat dark rectangle. He touches it, and a spot appears. Intrigued, he begins drawing patterns. He draws some angry bananas.

He hears a sound, and from the corner of his eye he sees Jacobs enter the room beyond the glass. He isn’t wearing a rectangle with letters on it, but Koba remembers. Carefully, he writes them on the screen: J-A-C-O-B-S.

Then he glares at Jacobs. He wants Jacobs to know he is thinking about him.

But Jacobs smiles.

After that, they make him play many games. They all seem pleased.

Koba is back in his cage when the noises begin. At first he thinks it’s just the caterpillars getting upset, but then he hears humans screaming and glass breaking. He looks out and sees that some of the caterpillars have escaped, and are freeing the rest, smashing the buttons that control the cages. He hears the latch on his cage click, and he gives it a push.

It swings slowly open.

Carefully he creeps out of his cage, uncertain what is going on. He peers around the corner and sees one of them, standing like a human. Giving orders. Commanding. And he realizes that these are not dumb caterpillars. These are not humans. These are apes, like him. And their leader…

He feels a strange pull inside, like the invisible thing that brings him back to the ground when he leaps. This is an ape fighting the humans. Fighting Jacobs. Tearing apart the things Jacobs has made.

And now he is torn. He wants to be part of whatever this ape is doing. He wants to help him. But he wants Jacobs more, and so he turns away to search for him.

In the chaos, he cannot find Jacobs. The caterpillars are running everywhere, breaking everything. But a strange thing happens—the chaos begins to become more still, and Koba realizes that the apes who freed everyone are gradually taking leadership of the caterpillars. And they are leading them outside.

The pull strengthens. The leader has a plan. He is going somewhere. Somewhere outside. In that moment Koba understands that he wants more than revenge. He wants…

He doesn’t know the thought or word or sign for what he wants. But he knows that this leader, this ape who freed him, is the key. So he turns from seeking Jacobs, and instead follows him—follows Caesar.

He does not regret his choice.

Koba swung up into the nearest tree and glared at the approaching humans. They saw him now. The gunfire trailed off.

“That’s the leader!” one of them shouted.

Koba knew that wasn’t the truth, but he liked to hear it. And it meant the humans were still falling for the trick. So there was only one thing left to do.

The survivors clustered around him, their presence giving him strength. He knew they were with him.

With a defiant shriek, he leapt toward the humans. Their guns made thunder.