“I counted five, but one looks like he was already nursing a wound,” Mike replied, his voice still smooth and unhurried.
“What you think they’re doing here?”
“Road agents got tired of waiting for someone to ambush, and decided to take matters on a bit more directly. Maybe refugees pushed out of Beaumont, or Houston.”
“What are they shooting?” I asked, dread in my voice.
“Looks like one guy with an AR, another with a scoped rifle of some sort, and the others look like they’re using shotguns,” Mike observed, then he inserted a magazine and pulled back the charging handle, letting it fly.
“Shotguns? They’re a hundred yards away!” I exclaimed.
“Yes, that’s out of their range. The AR and the hunting rifle are more of a danger. They can probably reach us from there, but their trigger discipline is poor. They’re past the effective range for your rifle too, though. You could just sit back and let me handle this.”
“Nope,” I replied, throwing it back in his face. “I told Marta if I saw you doing something stupid or dangerous, I’d try to stop you. This is me stopping you.”
“Not very effective,” Mike observed as he stepped out of the truck. “Why don’t you watch our back while I snipe these guys.”
“All right, but keep an eye on the house, and set your angles,” I reminded, joining Mike in the misting rain.
“Yes, ma, and I’ll eat my vegetables too.”
“Low blow,” I complained as I eased around the back side of the truck. I scanned both directions on the road, seeing no traffic in either direction. Again, this route was paved and maintained, but I knew it received little traffic outside of what the locals generated. With the hurricane, I figured even that had fallen off dramatically.
Mike took up a shooting stance so that his rifle extended across the hood of the truck, his barrel aimed at the group of men intent on raiding this house. From our position on the side of the road they were approximately three hundred yards, and maybe another hundred yards to the front door of the ranch style home. Where I’d stopped, the Datsun was situated at about a forty-five degrees angle to the house itself, so I had little worry about Mike or I hitting the homeowners by mistake. With the engine off, I could more easily hear the sound of the attackers’ weapons, but so far, they had missed our presence in their rear. That was soon about to change.
Looking at the besieged house, I had a moment to wish for my binoculars before remembering I had a rifle in my hand, and a telescopic sight that magnified at three power. Idiot, I muttered as I lifted the Marlin to my shoulder even as Mike squared up for his first shot. I panned over the scene, taking in the four men clustered around the front of the two trucks while a fifth man, as Mike had advised, sat with his back against the rear wheel on the right side truck and worked at something on his shirt. I only realized he was trying to staunch a wound when I heard the bark of Mike’s rifle.
After the first shot, Mike paused, gauging where that shot struck, then he fired eight more times, steady as a metronome. He then lowered the rifle until it once again lay across the hood.
“Shit, that was too easy,” Mike murmured to himself.
Using my scope, I checked the scene in the distance and then took my eye away and lowered the rifle. I saw five sprawled shapes, down and not moving. Mike had been efficient, double tapping the shooters like he was back on the range. Or in the sands of a land far away.
Mike’s actions reminded me of an apocryphal story I’d once read somewhere. The details escaped me, but supposedly, leading up to World War Two, when a German officer asked a Swiss man what he would do if the Germans invaded Switzerland with an army of half a million soldiers, twice the male population of the small nation, the man simply shrugged and said, ‘Shoot twice and go home’.
Just then, I heard the sound of a truck engine in the distance. Turning my head, I traced the source, coming from the north.
“Neighbors coming to help?” I queried.
“Could be. Could be more of the same. What’re you going to do now, slick?” Mike asked, a feral grin cutting his features.
“I was going to suggest we keep on driving until we get to Fred, and see if we can find a cop.” I paused, thinking quick. “Now, I don’t think we have a choice. We need to haul ass up that driveway, make contact with the family there and hunker down. Let me turn this beast around. In the meantime, pick up your brass, just in case.”
“What’s your thinking?” Mike asked, and I could tell he wasn’t questioning my logic, just wanting to understand.
“If it’s neighbors coming to help, we want to show we’re the good guys. Get the homeowner to vouch for us so they don’t come at us shooting. If it’s bad guys, well, this is a crap spot to defend.”
Mike spent sixty seconds locating the spent shell casings, finding the last one wedged up under the front passenger side wheel, sadly crushed and unusable for reloading. I did an ugly three point turn around, backing and filling the small pickup as I turned around in the middle of the road. The shoulders were partially flooded, so I made careful work getting the Datsun turned around. Mike said nothing, not criticizing my awkward driving as he stuffed the brass in his vest pocket, then removing the partially spent magazine and replaced it with a fresh one, checking to make sure his safety was engaged. He hopped in the passenger seat and I sped off, cutting quickly into the driveway and soon approaching the five sprawled figures.
“Can you get around those trucks?” Mike asked, but he already knew the answer. If I was in a dedicated off-road mudder, or a rockcrawler, then I might have said maybe. Apart from the gravel driveway, this yard was under ten inches of floodwater. Fortunately, the house appeared to be on a slight hill, and the standing water disappeared about halfway to the front porch.
“Not a chance in hell,” I replied tersely, then in a more reasoned voice, I continued. “Can you try to get the homeowner’s attention while I turn the truck broadside? Without getting us shot, I mean?”
Mike chuckled darkly.
“Good to see you still have your sense of humor, brother.”
Partially repeating my maneuver from the highway, I slowed and cut the wheel hard to the left, turning carefully as I caught Mike jumping out of the passenger side door, quickly adjusting his rifle so he held it overhead horizontally. I heard him shout something, but whatever was said remained unintelligible over the sound of the engine as I backed up and straightened out, trying to get the small pickup horsed into place. The thin sheet metal sides wouldn’t stop a bullet, but hopefully the little four-cylinder engine would provide a little cover if needed.
As I killed the pickup, I caught sight of Mike out of the corner of my eye, and he wasn’t alone anymore. The new man, the presumed homeowner, stood with Mike and I could see he was carrying a rifle as well. He appeared to be in his late twenties or early thirties, with a CAT DIESEL ballcap covering an unruly mop of red hair.
“Bryan, this is Mitch. These jokers just rolled up to the house about ten minutes ago and started shooting. Then they stopped for a minute while one of these shit stains used a loudspeaker, demanding they surrender the house. He’s got his family in there with some cousins, just like we do.”
Mike paused, then continued.
“They’ve got wounded. His wife is one of them. He needs to get her to the doctor.”
I felt my stomach tighten up at the news.
“Closest place is in Woodville, I reckon.”
Doubling up the families was a time-tested strategy for troubled times, and we’d certainly made a point of doing so. No matter how alert a husband and wife combination might be, you couldn’t effectively protect a home with just two people. That was a lesson Mike had picked up and passed on from the Army, where the smallest unit was the fire team, and they seldom did anything in groups smaller than a squad. But working with your family meant any wounded would hurt all the more when it happened.
“Guessing the spokesman was the one you shot,” I said, a
nd Mitch gave a grim nod. I continued, rushing my words, “Somebody coming down that road from the north, should be getting here in just a minute or two. Sounds like trucks. More than one coming. You got any neighbors might be coming to help out?”
“More likely coming to help haul off our stuff,” Mitch replied, then he gestured dismissively to the road. “I don’t know anybody that would be coming to help except family, and most of them are here or have been accounted for.”
“Then these might be part of the same bunch. All right, what caliber you got there?”
“30-06, 160 grain, jacketed hollow point,” Mitch replied.
I felt a sudden rush of humor at the situation and forced myself not to smile. So not the time, but only in Texas would a worried homeowner not only tell you the caliber, but also the grains of powder and the type of bullet they were using to defend their house.
“Why don’t you and Mike set up around here,” I gestured to the paired trucks, “Since you’ll both have them out to the road by a good four hundred yards. Mind if I use the woodpile? I’m shorter range than you guys. Let’s get these boys stood off, and you can get your wife to the hospital.”
Mitch nodded laconically, his face twisted with worry.
“Whatever you can do is much appreciated. You guys didn’t have to be here, but you stopped anyway. You have my thanks, and that of my family.”
Mitch waved back to the house, a signal, and then pointed at the stacked cords of wood that made up a series of small walls and a stout-looking shed, situated off to the north side of the driveway, about fifty yards from the house in the direction of the road. Looking at the location, I had a feeling Mitch had been using a loud chainsaw before his wife stepped in, and this separated wood processing station was the compromise.
We had no more time to talk, as the sound of engines shifted, and I saw the nose of a strange truck turning up the drive. The first one came on slowly, and I saw a second pulling in behind.
Slinging my rifle, I hustled across the yard at my best speed, given the ankle-deep water that threatened to overtop my rubber boots. Other than kicking something under the water, maybe a catfish, I arrived at the first stack of cut wood safe enough, and just in time to hear Mike fire a warning shot. That slowed the first truck, and I was huffing a bit as I knelt down behind the row of carefully arranged firewood.
“You’re on private property, and you ain’t welcome!” Mitch shouted, his voice carrying to me on the suddenly still air. “Turn them trucks around and keep going!”
Well, there was your ultimatum, nice and clear, I thought. Of course, none of those men in the truck, still more than three football fields away, could hear his words. I wondered if these fellows, and using my scope, I counted ten that I could see split between the two trucks, were feeling lucky, or if they would be struck by a sudden outbreak of common sense.
After briefly stopping, or slowing down, the first truck began to accelerate, as if planning to ram between the two parked pickups and crush Mike and Mitch. I caught motion on the other side of the lead truck, a King cab Ford, and someone appeared to be leaning out the back driver’s side back window, and I caught the high crack of a 5.56 round splitting the air.
Mike reacted quickly, pumping four rounds into the grill of the frontrunner. As the steam began to rise from the punctured radiator, the truck began to slow even as I squeezed the trigger on my rifle. The Marlin barked, and I saw the front passenger side window of the second truck suddenly turn semi-opaque from the impact of my bullet. I couldn’t see the passenger, but the scarlet spray that curtained the glass from the inside let me know the bullet had struck something vital.
I worked the lever, never taking the rifle from my shoulder or my eye from the scope as I fired again, this time aiming for the back passenger window, and again I scored a hit, though the bullet struck the top of the glass this time and most likely failed to find flesh. Working the lever again, I tracked the still moving truck as I squeezed another shot into the spiderwebbed window, this time holding lower. By now the range was down to less than a hundred yards, and I was at a forty-five degree angle to the pair of approaching trucks. Taking a few scarce seconds, I ripped a pair of spare rounds off the elastic holder fitted to the butt and rammed them into the loading gate, then hauled back on the lever, forcing out the used casing and feeding a fresh cartridge into place.
While I was otherwise occupied, I had failed to notice the impending collision until the sound hit me. The lead truck, struck multiple times in the engine with the 30-06 and .308 rounds from Mike and Mitch, was rapidly slowing, and the distracted driver of the second truck continued to race forward until the front bumper of his truck slammed into the closed tailgate of the lead truck with a crash.
I could barely make out the passengers in the second truck as they were thrown about by the impact, but I continued to pepper the passenger side doors and windows with 150 grain bullets, hampered only by the relatively small magazine capacity of the Marlin as I rapidly reloaded.
The front passenger side door sprung open, and a form dropped out, hitting the gravel, and I shifted my point of aim for a second before I decided the man was no longer a threat. That distraction allowed the second man, the one sitting in the middle of the bench seat, to emerge, and he came out shooting. The whine of a bullet whipping past my head was my first warning, and I instinctively flinched lower, taking a moment to insert fresh rounds into the loading gate and topping off the magazine. Duck walking down a few steps, I risked a peek through a gap in the split logs to see I now had two living men out of the truck on this side. One was armed with a short-barreled shotgun, which I quickly dismissed, and the other, an AR style rifle with a fancy setup, including an underhung flashlight and a suppressor. That was the guy I worried about, but he continued to empty his magazine into the logs a few feet from my new position.
Sliding back a step, I knelt back down in the water and extended the barrel of my rifle into the gap, brought the Marlin to my shoulder, and worked the lever savagely as I chambered another round, furious at myself for not doing so sooner. Centering on the shooter, who’d just finished inserting a fresh magazine, I fired once, twice, hitting him center mass. Once he was down, aware of the elaborate AR, I wasted a third round on a headshot. Well, if he was wearing body armor, maybe it wasn’t a waste.
While I was occupied with the first shooter, I’d lost focus on the second man, and he made his presence known with the discharge of his shotgun in my general direction. Buckshot slammed into the stacks of wood, but none found my flesh. That was a lot of buckshot, I judged dispassionately, probably both barrels, and I wondered at my own detachment as men tried their best to kill me. The fear I’d felt previously in fights seemed reduced, and I could only marvel, briefly, at my own lack of reaction. No time to waste, I reminded myself. With only my brother and our new friend, we remained badly outnumbered.
Risking a peek, I found the second shooter laying down in the flooded grass less than a hundred feet from me, frantically trying to reload his double-barreled shotgun. Taking quick aim, I triggered a shot that struck the would-be raider high in the center of his chest, near the throat. The man spasmed, dropping the shotgun shells in the water. His mouth open as if trying to scream, but from this distance I couldn’t hear anything over the steady report of rifle shots being fired.
With three down on this side of the second truck, I took a moment to survey the scene. None of the raiders in the first truck had dared emerge on this side of the fight, and I was worried about Mike being overwhelmed. I’d initially counted ten men, and I could only account for three of them at this point. However, through the half-open door, I thought I might be able to see a shape slumped in the middle of the back seat of the second truck. I thought about taking an insurance shot, but I realized I didn’t have the ammunition to spare. I needed to be more sniper and less spray-and-pray with my remaining rounds.
Enough jacking around, I chided myself, and taking a moment, I fished more loose rounds ou
t of my jacket pocket, realizing once again I was getting low. I sighed and reloaded the Marlin so I had the magazine topped off, and one in the chamber. It was at this point, I had the stray thought that I should have brought a backup. Add it to the list, I resolved, then I eased around the corner of the woodpile and began a low crawl in the water. I could still hear the whipcrack of fire near the trucks, perhaps devolved into a sniper duel, but no one seemed to be paying me any attention for the moment. I would make them pay for that oversight.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I moved quickly, almost swimming in the eight inches or so of nasty, black water, and I was thankful for my recent tetanus booster. I held my rifle up, moving on my knees and elbows as I crabbed closer to the two disabled trucks. I continued to hear shots, heaving, booming blasts that had to be a .308 or a 30-06, so I figured Mike and Mitch were still in the fight. I prayed that was the case, and I redoubled my efforts until I was sweating into the water.
As I neared the rear truck from the side, I passed the first dead man who’d fallen out of the truck. He was face down in the water, the blood from his ghastly neck wound washed away by the wave action of my scrambling, and I saw he was still gripping another shotgun, but this was a long-barreled pump action model. A Browning, I assumed from the shape, the kind I’d always thought of as a goose gun. Pausing next to the corpse, I saw the rise of the gravel drive just a few feet further. The idea came suddenly, and I knew I was taking a huge risk, but then, I’d been running on a knife’s edge since before the first shot was fired. Leaning forward, I laid the Marlin barrel forward on the white gravel, then reached over to wrestle the shotgun from those cold, dead hands.
I worked quietly, for under the chassis of the truck I could see another shape just on the other side. Laid down behind the front wheel, just a few feet away. He was facing forward, using the wheel well as a barrier, and as I watched, he leaned his upper body out to take a shot. Before he could squeeze the trigger, I gave him a shot from the Browning, pleased to find a shell already in the chamber. Otherwise, that dead click would have been embarrassing.
Tertiary Effects Series | Book 2 | Storm Warning Page 12