by A. K. Meek
Once the truck started rolling, it picked up speed. Squash laid on the horn and it emitted a blasting pierce. This simple act appeared to inspire Bob’s dogs and the crowd cheered, raising their weapons as one angry mob. The few of them that could run broke out in a trot, following the truck.
It barreled down the two-way road lined with long-closed businesses, headed toward downtown, to the courthouse.
Bob’s dogs began to split apart, sprinting among businesses and alleyways, in the hopes of encircling the town.
Johnny couldn’t see because he intentionally lagged behind, but heard the semi jump the curb and crash into a building. Metal and brick colliding together grated through the air. Then the Dog Pound unleashed its fury in volleys of fire.
He ran another half block until the gunfire became too intense then pretended his pistol jammed. He stopped and pulled out the magazine, inspecting it with exaggerated interest, like he was mulling over how to operate the weapon. From the corner of his eyes he watched as other fighters gave him a quick glance then moved on, bloodlust on their minds.
Once he felt he milked it enough he locked and loaded his pistol then zigzagged forward, hopping from barricade to barricade.
Whizzes filled the air as bullets zipped by, a little too close for comfort. Puffs of dust sprang from building sides as bullets tore into brick. He crouched down with each near miss.
All he needed to do was to make it long enough so that he could skirt downtown, where all the action was happening. Once he broke free from the main contingent of fighters, he’d make his was to this brother’s house.
He took cover behind a metal gate that used to keep vehicles from entering a warehouse parking lot. He felt reasonably safe there and sat down with his back against the three-foot-high wall. He waited.
A couple of men were jogging along a sidewalk, late to the game but heading downtown to the party. They saw him and dashed over to his hiding spot. They dropped down next to him.
They took the opportunity to take drinks from their canteens and wipe the dripping sweat from their faces. One carried a hunting rifle, something like a 30.06, and the other held a smaller semiautomatic rifle with an extended clip. They laughed as they made bets over who’d get the most kills, each raising the stakes with one more case of whiskey. One, a man Johnny had never seen before, that looked like he should’ve been teaching high school English, looked to Johnny and said, “This is fun, right?”
Johnny didn’t say much. He just gave a weak smile, maybe even nodded.
“It’s a turkey shoot,” the other man said.
The English teacher turned killer stood and hefted his rifle. He said, “let’s go have some fun before all the fun’s over. Remember, no head shots.”
With that they climbed over the metal barrier and scuttled forward. They held their weapons high to their cheeks and moved with drama, like cheap imitations of special ops. One saw a target and rattled off a shot. They disappeared around a building corner.
Meanwhile Johnny broke out in a sweat. He had thought when he killed LaTonya, he had become a cold-blooded murderer, just like the rest. But now when it came down to it, he wasn’t so sure he could do it again. He’d spent many nights living through some self-imposed mental prison, reliving that gory moment over and over. Maybe he wasn’t the same as the rest.
Now, his body failed to act when he wanted to. He sat there behind the gate, waiting, trying to get the motivation to get up and support the Dog Pound. But he just couldn’t. He found himself struggling to catch his breath and he thought his fingertips were tingling, going numb.
A deep rumbling undermined the gunfire. The rattling sound was punctuated by an occasional deep-chested boom. As cold seconds trickled by, the rumble grew louder and more pronounced. Johnny looked back to where he thought the sound came from, toward the forest on the outskirts of town.
Trees rustled and branches snapped violently. Tall pines swayed. In another instant a large oak, at least eighty feet high, shook as the trunk cracked, then split and collapsed to the ground, spraying gnarled limbs.
Johnny stood to his feet, enthralled by what he saw.
The machine, the tank on legs in the forest, General Huang’s tank, was alive. It broke through the tree line, snapping them like rotten wood. The vehicle moved surprisingly fast as it headed to the town. Circling the base of the machine were five of the Chinese soldiers in full uniform. The ones Johnny had seen earlier.
The large mechanized legs were a combination of legs and tank tracks. One would move forward, supported by a rotating track that dug into the ground. It glided along, one leg in front of the other, rolling. It moved more like it was skates, much like Johnny had first imagined.
Within a couple minutes it closed the distance, the soldiers running to keep up with the mechanized beast and its long strides.
Many of Bob’s dogs were already retreating. Bartel citizens had obviously mounted a defense and drove them back. Many were withdrawing from downtown, comrades supporting their buddies with legs and arm wounds. Two guys hustled along the street, a lifeless body held between them as they scattered back toward the staging area. It appeared the machine had arrived just in time.
Bob emerged from an alleyway and ran toward the Chinese waving his arms, like with this machine in tow all of a sudden he had just won the town. And he very well may have.
The mechanized vehicle stopped. Its torso turned from left to right, possibly scanning the battlefield blocks away. Its height gave it an advantage, close to a bird’s eye view of the firefight.
On one of its shoulders, a box shifted, opening up, allowing some other type of box to come out that lifted, even with the machine’s head. The second box pivoted on an axis and pointed forward.
Fire exploded from the box and small rockets—much like RPGs—launched from the shoulder mount. They arced forward, leaving behind a thick white angry contrail. In a fraction of a second an explosion rocked in the distance, somewhere in town.
Johnny instinctively dropped to the ground and covered his head as the rocket zoomed over. He peeked through his arms in time to see two more missiles launch to strike other parts of the city. More explosions.
Many of the Dog Pound that had retreated were now emboldened and were reforming their ranks at the base of the machine. They regrouped and began moving forward with the machine as it rolled forward once again.
Gunfire occasionally struck the machine. Sparks danced across the chest, but didn’t slow it down. Johnny doubted that it even noticed the bullet impacts.
Then it occurred to him that he hadn’t seen the general, the one who he was sure spared his life. He concluded that the general was the one operating the machine, if anyone was operating it at all.
The behemoth lifted one of its arms. Large caliber bullets sprayed from what would’ve been its fingertips. Muzzle flashes looked like lightning. The machine clipped a building, disintegrating a corner of the structure. Bullets chewed through concrete, asphalt, and metal, through virtually everything in its path.
Large spent casings tumbled from the arm, a torrent of scalding brass. Several men had to run out from underneath to avoid the white-hot shell casings.
The machine spouted bullets and rocket fire of death. The Dog Pound kept lock step, guns blazing. Johnny bit his lower lip knowing this was the end. Bartel couldn’t stand a chance. But he knew from the return gunfire they continued to fight.
A group of townspeople had moved to intercept the machine. Despite the looming, certain death, they still fought to save their town. They took potshots from around corners and from building ledges. Every now and then a bloodcurdling scream indicated when someone caught a bullet.
Johnny couldn’t really tell how long the battle had been going on. It felt like forever.
The machine reached a large parking lot adjacent to an abandoned strip mall that had at one time been a CrossFit gym. It paused. Johnny wondered what would cause it to stop, when it was near to overwhelming the town.
Faintly, another engine roared, just underneath the low hum of the mechanized tank. He must not have been the only one to hear because several of Bob’s other dogs stopped. They stared blankly, trying to discern the direction of the noise. The filthy, leather-clad Santa Claus looking biker pointed, and Johnny stood to see what he pointed at.
A truck came screeching around a corner. Johnny instantly recognized Roscoe’s old beater. The truck barreled forward, making a beeline toward them. Whoever was driving was pouring on the gas. It took a second for everyone to realize what was going on. When it clicked they were about to be run down they lifted their rifles and opened up. But it was already too late.
The windshield spiderwebbed from bullets. Chunks of the already-battered front grill flew off. The truck veered but quickly corrected, staying on course.
The machine lifted its arm and aimed but Roscoe’s truck had already closed the distance.
It just so happened Roscoe had taken a position to the front of the machine, along with Gump and Squash. Roscoe’s head tilted to the side like a dog hearing a high-pitched whistle. He said, “My truck,” then lifted his arms like that would be enough to stop the rampaging vehicle.
His truck plowed into the gathered crowd and crashed into the legs of the machine. And for a brief second the world stopped; there was no gunfire, there was no screaming, there was no movement. The entire world had stopped to watch this one moment.
The truck exploded.
Johnny was knocked off his feet by a shockwave. He crashed onto the asphalt hard. Heat washed over his body and singed his face. The boom deafened him.
Rolling to his side, his body screaming in agony, he opened his eyes in time to see a wave of heat and debris and bits of people.
A red and yellow fireball rolled up the machine as it teetered to one side. Johnny couldn’t keep his eyes open.
Intense ringing sickened him. He reached for his face and with each finger touch new mini-shockwaves of burning pain ran through his nerves. He felt like he’d been dipped in a boiling pot. As the ringing subsided to ambient, random screams of agony became audible.
The machine grated, metal gears gone off track chewed each other apart. Something had gone terribly wrong with the war vehicle.
When he was finally able to open his eyes through the burning pain, the machine hadn’t moved an inch. Black char covered almost the entire front. Some non-metal hoses and plastic cowling smoldered, still burning from the ferocious firestorm unleashed when the truck blew up.
The arm that had been pointed forward remained frozen there. The other arm dangled uselessly at its side. The grating intensified and the chest began to separate and open up.
Johnny now understood this must be the cockpit for someone to fly the machine. Or in this case, drive. Or control.
The chest plates screeched as they spread apart and thin black smoke seeped from the opening. A body fell out of the cockpit thirty feet up and smacked hard to the ground. Wisps of smoke rose from body and the uniform looked like it had been fried well-done. One arm feebly clawed at the ground.
What had been a sure victory for the Dog Pound moments ago turned into a stunning defeat. And once again he was on the losing side of a bad situation.
And through probably the most willpower he’d ever mustered in his pathetic life, Johnny found the strength to stand on his feet despite the pain. He drew a mental map of Bartel, the final destination being his brother’s house, where he knew his daughters were. Then he left the dead and dying members of Bob’s Dog Pound behind. He wanted to put as much distance between himself and them as possible.
05.04
BROTHERS
When Clive and Ted returned with another of Ted’s bombs, a backpack which seemed impossibly small to be of any use, Kurt said, “That’s it?”
Shaking his head, Ted replied, “There’s enough C4 here to blow a whale out of the water.”
Kurt started, “Where in the world did you get—” then realized there wasn’t enough time for questions. “How does it work?”
Ted, the retired military and former explosive ordnance disposal technician, gave them a down and dirty tutorial on its operation, which consisted of showing them how to use the triggering mechanism he’d hastily modified at his home. A simple button to complete the firing circuit. This would mean there’d need to be power for the electric circuit, and there’d need to be someone to manually flip the switch, so to speak.
After Ted explained the operation, he had a compelling need to explain the first bomb he set, the one that almost killed the mayor.
It wasn’t meant to harm anyone, but Kurt didn’t have time to listen to the methods to his madness. He cut him short. “Let’s worry about this later,” he said.
“What are you going to do with it?” Ted asked.
This was the main concern Kurt had when he thought of the bomb idea. He needed a way to get it to the machine. And the truck with the odd device that allowed electronics to work was the vehicle to deliver the bomb to the machine.
“I’ll take care of that. I want you to get to the clinic. Find Helen and evacuate the patients.”
He gaped at Kurt, wondering if he’d heard correctly. Kurt gave a sharp nod and Ted left with the impromptu pardon.
Then Kurt told—no, ordered—Clive to leave the building and continue raising the alarm for the civilians to run. He knew his deputy would’ve jumped on the opportunity to deliver the bomb in a hot minute, but this wasn’t a fight for him. This was a fight for Kurt—to take one final blow to the enemy. For him, for his town.
Reluctantly, Clive departed.
This left Kurt and Aubrey.
“Aub, I want you to get to my house. Tell Marcia to evacuate. Help get the girls ready. Leave with them and get out of the city. There’s plenty of weapons locked away in my gun safe, enough to arm a small South American army. Marcia knows what to do.” His wife grew up in a family where her father and three brothers were military and police. She knew more about firearms than anyone else he knew. She could hold her own against anyone.
“I’m not sure I can make it,” she said, examining her own injuries. “What are you planning?”
He had thought through a simple enough plan: personally deliver the explosives to the machine in the truck. Detonate it close enough to damage it and take out as many of the attackers as possible. Hopefully the distraction would be enough to give the folks in town enough time to escape. He knew he couldn’t save everyone, but he sure could take some of the enemy out with a bang.
As they sat there on the floor, she bowed her head, nodding solemnly as he told her his grand plan. She wiped her eyes and tried to suppress a sniffle. He wanted to cry, too, and did his best to hold it in. He wouldn’t be able to say goodbye to his wife. In a matter of weeks, she’d have lost her son and husband, both violently.
There is a greater good, though, and sacrifices have to be made for it. You have to believe that or anything you do with your life is meaningless. His tenure as sheriff wouldn’t end meaninglessly.
After another minute or so, Aubrey seemed to accept the fact this was the only good course of action given the grim circumstances.
“I understand this needs to be done,” she said, dabbing her eyes with her shirt sleeve. “Can I get one last hug?”
He wrapped his arms around her neck but she moved them to her waist. Then she buried her head in his shoulders as she sobbed, giving him a kiss on the cheek. Her wet tears trickled down his face.
As she held him close, Aubrey whispered in his ear, “No more secrets. I’ve loved you all this time, but I know your wife loves you even more. And you love her. You need to go to her now.”
Then he heard the unmistakable ratcheting click of handcuffs.
She pulled away from him and he found she’d slipped his handcuffs from his holster locked him to a metal desk. She sprang to her feet, snatching the backpack from where Ted left it. Before his mind processed what was happening she was already heading for the door.
“No!” he yelled and jerked on the handcuffs. They bit into his wrist and the desk scooted several inches. He yanked again. She hobbled to the truck with surprising speed and climbed into the driver’s seat. Roscoe’s truck roared to life one last time.
He turned his attention to the desk, kicking the side three times. Chinese-made metal dented and the cheap Formica desktop buckled. He strained against the cuffs and the hollow metal leg bent slightly. Frantically, he searched for the key, but in his panic couldn’t find the tiny object.
Aubrey gunned the accelerator and the tires squealed, finally grabbing and shooting her forward.
He planted his foot, the burning pain in his leg disappearing with adrenaline, grabbed his handcuffed hand with his free hand and yanked. The leg bent and a tac weld popped, allowing him to slide the handcuff off the leg. His wrist burned where the handcuff had bitten into his skin. But he didn’t care about that.
Scrambling from his office as fast as he could on his injured leg, he made it outside in time to catch the rear of the truck speed around the courthouse. It disappeared from view.
Fifteen seconds later, a gigantic explosion rocked Bartel.
A shockwave rippled through the small Georgia town. He staggered at the immensity of the powerful detonation, a concussive wave washing hot wind and blasted particles over him. A popcorn ball of fire and smoke billowed skyward.
Aubrey had hit the mark in a devastating manner.
All the leftover, sporadic gunfire throughout the town tapered off, leaving behind an unnatural silence. What a stark contrast to the morning filled with such violence. A tear ran down Kurt’s cut and bleeding cheek. He rubbed his face with dirty hands, wincing at every tender wound. The small cuts didn’t come near the pain in his heart for Aubrey.
He had a burning desire to run across town, to see if Aubrey had indeed managed to survive the explosion, somehow. Maybe she lived. Then he decided not to.