Cory pushed past the pair and yammered a quick instruction, “Everybody out! We’re moving to Main…NOW!”
While Cory prepped Godfrey, Jeff ran to find Dude and Remy. In a surgical room, near the back, Remy stood next to a table covered in blood. His hands rested heavily on the frame and he was visibly shaken. The sound of someone approaching neither stirred nor alarmed the doctor – he was in a world of his own, lost to the sounds of battle and the cries of death.
“No,” Jeff wailed. “Not Dude.”
The outburst awakened Remy and he looked to Jeff and smiled. “He’s sleeping in the other room. He lost some blood but no major organs were hit. I’ve patched his lung as best I can until the fighting is over.”
“Thank God,” Jeff blurted out. “Remy, how do we move him? We’ve got to get everyone to Old Main.”
“You can’t move him…at least without killing him.”
“Will he have any chance?”
“Slim,” Reynolds replied.
“It’s a chance we’ve got to take. Let’s get him on a stretcher.”
A minute later, Remy and Jeff toted Dude to the front doors, where Godfrey took over Jeff’s position. Pushing through the infirmary entrance, they were suddenly stopped by the emergence of Allison from the Library. A man, with a knife thrust to her throat, held her from behind. Blood streamed from her right arm, as she struggled against his will to hold her fast. Beyond the deadly struggle, Jeff witnessed a horde of Harvesters cautiously moving toward them, their numbers too many to count.
“It’s the traitor…he’s got my mom.”
Chapter 57
North of where Niel and Scotty were defending Old Main, a small detachment of Ward members had sacrificed themselves to slow Juanita’s attack. In a desperate attempt to block the Bradley and box the aggressors, the sentries had driven two heavily laden semi’s into the roadway and set them ablaze. Their martyred bodies lay not far from where they had exited the trucks. Snipers and seasoned militia had cut them down, but their effort was not without reward. The roadblock had pushed Juanita and her troops into a straight-up, frontal assault, which was proving deadly for everyone involved.
At the center of their defenses, the Michelson brothers conferred briefly before bolting for opposite ends of the lengthy trench. They bobbed and weaved below the gully’s rim, ducking machine-gun fire while checking on their friends. Many…too many, lay wounded or dead. The withering fire from the armored vehicle, as well as dozens of militia, had silenced any hope they had of ending the battle here.
Pausing at the end of his run, Niel suddenly recognized the sound of the Bradley’s cannon and his thoughts turned to his brother. Several blasts concussed the air before he was assured it was safe to take a look. Peering over the earthen rim, he could see they were using the cannon, but not as he’d suspected: rather they were clearing a path through the hillside’s littered obstacles. One at a time they fired direct hits, allowing them to inch forward, gaining precious ground and emboldening their troops.
Lifting his rifle, Niel sprayed the slope below him without taking time to aim. Pulling the trigger empowered him, but it had little effect on slowing them down. At the other end of the trench Scotty had done the same, shooting madly before dropping his head and running for the center. As the brothers passed the few survivors who were still in the fight, they shouted words of encouragement to strengthen their resolve; nevertheless, it appeared to be too little, too late, for too few.
Racing toward one another, they stopped only a time or two to reload and fire on their attackers. The angry shouts of advancing militia were now close enough to make out their commands, causing Niel to rise once again. He aimed fleetingly and fired at a tight clutch of warriors that trailed the Bradley. Several went down but the ‘tank’ answered with a single cannon round, obliterating the trench wall directly behind where Niel stood. Rocks and shell fragments sprayed everywhere, throwing Niel forward before he slid to the bottom of the trench. Blood pooled on the clay all around him, and for a moment he tried to make sense of the stagnant, red puddles, wondering how much was his.
Not far away, Scotty had watched the cannon fire and Niel go down. He emptied his assault rifle and dashed to Niel’s aid.
“You okay?” he began shouting, even before he knelt at his bother’s side.
Niel responded with a slow roll of his head from one shoulder to the other. He had been able to straighten himself up, but his strength was fading with each beat of his heart.
“Where are you hit?” Scotty wailed.
“Doesn’t matter,” Niel replied, lifting his hand to rest on his brother’s shoulder. “Your grenade…use it. We’ve nothing to lose.”
Scotty held his rifle with his right hand and reached for Niel’s with his left, taking them both he stood and fired until the magazines ran dry. In reply, machine-gun fire raked the trench, forcing him to take cover. Scotty fumbled with his belt to seize another mag, but was stopped by Niel, who again whispered for Scotty to use the HIT.
“It’s too close,” Scotty replied.
“Scott, get clear and throw…throw the grenade. You…have to stop it.”
Nodding and taking the grenade from his vest pocket, Scotty twisted the cap, winked at Niel, and then tossed the device directly under the slowly advancing BFV. It skipped and bounced off a flattened rock before it detonated near the vehicle’s rear hatch. Flames engulfed several of those who were using the Bradley for protection, ironically taking them first. Molten gel clung to the armor surface, melting steel and slowing the tracks but not stopping it cold.
Scotty had dropped back into the trench as the explosion erupted and was preparing to carry Niel to safety when the sound of the Bradley’s engine grew louder. He quickly gazed at the devastation he’d wrought but was disappointed to see the grenade had not stopped the beast, which was only a few yards away.
Pulling Niel’s grenade, he gouged the trench’s earthen, clay wall and packed the HIT with the sticky substance. Niel sensed what Scotty was about to do and stretched out his hand to touch his brother one last time. Their hands met and clasped, affirming a bond that had been forged as little boys; however, circumstances dictated no crowning words or loving embrace. Giving a parting, firm squeeze of his hand, Scotty leapt from the trench, but was instantly met with a burst from the Bradley’s machine gun. The slugs cut across his chest, knocking him backwards and ending his life. Scotty’s last thought and final earthly breath called out what he cherished most, as his brother’s name wheezed from his lungs.
Stricken and summoning strength beyond his own, Niel crawled to his brother. Adrenalin surged through him, igniting a frantic attempt to save his friends by completing the task they’d begun. In a final, frenzied motion he retrieved the clay-packed grenade and forced himself up. Grunting loudly, he hurled himself over the trench’s lip and rolled once, before struggling to his knees and then his feet. Bullets bounced around him, yet he remained undeterred. Taking two staggering steps while priming the grenade, Niel defiantly stood in the Bradley’s path.
As armor thumped against his chest, he let the grenade go, hurling it at the base of the cannon’s turret. It stuck and exploded on cue, blowing thermite through steel and into the vehicles cockpit. Flames erupted and consumed the crew in seconds, leaving no possibility of escape. The weapon’s remaining rounds soon began firing, cooking off in a firestorm of lead that bounced around like rocks in a can.
Almost instantly the detonation pushed Juanita’s troops back, forcing them to duck behind cover to protect themselves from the intense flames. The Bradley rolled a few more feet, lurching forward and tipping oddly into the trench where Scotty lay. Beneath the wreckage and between the tracks, Niel sighed, having been knocked to the ground by the very thing he had hoped to destroy. Somewhat protected, yet feeling as if he were in an oven, Niel closed his lids and waited to die.
In that moment, his mind’s eye opened to a scene from just weeks before, and he was smothered in a blanket of serene
peace. He saw Scotty throwing a dirt bomb and laughing when it hit its mark. A grin tugged at the corners of Niel’s mouth, as the image faded away and he fought to retain it. An instant later, his brother stood before him, his blonde hair clean and moving lightly in the breeze, his blue eyes summoning him from someplace bright and alive with warmth. Come, dear brother…come and see…
Chapter 58
Déjà vu swept over Cory like a splash of ice-cold water. His first thoughts turned to Jeff, and then Rod. “Jeff, stay with Dude and get to Old Main.”
“No way,” was Jeff’s immediate reply. “I’m gonna kill that bastard.”
Suddenly Rod was with them, his face flush with rage and eyes intense. “Jeff, help the doc get Dude to safety. Cory, cover them and watch that corner,” Rod seethed.
Cory turned on his heels and rushed away, prompting Godfrey and Remy to do the same. However, Jeff stood still, remaining defiant in the face of this new challenge. “I won’t see her killed,” he grunted.
“Then do as you’re told. I’ll get your mom.”
Jeff heard the words but his feet remained glued and immoveable. At his side, Rod lifted his rifle and fired a full magazine into the wall of Harvesters, scattering them. Jeff followed suit, doing the same thing.
“Jeff, there’s your window,” Rod said, his voice stern but controlled. “Save yourself and The Normals. Listen to Cory – he’s going with you.”
Torn, his heart being ripped asunder, Jeff reluctantly slammed a fresh magazine into his weapon and withdrew. Tears rolled down his face, the idea of turning his back on his parents being more than he could endure. At his rear, the sound of Rod’s rifle, blasting through another 30 rounds, helped Jeff along his way. At the corner of the science building he collected Cory and together they sprinted for those helping Dude. Jeff paused only once, turning to see Rod walking steadily toward his mother and her captor. Bullets kicked up dirt at Rod’s feet, but he never slowed, not even as he fired to keep the Harvesters at bay.
“Boob!” Came a shout, which turned Jeff for a final time. Clark had made the call, as he joined them in a last ditch effort to reach Old Main. Juanita’s people tentatively moved from their hiding places to more offensive positions, taking the ground Cory and Clark left undefended. “Hustle…hustle,” Clark shouted, pivoting momentarily to answer a volley of bullets that had whistled past his ear. As he did, he glanced at the showdown taking place across The Quad. Rod was still upright and walking, forcing the assassin to retreat, dragging Allison with him.
I knew it was him, Clark thought, wishing he’d taken action when the hunch first gnawed at his gut. Firing another burst, Clark sped to join the others.
“Fifty feet…come on, push it…push it.” The words leapt from Cory’s mouth, as much for himself as his friends. Bullets were now filling the air all around them, their movements hampered only by the need to see Dude to safety. Godfrey clung to the stretcher’s forward handles, his back to their unconscious patient, while Remy trailed at the other end. Dr. Reynolds ‘zigged’ each time Godfrey ‘zagged’: a tandem effort that was paying off until Cory watched a trail of shells march past him to find Remy.
The first round to catch up to Reynolds shattered his right tibia, dropping him instantly. The second crushed the back of his skull; killing him before a final thought or phrase was made cognitive. The stretcher bounced and twisted from his hands, but Godfrey held firm, dragging the boy as far as he could without help. A short distance behind, Jeff stopped to lift Remy to safety but it was no use.
“Leave him,” Clark shouted, pulling at Jeff to carry on. “Grab the stretcher – Cory and I’ve got you covered.” With that said, Cory and Clark dropped to the ground, taking up prone firing positions. They ran clip after clip through their weapons, putting both Pete’s crew and the Harvesters back on their heels. The men fired until they were sure the others had made it and their shell belts were empty. Then, and only then, did they scramble to their feet and run like wild-men for the steps of Old Main. The windows on the east side suddenly erupted in a hail of gunfire, The Ward members redoubling their efforts to protect Rod and push their attackers back.
“Get that SOB, Rod,” Clark grumbled, taking a final, fleeting look to where Allison was held captive. Inside the doors Cory was frantically organizing The Normals’ escape. Jeff was running down one side of the Hallway and Holly the other, yelling for their friends to join them. Other Ward members knew what was happening, and as much as they wanted to leave, they remained at their posts and carried on the fight. Godfrey knelt at Dude’s side, checking the boy’s pulse and crying as he did.
“Whitcomb, you’re with The Normals,” Clark barked.
“What? No…I’ll stay…just give me a gun.”
“You’ll be of greater service if you can get away. Go on now…do as I’ve asked,” Clark said, leaving no room for negotiation by the tone of his voice.
“Who’ll care for Dude?” he asked, but Clark was off, charging up a stairwell that would eventually take him to the bell tower. He could do more good there than anywhere and perhaps Rod could use his help.
In response to Godfrey’s question, Jeff was suddenly there and replied, “You will. He’s coming with us.”
“Well, I’m not quite sure how that’s going to happen but I’m game. Lead the way.”
Seconds later, Cory and Christine led almost a dozen Normals down a darkened stairwell to a secretive door, which was seldom used. Jeff and Godfrey brought up the rear, transporting Dude between them. As the door creaked open, Cory struck a match and lit a lantern that was just on the other side. The flame flickered and grew in intensity until a long narrow tunnel was seen, extending into utter blackness. The troop passed by Cory, one-by-one, until they were all accounted for so he could bolt the door shut.
Jeff, along with many others, fought back waves of emotions and tears, as they ventured from one life to the next, leaving loved ones and escaping to the unknown. Dude’s mother lay dead on the battlefield, her final thought of her son. Others wept, their tears bathing rifle stocks, but they continued to fight. This was their Alamo, and they would battle to the end.
“Okay, not far now,” Jeff said, stopping long enough to have Cory light another strategically placed lantern. “We get to the bikes and…and…”
“And what?” Holly asked. “Where do we go? Where can we go?”
“We…ah…we head for Grant’s place. He’ll help and he’s got plenty of food and ammunition.”
“We’re thinkin’ alike, Boob,” Cory added. “We get out of this mess and head for Hyrum. Grant will surely be watching and know we’re coming.”
“Okay, everybody got that?” Jeff asked. “If anybody gets separated, make your way to Grant’s stronghold. We’ll rendezvous there and decide our next move.”
* * *
From the bell tower, Clark assessed their predicament, noting all those in the trench were dead and their fortifications penetrated. Juanita’s militia was making steady advances, however, with the Bradley out of commission, their reluctance was showing. The noise of Ward defenders below him brought some reassurance all was not lost, and perhaps The Normals would have a chance to get away. Still, the day had been grave and his attention was soon drawn to his friends, Rod and Allison, and their dire circumstances.
Yanking a scoped rifle from the hands of a sentry, who had given his life trying to protect Niel and Scotty, Clark zeroed in on the traitor. Too far…I’ll hit Allison. Rod, what are you going to do?
The commotion and roar had vanished – at least for Rod – who was so focused on Allison that everything else melted away. Even the screams and signals from the assassin, calling for everyone to leave Rod alone, evaded his collective consciousness – he was one man determined to send another to hell.
Rod closed the gap between them, allowing him to see Allison’s terror. The blade had mercilessly grazed her neck, opening slits from which streaks of blood oozed down her torso. Allison’s eyes begged for Rod’s help, she
ached to call out his name but the ever-present blade, scraping against her throat, sealed her lips.
“That’s far enough,” Egan screamed. “I’m glad you’ve survived to see the end of your days.”
“Let her go,” Rod demanded, his voice thick with emotion.
“And not have her for myself? I don’t think so.”
“Why, Egan? What did we do to you?”
“Nothing…really. I’m just fulfilling my destiny…you know… my calling,” he said, with a laugh.
“You’re crazy…you have to know I’m going to kill you. However this turns out…you’re dead,” Rod threatened. Lifting his rifle to his shoulder he took careful aim, causing Egan to duck behind Allison’s head.
“Look around, Rod. You’re the one tasting death today…not me. I want your final thought to be of your pretty, little wife and me. She’s mine now…”
The horrifying words resounded in Allison’s head and she could take no more. Wresting with every ounce of energy she had left, she thrashed and fought against Egan’s hold. The two tussled for several seconds before Rod fired a single round, nicking his wife’s cheek and shattering Egan’s clavicle. For an instant, he eased his grip but throttled her with renewed vengeance. Staring into Rod’s crystal blue eyes, Egan cocked his head, smirked, and dragged his blade forcefully across Allison’s neck. Her arteries exploded in a cascading torrent of oxygenated blood and she sagged against her own weight.
“Kill him,” Egan shouted, pointing his blade at Rod, who had rushed forward, forgetting his own safety.
As if a ballistic faucet had been turned on, the air was once again alive with deadly missiles, but it was one, fired from a considerable distance, which had the greatest impact. It was set in motion by Clark, delivered with absolute malice and intended to kill. The spinning, copper-jacketed slug struck the traitor above his heart and mushroomed against his shoulder blade. The blunt force rolled him backwards, yet he squirmed to get away. A second round from Clark narrowly missed but miraculously gave Rod time to reach Allison.
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