by Lopez, Rob
Rick worked to control his breathing. Whichever way they looked at it, it was going to be a long night.
*
“The way I see it,” said Boss, pacing up and down, “you either take that place, or you die.”
They’d built a fire at the back of Walmart, by the truck bay entrance. The crowd of raiders either sat or stood, the light of the flames flickering in their gaunt faces.
“They’ve got a ton of food in there. They’ve had a whole city to pick clean, and they don’t want to share it.”
Dee was horrified. She hadn’t mentioned a ton of food, but Boss knew how to manipulate the raiders. They’d been through so much already, and they were hardened. Dee didn’t recognize any of them anymore. Even the softest and most hesitant had changed. They’d had no choice. The weakest were already dead. The dark-eyed consensus of the group was that, in order to survive, they had to be ruthless and decisive. It was a zero-sum game. You either got to eat, or you didn’t, and there was only so much food out there.
“You’ve seen how big the place is. We can wait out the rest of the winter there. Come the spring, farms will be planting again, and we can head out to take what we can. Until then, you can rest. No more moving around.”
Even Dee, with next to no knowledge of farming, knew that was a lie. But the raiders were indeed sick of being constantly on the move, and Boss was tapping into their frequently voiced grumbles. Whatever existence they’d once had was a distant memory, and they were primed for attack. It was a simple formula that they’d proven to themselves over and over: the only way to survive was to take from others. It was a formula that had burned itself into their psyche with its hunger, so that no other solution seemed possible. Leave the petty scavenging to the brain-dead bums – they’d found enough of their bodies to know that was a loser’s game. And in spite of their weariness and nutritional deficiencies, they knew they weren’t losers. Nobody yet had successfully defied them.
“You’ve seen their defenses,” cut in Axel. “Ain’t nothing special. Barbed wire ain’t enough to keep us out. If there’s any of them left alive when we finish, we’re going to hang them with their own wire.”
“They had their warning,” said Boss. “I’m a man of my word. The message is loud and clear: they don’t want our mercy. So each of you think hard about that. They’re spitting in your face. They’re willing to let you get so hungry, you’d be ready to eat your own guts. Now, to my mind, there’s only one answer to that. The quicker you get in there and take that place, the quicker you secure your own future. Anything that gets in your way, you know what to do. They don’t care about you, so it’s foolish to care about them. Not just foolish, but irrational. So don’t hesitate.” He looked them all in the eye. “It’s you or them.”
40
Josh gripped his rifle tight as he walked the central corridor, his stomach in knots. His mom had sent him out to begin his rounds, and while he found it preferable to sitting uselessly in the OP, it wasn’t helping his nerves much. Moving through the black corridors was like walking through a bad dream. He hadn’t been able to sleep at all, and he was wound up tighter than a spring. In the boardroom he found Lizzy and Daniel asleep, but everyone else looked as awake and agitated as he was. Even Janice had fallen silent, as if resigning herself, with only the sound of her bubbly breathing filling the air.
Down in the foyer, Harvey sat within an enclosure of sandbags, shotgun trained on the main door and its flanking windows.
“Seen anything, yet?” Josh asked him.
“Nothing but the angels telling me I gotta be strong,” replied Harvey in his gravelly voice.
“I don’t believe in angels,” said Josh, his voice coming out higher than he wanted.
“You should, boy. They’re looking out for you.” Harvey turned. “You scared?”
Josh didn’t want to admit to any such thing, but he couldn’t help himself. “Yes,” he whispered.
“It’s better to believe something’s on your side, then.”
“Are you scared?” ventured Josh.
“I seen death,” said Harvey cryptically.
Josh waited for him to explain himself better, but nothing more was forthcoming.
“Okay,” said Josh meekly, walking back up the stairs.
Heading to the cafe, he looked out from the gallery. A three-quarter moon lit up the snowscape that was as still as a frieze. Josh stared into it, trying to imagine the army of souls that could be advancing over it, but even with the moonlight, his eyes refused to focus on any one thing, and the deep shadows could have hidden the gates of hell. Biting his lip, he went through into the kitchen, where April was crouched behind sandbags, watching the side door.
“We got any news yet?” she asked him, unable to hide the tremor in her voice.
“No.”
April breathed nervously. “Packy should have returned by now. He was meant to come straight back. Something’s happened to them, I swear.”
Josh swallowed. He didn’t want to hear this.
“We should go out and see if they’re okay,” said April.
Josh cleared his throat. “Dad said we had to wait here.”
“But what if …” began April before she caught herself. “Forget it, just …”
Josh didn’t wait for her to finish. He couldn’t bear to hear anymore. Taking to the stairs, he reached the top level. He was about to climb the ladder to the OP when he had to stop. His leg was shaking. Clinging to the ladder, he stifled a sob.
“Where’s my angel?” he whispered hoarsely.
Where’s my dad?
*
Rick woke suddenly as he was nudged. Scott’s silhouette sat poised next to him. The moon was low in the sky and the street was a chasm of shadow. Rick waited to see what had alerted Scott.
There was a clank of metal. “Quiet,” hissed a voice that carried clearly in the still air.
Rick caught some indistinct movement close to Block C, but he couldn’t see how many people were moving.
Rick shivered and began to tense his muscles for action, easing the stiffness out of his limbs.
The main doors to Block C were wide open, a legacy of the past looting, but something thudded solidly against the door frame.
“Carry that thing properly,” came the whisper again.
“It’s heavy,” complained a second voice.
Rick and Scott waited for the two to go inside, then waited some more for any sign of further activity on the street. When it seemed like everything was clear, they rose from their positions and crept across to the building.
In the total blackness of the foyer, the two listened, then began their ascent up the stairs. Treading carefully, they searched the building floor by floor, but they found no sign of the two men who had entered until they reached the fifth floor.
In an apartment that faced toward the clubhouse, they heard heavy footsteps on the ceiling above. Rick suppressed another cough, but the activity upstairs continued unabated. Leaving the apartment, the two crept slowly up the stairs. From the corridor they could hear what was for them the unmistakable clack of an ammunition belt being secured into a machine gun. Rick sidled up to an open doorway and peered cautiously inside.
One man was opening a window while the other set up the machine gun on the sill, aiming it toward the clubhouse.
Rick slowly drew his knife. A quick glance back showed Scott had done the same, the blade glinting in his hand. Rick took a deep breath, his heart pumping hard. Peering around the doorway, he saw the two men still had their backs to him. Uncertain that he could creep up on them unheard – the silence was total – he opted to rush into the room instead.
His boots pounded on the floor and his hanging rifle banged against his body armor. The two men turned at this sudden explosion of sound, but Rick and Scott, sprinting across the gap, were on them immediately. Rick gripped a man’s head, his hand clamped over the mouth, and as the man struggled to bring up his rifle, Rick stabbed him savagely in the ne
ck, slamming the blade through the wind pipe while pulling the man backwards, off balance. The man reached up with his hands, clutching at Rick’s blade hand, but Rick strained his muscles to hold the man tight as he jerked in his death throes. When the last gasp emerged from the man’s open throat, Rick let the limp body drop and checked for a pulse.
Scott’s victim already lay at his feet. As he picked up the fallen machine gun, he looked to Rick, who’d sagged suddenly against the window frame.
“You okay?” whispered Scott.
Rick nodded, catching his breath. The action had drained him and a wave of exhaustion washed over him. “Just give me a minute,” he said.
*
Packy sat quietly under the open window of Block A, his legs stretched out before him. He was meant to be back in the clubhouse, waiting for the signal, but with his ankle sprained, he’d been unable to make it back over the wall. No matter, he thought. Might as well take it easy right here.
After napping for a while, he woke up freezing. Thinking it’d be better to go somewhere warmer, he tested his ankle. Unfortunately, it had swollen and hurt even more now. Packy harrumphed and pulled out another cigarette, lighting it and then cupping the flame in the hope it might warm him a little.
Until he remembered his hands still smelled of gas.
Hastily ditching that idea, he leaned back and drew deeply on the cigarette.
The sound of nearby movement almost made him choke on the smoke.
Around the other side of Block A, he heard footsteps. Several of them. Holding his breath, he drew out his Mac-10, gingerly pulling on the cocking handle as quietly as he could. There was still an audible click. It didn’t matter. The next sounds he heard were voices from inside the building.
“Jesus, why does it smell of gas in here?”
“Quiet, dummy!”
“He’s right. Oh my God, I don’t think we should be here.”
Packy exhaled, then looked sadly at his cigarette. With a wistful sigh, he tossed it in through the window.
*
From their vantage point in Block C, Rick and Scott watched in surprise as fire spread and consumed the lower floors of Block A, flames leaping out of the windows as the conflagration erupted.
It wasn’t meant to happen yet. Rick wanted the raiders to begin their advance over the parking lot before lighting them up for the machine gun to mow them down. But from the light of the flames, it was clear the raiders hadn’t moved into position yet, and there were hardly any targets.
*
Jake stared slack-jawed at the enveloping fire from the next building that lit up his face.
“Is that meant to be happening?” he said.
Vivian peered wide eyed over the sandbags. “I don’t know, sugar.”
“Why doesn’t someone tell me what’s going on?”
“Maybe that’s the signal,” said Vivian tentatively.
“The hell it is. That guy made it clear. You wait for the sound of a shot.”
Vivian shrank back down. Everything seemed crazy to her, anyway. The only reason she came with Jake was because there was nowhere else to go and she didn’t want to be left alone. “You do what you think is best, honey.”
Jake hesitated, looking to the Molotov cocktails. “You think I should throw them now?”
“I don’t know,” murmured Vivian.
“Maybe I should wait.”
“You think someone’s going to come up and tell us when to do it?”
“How the hell should I know? Where the hell’s Packy when you need him?”
“I told you I didn’t like him, honey. He’s weird.”
“That don’t matter now.” Jake struggled to make a decision. “Fire’s up already, right? Makes sense to maybe start this thing.”
“Sure. Whatever.”
Jake picked up a bottle, weighing it in his hand. “Hand me a lighter, baby.”
Vivian dug into her coat and proffered the lighter. Jake took it, wavered over whether it was the right thing to do, then took a chance and lit the cloth protruding from the bottle neck. As the flame took hold, he hefted it in an overarm throw, looping it high into the air over the parking lot. The bottle came down, plunging through the snow and smashing on the concrete, sending a fountain of flaming gasoline in a wide circle.
*
Axel had initiated phase one of his plan. He was coming up the street with phase two: the rest of his guys. The toughest of his hombres, they would be the ones assaulting the clubhouse. He was surprised, therefore, to see the glow of a fire lighting the heavens before he’d even got there.
“What the hell’s going on?” he said.
As he watched, he witnessed the launching of a tiny light that exploded into a ball of fire on the clubhouse parking lot. From a distance, he could see the small figure atop the clubhouse throwing another bottle.
“Why isn’t anyone shooting that guy?” he asked. “Where are the others?”
41
It was clear to Lauren that something had gone wrong. The clubhouse was now more or less illuminated, but across the vast greens, darkness reigned. The barbed wire across the back of the clubhouse might inhibit an attack, but Lauren was the sole shooter covering the eastern approaches.
She needed targets.
Lighting the first Molotov, she threw it as hard as she could into the darkness.
The bottle flew through the air and landed on the soft snow without shattering. The lit cloth illuminated a foot-wide circle, like a candle.
Cursing, Lauren prepared another Molotov and looped it high in the air, hoping for a more forceful impact. The bottle dived deep into the snow and snuffed out the fuse.
“Crap,” hissed Lauren.
Taking a third bottle, she lit the cloth and crawled out to the edge of the flat roof. As hard as she could, she smashed it down on the concrete patio.
Skittering back to the sandbags, she picked up her rifle and scanned the semi-darkness with her scope. The fire wasn’t casting much light across the greens, and the dips between the slopes remained black, but through her scope she picked up some faint reflected light from two faces. Two figures were making their way across the greens, rifle barrels glinting.
She placed the crosshairs on what she imagined was the chest of one of the figures. Unfortunately, the crosshairs, being black, simply disappeared into the mushy silhouette, so she couldn’t see her aim point. She waited for them to get closer, but the figures, seeing the flames ahead, hesitated, ceasing their advance.
Lauren took a breath and aimed again. The face was too small a target, so she made her best estimate of where center mass was, and squeezed the trigger. The Remington boomed, the powerful .03-06 round kicking the butt savagely into her shoulder. When she looked through the scope again, the target was gone.
Searching desperately, she caught sight of movement. It looked like the guy she’d hit was crawling back toward the creek. Lauren aimed again, but the target was even more indistinct. Working the bolt to load another round, she held her breath and discharged another bullet. The figure kept moving. When he reached the creek, he disappeared.
*
To the west of the clubhouse, there was now plenty of light, but Scott had nothing to shoot at. In the distance, the hunting rifle cracked.
“Damn, if we just scare these guys off, we’re going to have to do this all over again,” he murmured.
Rick too was worried. Maybe it was time to simply take the machine gun back to the clubhouse and work out what had happened to the plan.
“Wait,” said Scott, swiveling the machine gun on its bipod. Figures were starting to appear in the street, keeping to the shadow cast by Block B in the parking lot.
“Let them bunch up,” whispered Rick.
“I ain’t stupid,” whispered Scott back.
A line of figures moved up to the side of Block B, disappearing into the shade. One peered out to look at the clubhouse. Some appeared to be moving up along the far side of the building, out of sight aroun
d the corner. With Scott and Rick’s night vision destroyed by the bright fires it was near impossible to see what was moving on the shadow side of the building.
Jake, getting enthusiastic with his firebombs, lobbed one high over Block B. The bottle smashed on the sloped roof, splashing fiery gasoline over the side of the building. Burning drops landed in the shadows, briefly illuminating a row of faces taking cover against the wall.
Scott seized his opportunity, pulling the trigger. The gun shuddered as it chattered out a long burst.
*
Axel was giving orders to some of his men when the hail of fire exploded around him. Before his very eyes, the select squad he was addressing – his best guys – were chopped up by the heavy caliber rounds, bodies jerking and bouncing off the wall.
Throwing himself down in the snow, Axel crawled frantically around the corner. Once in cover, he pressed himself against the wall, trying to understand why his own machine gun guys were shooting at him. All around him, men were screaming or shouting. Axel had never been under that kind of fire before, and he flinched with each ricochet. Raiders still on the street scattered in all directions. As soon as one ran into the light, the awful stream of bullets was directed his way, and he was filled full of lead, dying horribly.
Axel tried to think, wondering what the hell he was supposed to do. Everyone in cover with him was paralyzed with fear. Then the machine gun stopped.
Axel dared to look around the corner. Six bodies lay in the open, two still moaning and moving feebly. Another raider sprawled on the road was screaming about his legs. Axel struggled to comprehend what had happened. The machine gun stayed silent, and Axel suddenly found his voice.
“They’ve taken that building,” he yelled out to the raiders on the street. “Get around the back and deal with them.”
As raiders picked themselves up and slithered across the snow, Axel turned to the men with him behind the building. “Get firing at the clubhouse,” he said, “and kill that son of a bitch on the roof.”