Whorl

by James Tarr

  A quick glance to his left showed him the top of the ridge, and beyond that, the roof of the house. No more gunfire from inside the house, he didn’t know if that was good or bad. But he saw smoke. That was definitely not good. Ignoring the house was tough, but he pushed forward toward the man face down on the ground in front of him, sights of the Glock bobbing over his inert form, right arm both burning and tingling.

  Mickey dragged himself to a seated position behind the bed. He knew he was more exposed to incoming fire, sitting up, but he was starting to get weak. There was a lot of warm wetness on his chest and back. He’d been hit in the high chest, but the bullet had missed his lungs, he didn’t seem to have any problem breathing. That was a good thing, right?

  Shotgun laid across the top of the mattress, Mickey pulled the butt into his shoulder and kept it trained on the open doorway. How many rounds did he have left? At least a few, he knew that. His left hand was pressed against his chest. The pressure seemed to make the pain less. Mickey didn’t want to pass out from blood loss, and then get killed when he was unconscious. There was still at least one guy out there, he knew that. What was he waiting for? And what was burning? He realized he’d been smelling it for a while, but now he could see the smoke up near the ceiling.

  Smith turned his attention back to the valley as Bailey moved off behind him. He inched forward far enough to see the entire rear of the cabin as the shooting inside stopped. The bedroom window had been shattered by at least one bullet, but he couldn’t see any movement. “Charlie One is down,” Kyle said over the radio. “Subject is in the back bedroom. I’ve got him pinned down, don’t know if he’s still alive.”

  “Hold in place,” Smith told him. How the fuck had the FBI agent gotten hold of a gun? Didn’t matter now.

  “Roger that.”

  Smith was going to sit there, cover the rear of the cabin, and the window, when there was a ferocious volley of fire off to his left. Bailey, presumably, and whoever Smith had seen go over the ridge. It was over in seconds. “Bravo Two, what’s your status?” Smith called. No response. “Bravo Two, status?” Still nothing. “Shit.”

  After hesitating for maybe fifteen seconds, Smith moved into the bowl, angling left, heading toward Alpha’s last location. He’d moved about twenty steps when he realized that Bailey wouldn’t have had enough time to work all the way around the ridge to Alpha’s location before he’d heard the shooting. Shit. He pivoted left, rifle up, and slowly began climbing the ridge.

  Dave reached the body and crouched down with a lot of difficulty. His leg was stiffening up. The man was face down, and had no visible wounds. Muzzle of his Glock against the back of the man’s head, he checked him for a pulse. Nothing. And his rifle was trapped beneath him, Dave would have to flip him over before he could even start to figure out how to detach the sling, and he didn’t think his aching arm was up for that. Shit. He would feel better with a rifle in his hands, but was getting nervous standing still. How many other guys were out there, wandering around the property? Was this the last one? Two gunfights so far, two fucking bulletholes in his body. And what the hell was going on in the house? Shit.

  Dave stood up, his injured leg starting to shake, and caught movement out of the corner of his eye. He spun left, Glock coming up, and saw a man coming up the slope behind him.

  Both eyes open, the bright red dot of the Aimpoint superimposing itself over everything he saw, Smith inched up the slope. As he crested the ridge, he swung right. No movement, but he could see a pile of bodies in the distance—movement off to his left, he whipped around, there was someone standing up, turning toward him. Smith was pulling the trigger as the dot moved onto the man’s face, and in that briefest fraction of a second he recognized the target, Anderson. Then the rifle bucked in his hand, and nothing.

  Mickey was finding it hard to breathe. The smoke was a foot thick near the ceiling, but he didn’t think that was it. His body was cold, and no matter what he couldn’t seem to take in enough air. It was getting darker in the room, and he was getting weaker. The shotgun was still pointed at the open doorway, and…..and what? What had he been thinking of? His brain seemed to be working in slow motion. He wasn’t sleepy, not really, but his mind wasn’t working right. He couldn’t focus. Was that because of the smoke?

  He reached down with his left hand to prop himself higher and put his hand in a puddle. Where had that come from? He lifted his hand and his palm looked dark in the dim bedroom. He knew that wasn’t good, but he couldn’t quite remember why. He’d heard a lot of shooting from outside. Was that Dave? He hoped it was Dave. But who was he shooting?

  The long black barrel of the shotgun began wiggling and moving, reflecting odd colors. Confused, Mickey looked up, and saw pretty orange flames licking the ceiling. And yet the room seemed to be getting darker. Interesting.

  Dave came to, found he was staring up at the sky. His face was searing agony, pain throbbing like a bass drum in his skull. How long had he been out? He had no idea, didn’t even know if it was the same day. Lying there seemed like such a good idea, but he knew he had to move, had to get up. Preparing to roll onto his side, he clenched his teeth, and his head exploded in white stars. Someone had stabbed a burning knife into the side of his head. He screamed weakly. He’d been shot in the face, there was something wrong with his jaw.

  Panting harshly, he forced himself over onto his left side, letting his forehead rest on the cool dirt. He could feel sticky blood on his neck, and in his new position he felt it running up his head, dripping off his ear. If blood was running, it meant his heart was still beating. Good news. Sort of.

  “Not dead yet,” he whispered, lips barely moving.

  Right arm wasn’t working quite right. He pushed himself into a sitting position with his left hand. Where was he? What was going on? Body facedown in the dirt near him, that was the guy whose vitals he’d been checking when the other asshole showed up with a rifle. Fuck—he’d been fast, fast as Dave.

  Dave blinked and looked down at his hands. No gun. Where was his Glock? He looked around, saw it in the dirt nearby. Half buried. Picked it up with his left hand, shook it to get the sand out of the cracks. Right arm wasn’t working well anymore, going to have to hold the gun left-handed. Shooting weak-handed, they called it in competition. Strong-hand and weak-hand shooting, should have practiced that more, he thought absently. What did the FBI call it? Something different. Oh, yeah, ‘primary and support hand’ shooting, because ‘FBI agents don’t have weak hands.’ Who’d told him that, Al Safie? Well, with his right arm hurting like hell and tingling as if it was asleep, it wouldn’t be supporting shit. Although he doubted his application with the FBI was going anywhere. He laughed, then sobbed.

  Struggling to his feet, Glock held out in front of him, Dave limped up the ridge and looked over. There he was, halfway down the slope, on his back.

  Breath ragged, Dave stumbled down a few steps and then fell to his knees beside the man. His closest eye was open, staring at the sky. Dave’s bullet had hit him in his other eye, and there was a big exit wound in the back of his skull. Gray hair…he was old. That was weird. What was an old guy doing out here? Leaning over the body, Dave saw blood begin dripping from the end of his nose. How much was he bleeding? He felt a little light-headed, how many times had he been shot? He couldn’t remember.

  Dave sat back against the slope, exhausted. After a while he sighed, looked at the body, looked past it, raised his eyes all the way to the house. Oh yeah, it was on fire, he’d forgotten. The smoke was everywhere, coming out of every window and from under the eaves, and flames two feet tall were shooting out of the center of the roof.

  Kyle stayed in place for as long as he could, until the flames were rolling halfway across the ceiling, but then it just became too hot. He had to retreat to the alcove by the front door. Still no movement, no sound from the back bedroom, which was filled with smoke. Hell, the whole place was filled with smoke. He was coughing, finding it hard to breathe, to see.


  Finally, Kyle opened the front door and backed out of the cabin, keeping the back doorway covered with his rifle. There was no way the guy back there could still be conscious, there was too much smoke, and even on the concrete porch the heat was so bad it felt like his face was cracking. The flames had broken through the roof and were sending tongues and black smoke upward. His eyes followed the twisting pillar up into the sky. Shit, the neighbors were sure to see that. Fire department was probably already on the way. House roaring and crackling like a bonfire on the beach.

  “This is Charlie Two, sitrep, over,” he said into his mike. He coughed, and had to back away from the house, past the flag pole. He got no response. “Alpha, Bravo teams? Anybody out there?” He looked away from the house, left and right, but there was nobody close to him, nothing moving. Then a faint crunch, different from the rush and pop of the cabin flames, made him turn around. A police cruiser was pulling to an abrupt stop at the top of the driveway.

  Dave heard more shooting, looked up, and past the edge of the house saw a big man with a rifle firing upward, at a cop car whose nose was just visible at the top of the driveway. When did the cops show up?

  Tiredly, Dave looked back down at the dead man before him. His rifle was lying across his waist, connected to his body by a sling. Single point sling. Well hell, he knew how to take those off…..buckle, buckle, who’s got the buckle? Shit, there it was. Set his Glock on the dead man’s chest. He reached forward and with a simple squeeze of the black plastic buckle the rifle popped free. Sat on the slope. Picking the rifle up with his left hand, Dave put his feet in front of him and rested his left arm on his knee.

  Why am I so tired? he thought. It’s still early in the morning.

  Buttstock back against his right shoulder, he reached his right hand up to the pistol grip. This was easier than holding the Glock in a two-handed hold, the rifle was wedged between his left hand and right shoulder. All he had to do with his right hand was work the trigger. It was very comfortable, sitting in the sand, sun on his neck.

  The big man was still down there, standing next to the Cherokee, once more looking back at the front of the house after firing half a dozen shots at the cop car. What was he, seventy-five, eighty yards away? And just standing there, looking around a little bit. I can’t sing, and I can’t dance, but I can shoot……

  Dave lowered his head and peered through the familiar Aimpoint. The coated lenses in the tube tinted the world slightly, but that helped the glowing red dot stand out. No magnification, but he didn’t need it. Wow, the dude was big, and his tactical vest made him look even bulkier. Were these guys wearing armor? Probably.

  Dave settled the dot on the top of the man’s ear, took a breath, held it, began squeezing the trigger. And squeezing. Jesus, was this a shitty trigger, like dragging an anchor through gravel. Had he forgotten to take the safety off? The trigger on his competition rifle—the strange rifle barked in his hand, jumped a little, and when it settled back down he saw through the Aimpoint the big man was down on his knees and one hand, the other holding his neck, scrambling behind the Cherokee.

  Shit, he’d missed. Dave heard return fire, bullets hitting the dirt around him, but he was too tired to be scared, or even flinch. He fired over and under and around the Cherokee, blowing out windows and tires, making the man keep his head down. This sort of reminded him of something….what? Oh, yeah, the last gunfight, when he’d been the one ducking and diving around his Mustang. Having a flashback of a gunfight in the middle of a gunfight….who had told him they’d done that? John, his boss John. At the time, Dave thought it had sounded weird. Crazy.

  More return fire, and a bullet thudded into the ground between his feet. Dave hammered the hood of the Cherokee, flying brass rifle cases glinting in the early morning sun, and the big man dove to the side, then crabwalked backward behind the mini-van. Dave blew out the van’s headlight, barely missing the man. Was he trying to escape?

  Not too far behind the mini-van the driveway angled upward and out of sight past the cop car. There was something about the driveway, he couldn’t quite remember….Dave saw movement and blew out two of the mini-van’s windows, but didn’t think he hit anything. The guy was moving around to the rear of the van, closer to the slope of the driveway. Dave’s eyes followed the lines of the van, and past it and not too far behind there was the bottom of the driveway slope and a big white rock. Almost a mini boulder, at the base of the ridge. Shit, there it was! He’d put the biggest one right there, to surprise unwanted visitors. Ten, fifteen pounds of it? Something like that.

  The man popped out from behind the rear of the van and fired several times. Something tugged at his pantleg, and a bullet thudded into the hill behind him. Taking a breath, Dave steadied himself and fired at the white blob. Nothing. He fired again—

  He saw the explosion before he heard or felt it. Saw the pressure wave speeding across the valley toward him, a distortion in the air, what windows were left in both vehicles blowing out, the van actually skidding several feet sideways into the Cherokee and rocking. Then the blast hit him and he found himself back against the slope, rifle still in his hands, breath knocked from his chest, head ringing. He was staring up at the sky, at grainy debris flying through the air, blinking in surprise. His legs hurt where they’d been peppered with rocks or something. Boom Goes the Dynamite.

  Struggling back to a seated position, Dave let his tingling hand fall away from the trigger. The air was fuzzy with dust and smoke. He hoped that was the last guy, because he was just about out of fight. Could he just sit there on the slope a while, and rest? He was feeling a little lightheaded. It seemed really cloudy out. His eyes drifted around, and he saw that almost the entire roof of the house was in flames. The old dry wood of the house was perfect fuel for the fire. Thick smoke was spiraling into the air, puffing out every window and crack.

  There was a very faint breeze, blowing in from the road. He saw the flag at the top of the pole, a few feet above the roof, teasing the flames, dodging here and there, waving through them it without being touched, until, finally, it caught.

  Even on fire the flag fought, giving off black and acrid smoke, but the flames finally overwhelmed it. Dave watched the flag consumed by the flames; saw the fresh white paint on the flagpole start to change color from the heat.

  He watched the house burn for a while, then heaved himself to his feet. That was a long way over there. Why did it have to be so far? Dave trudged down the short slope, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other as he walked across the hard-packed dirt and sand of the valley floor. Had to stop at the bottom of the slope, then again a little way later. His one pantleg was soaked in blood below the knee.

  Halfway there he felt the heat of the fire on his skin. Closer and he saw the Turnerite had blown a crater three feet wide at the bottom of the driveway, and the big man looked like a pile of raw hamburger behind the mini-van’s flat rear tire.

  The flagpole was six feet from the front of the house, and before he ever reached it the heat became so intense it was like pushing against a physical barrier. Flames were roaring above his head, pushed by the wind to lick the flagpole. The white paint bubbled, turned black, caught fire. The front of the house was being engulfed by the flames now. He had to look down, the heat was so intense it was drying out his eyes.

  Reaching the edge of the square concrete base, he dropped to his knees next to his father’s initials. The rifle fell from his hands, and he turned them to stare at his fingertips through the air shimmering with heat. So much trouble. So much death for things he could hardly see, even squinting. It hardly seemed fair.

  He grabbed the flagpole with both hands, and screamed.

  “Man, this really is the middle of nowhere,” Ringo said, holding onto the steering wheel as the rental car bounced over the uneven gravel road

  “Yeah, isn’t it great?” Aaron replied with a wide smile. “About a mile up, we’re going to make a turn.”

  Ringo looked around at the brown lan
dscape dotted with green, then did a doubletake. “Which direction?”

  “What?”

  “Which way are we going to turn?”

  “Left, why?”

  “Shit.” Ringo floored the car even as he pointed out the window at the towering column of black smoke in the distance.

  “Goddammit! Goddammit!” Aaron swore. He held on as the cop pushed the car hard, rocks clattering hard against the undercarriage. “Bet you wish your fucking gun was loaded now,” he said through gritted teeth. Ringo didn’t reply, but that was exactly what he was thinking.

  Aaron then let go with one hand to point. “There, there’s his driveway, turn there.”

  Ringo slammed on the brakes and took the corner in a bouncing power slide. As he straightened it out, they both looked up the driveway. There was something at the end of it, a car….Ringo slammed on the brakes halfway down the curving drive as the car revealed itself to be a Sheriff’s cruiser, driver’s door open, body on the ground next to it. Past the vehicle, out of sight, something was burning furiously, something big, the column of brown and black smoke at least ten feet across and hundreds of feet tall. “Fuck!” The trailing cloud of dust enveloped and then passed their rental car, and then Abruzzo was out of the car, crouching down, gun up.

  “Now might be a good fucking time to get your gun out and load it.”

  “Yeah yeah yeah,” Ringo said, bailing out of the car and then opening the rear door. He’d gone into hairy situations before, had to pull his gun on a lot of people, almost shot several of them, but he’d never had to load his damn gun while worrying if he was going to get shot.

  Ringo had just gotten his gun loaded, a round chambered, when he jerked back as if shot. His head snapped around and he stared up the driveway. “What the hell was that?” It had been hideous, perhaps the tortured scream of a dying animal.