by James Ryke
With his other hand, he cued his other radio. “Open fire!”
THIRTY-NINE
Day 101
By ten o’clock, the Red Sleeves had surrounded Costco. On the north and west side of the building, the attackers hid among the trees, just out of visual of the Snipers. On the south and east sides, where the forest line disappeared, the attackers connected several eighteen-wheelers together to make a half-moon wall of steel. Inside each trailer were dozens of shooting ports that enabled the attackers to return fire without exposing themselves. The walls of the trucks were reinforced with sandbags and sheets of steel, making them bulletproof. The construction of this new wall was slow and tedious, and the attackers lost hundreds of men and women to sniper fire during its construction, but when it was complete, it looked impenetrable. The Red Sleeves hiding in the trees also seemed to be building something, but neither the drones from above nor the defenders from within the building could see it.
The second attack came two hours later, right when the sun was at its highest peak. The Executor sent several teams forward from all sides, their advance protected by various vehicles with thick steel plates welded to them. Each group consisted of a firing crew that provided cover and a work crew that precariously ran out into the open to attach chains around the vehicle barriers. Once the chains were connected, they then ran back to a larger vehicle that uprooted them from the earth.
It was messy business, and soon, bodies sprinkled the ground around the vehicle barriers. The blood spread and collected together until it slowly began to drain into the sewer, like some sort of vibrant piece of surreal art. Despite the mounting casualties, the Red Sleeves pushed on, pulling out the first and second row of concrete slabs. Once they reached the range of the pigeons, however, the progress slowed to a crawl. The pigeons were not strong enough to blast through the reinforced vehicles, but the shrapnel from the explosions ripped the work crews to shreds.
“We’ve got another crew approaching in Sierra 20,” Isaac yelled to the men around him. He was stationed at one of the sniper roosts inside the building along the South Wall. Clint Moreno was on his left, Cindy Slack was on his right.
“Move and shoot,” Isaac reminded them. “Move and shoot.”
“These pendejos can barely aim straight,” Clint replied. “If I
keep changing positions, I’m just wasting—”
Isaac looked over to see what had cut Clint’s words off. The man was lying on the ground, his eyes wide open. Blood sprayed across the man’s face, his mouth opened and closed involuntarily. His body had been torn almost in half by something that had punched straight through the wall.
Isaac ran to Clint’s side, a wave of shock rippled through every muscle in his body. “What… happened?” He pulled Moreno close, resting the man against his leg.
Isaac stumbled for his radio, his hands slippery with blood. “Man down—man down. I need a medic to Sierra 5. I repeat, medic to Sierra 5.”
Suddenly Cindy fell to the floor, a bloody stump now where the woman’s leg had been. She screamed, her voice so loud that Isaac was forced to consider nothing else.
“Medic to Sierra 5—I’ve got another one down!” Isaac said through his radio. He turned his attention back to Clint, but his body was now lifeless, his complexion quickly changing as the blood drained out. Isaac froze, pure terror pounding in his heart. For an instant, he gave in to the fear, and it completely paralyzed him. The noise from the firefight seemed to grow steadily louder as his fear grew stronger. He could hear people screaming in pain. He could feel every explosion go off as it shook the earth. His head began to spin.
“Come on, Isaac,” he said to himself. “Now is not the time. You’ve got to keep moving.”
“Medic to Echo 5,” a voice said over the radio.
“What’s hitting us?” Rick asked through the radio.
Isaac caught himself hyperventilating. He took a deep breath before he answered. “Something is punching through the walls. It’s not an explosion or anything—it’s more like a bullet, how copy?”
Rick’s voice came through the radio, but the thundering noise
of bullets punching through the wall overpowered it.
Isaac pushed the earpiece hard against his ear and spoke
again. “Last unit, repeat transmission. Repeat last transmission.”
“It’s most likely a .50 caliber Barrett,” Rick said, his voice louder than before. “Snipers—be sure to shoot and move; shoot and move! Drones 1 and 6—see if you can’t get eyes on the shooter so we can get a target. There might be multiple .50 cals out there.”
Isaac ran to Cindy’s side, her face already white as snow. “Hang in there.” He pulled his belt free from his pants and cinched it around the stump. He then found a nearby metal rod, slipped it through the belt, and twisted it sharply. Cindy yelled even louder as the belt tightened. She clawed at the leather strap, as if it was the cause for the pain. Her eyes were wide and her motions were frantic.
Isaac pinned her hands down. “Focus, Cindy. You’ve been hit in the leg, but you’re going to be all right. Focus on my voice. Look at me. Look at me! You’re going to be fine.” These words started to sink in, and focus drifted back into Cindy’s eyes.
She grabbed Isaac’s hand and squeezed it tight. “What…what…”
Isaac shook his head. “Don’t speak.”
The medics arrived. There were two of them, both riding mountain bikes. One of the bikes had a child carrier trailer that was being used as a litter. Already, the once blue fabric was purple with blood. Isaac recognized one of the medics—it was Nicolette Brown.
“We’ve got her,” she said. “Get back to the wall; we’ll take her in—”
And in the next moment, Nicolette’s head disappeared in a gush of blood and fluids. Isaac stood still, his body frozen. He broke momentarily from his trance just long enough so he could step forward and catch Nicollet’s body before it hit the ground.
“Get down,” cried the other medic. Isaac felt himself pulled to the ground as more bullets punched through the wall. The projectiles whistled as they passed overhead.
Another voice called over the radio, “Medic to Echo 4. Medic to Echo 4.”
“You all right?” the Medic asked.
Isaac shook himself. “I’m fine, but get Cindy out of here. Get her out of here before she bleeds out.” He turned away from Nicolette and scooped up his rifle. Adrenaline hit his bloodstream, pulling him from the shock of the scene. Once in position, he cued his radio. “Rick, we’re getting hit hard. We’re taking heavy casualties on the south side.”
Rick responded. “All defenders on the south side—don’t fire unless you’ve got a clear shot of one of those shooters. I’m en route. Spotter drones—peel off from your perimeter runs and find me those shooters.”
“I just spotted one about half a mile south on top of a furniture store,” replied one of the drone operators.
“There are two more in the area,” another drone operator added.
“Drones 4 and 5—how copy last traffic? Can you hit them with napalm?” Rick yelled.
“This is drone 4. I’m inbound.”
“I’ve got to land and load,” said another Drone Operator. “I’ll be up in five.”
Isaac proned out in front of a sniper roost. His hands were shaking uncontrollably and his breath was short and erratic. He tried to pull his gun to his shoulder, but his fingers were trembling so much he could barely hold onto the stock. He closed his eyes and let out a long breath. “Come on, Isaac. You can do this.” He rubbed the sweat from his eyes. “Aim small, miss small.” His eyes snapped open, and he pulled the gun tight against his shoulder. He scanned the distant buildings one by one, looking for any sign of someone with a .50 caliber…bear gun or something.
As the minutes passed by, Isaac’s frustration began to peak. For the first time in twenty years, he swore. He was just about to restart his scan of the buildings when the
sudden muzzle flash of a gun drew his attention. There they are. He squinted. Despite having a scope on his rifle, the distance looked impossibly far.
Isaac swore again. The only thing visible is the man’s head—and that looks like the size of a pin from here. Lord, forgive me for swearing—both times—but, please, I need you. Help me. He strained the corner of his mind, trying to flush out memories of Rick’s tactical sniper training. His brother had spent at least a week teaching everyone how to make a long-distance shot, but right now, it all seemed like a blur. He knew that he needed to aim higher to compensate for the bullet being pulled to the earth. But how high? And what if there’s wind—how do I compensate for that? I can’t think like that; I can only focus on one thing.
He aimed higher than the man by a good margin, so high in fact that the man’s head disappeared from the scope. He held his breath and pulled the trigger. The gun pushed off his shoulder as the bullet was sent speeding forward. Isaac regained visual of the sniper only to find that he was still returning fire. He was about to reset and shoot again when the head of the sniper ruptured, the gun he was shooting tipped backwards and disappeared from sight.
“I hit him,” Isaac whispered. “I can’t believe I—”
Just a few inches above his head, the wall exploded into shards of rock and debris.
“Move and shoot,” Isaac scolded himself. He rolled to the side as another bullet exploded through the wall that he was just hiding behind. More shots followed, the sniper obviously not satisfied with the damage he inflicted. Isaac dropped down some steps and positioned himself at another sniper roost. He proned out again and scanned the area—this time, he found the shooter much quicker. This sniper was much more aggressive with the trigger. It seemed like every other second, a blast of fire erupted from the muzzle of his large rifle.
Isaac set up just like before. He aimed higher, held his breath, and fired. He waited. The seconds now felt like minutes as they passed. Finally, the bullet struck, hitting the wall just in front of the shooter’s position.
The Pastor swore as he reset for another shot. Before he could line up his sights, however, the wall above Isaac exploded into dust and debris. Isaac returned fire, but again the bullet hit just below the target. Then the shooter fired and a few moments later the wall above Isaac was hit again, this time the shot was much closer.
Isaac briefly contemplated moving positions but then shook it off. “It’s either him or me.” He aimed high, held his breath, and fired. The sniper and Isaac pulled their triggers almost at the same moment. The bullets whipped past each other as they continued onto their intended targets. One bullet hit its mark; the other missed by inches.
Isaac stood up and moved, checking his body for injury as he went. He was clean.
A napalm bomb erupted on one of the distant buildings.
“This is Drone 4—we’ve hit one of the assailants. We’ve got a confirmed kill. I repeat, confirmed kill.”
Another fireball appeared on a different building.
“This is Drone 3—we’ve taken out another shooter as well.”
“Spotter Drone 1,” Rick said, “Circle back to base and start running the perimeter. Spotter Drone 6—continue to circle the buildings to see if there are any more active shooters. All other Drones—I want you to napalm the hell out of those buildings; we have to be sure those guns are destroyed.”
A chorus of “affirmatives” and “ten fours” echoed over the radio in response.
“They’re pulling back,” someone said. “They’re pulling back from Sierra.”
“Same traffic in Whiskey and Green,” added another voice.
“Keep up the pressure,” Rick ordered, “Don’t give those bastards even a second to breathe.”
FORTY
Day 101
The Red Sleeves did not attack for the rest of the day. It gave the Congregation time to move their dead to the far side of the building, near the loading dock. Until now, the doctors had been successful in stabilizing most of the wounded, but after the last attack, they were overwhelmed. They labeled patients with various colored cards that they attached to their toes. The most time and resources were spent on green tags, which were those injured individuals whose recovery was likely; red tags had more severe wounds and were treated after green tags; the black tags were the most pitiful of all, and were left to wallow in agonizing pain before they died. The system enabled the doctors and nurses to allocate the most resources to those who had the best chance of recovery.
Rick entered the hospital, his presence barely noticed by frantic doctors and nurses. The noise was jarring. The cutting of flesh, the screams of pain, the crying of family and friends. Rick also noticed the abundant smell of marijuana in the air. They did not have much of a supply of strong pain killers, besides high doses of over the counter Ibuprofen and Advil, but they had somehow procured a lot of marijuana.
The weary man counted the wounded as he walked. He did not look at their faces—he did not want to see if he recognized them. He just needed the number of casualties, but as he walked around, he kept losing count. He locked eyes with an old man with grey hair—a black tag tied onto one of his toes.
Rick approached the man and patted him on the shoulder. “Hang in there.”
The old man only stared up in response, his eyes bloodshot and sunken. Then he winked—or at least, that’s what it looked like to Rick. He recognized the man as one of the original Congregation members. They had only shared a few words in the past—mostly during tactical training. He did not even know the man’s name. The man winked again—this time, Rick was sure the gesture was intentional.
Rick smiled and patted the man on the shoulder again. “Hang in there.” He then continued to the next bed; it was a young girl that was missing an arm. She warmed up as he approached, her face forming into a natural smile. The expression disappeared a moment later as a sudden pain rippled through her body. He went from bed to bed, saying little but often nodding his head in encouragement. He tried to count the wounded three times, but all three times, the final number eluded him. Not a single person in the hospital looked at him with blame or bitterness in their eyes, as he assumed some might. On the contrary, everyone’s eyes lit up as he approached, most of them sticking their hands out so he could hold them. This, for some reason, was harder for him to emotionally digest than if they just hated him. Even the family members of the wounded welcomed him with warm smiles and hugs. Sometimes they leaned into him and cried; other times, they pulled him into a warm embrace. When Rick felt his eyes begin to tear up, he knew it was time to leave.
As he stepped outside the hospital, he almost collided with his brother. The two exchanged odd looks with each other.
Rick quickly rubbed his eyes. “How are you holding up?”
“I’m doing all right,” Isaac said in a low whisper. “What about you?”
“I don’t know,” Rick said. “It’s been a long day. Are you going in to see the wounded?”
“I figure that of all the times they might need their Pastor, right now would be it.”
Rick placed his right hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Don’t burn yourself out—we don’t know how long this is going to go on.”
Isaac smiled, some of his usual warmth returning to his face. “I won’t. By the way, Kate is looking for you. We just ran into each near the cafeteria. She said she was going to check the sleeping quarters next.”
“Did she say what she needed?”
Isaac shook his head. “No, I don’t have any idea what she
wanted. I told her she could use the radio, but she said it wasn’t that important.”
Rick nodded and walked off—his M4 suddenly felt heavy.
The hospital was just below the dormitories in the Keep, and so it was not long before Rick found his way to his make-shift bed. The dormitory consisted of rows of makeshift bunk beds, each one divided up by mismatched curtains. Rick had the bottom bunk, which sat sq
uarely on the floor. The other two bunks above him were occupied by Doctor Brooksby and Blake Torgerson, both of whom were absent. Rick sighed with relief. Even though it was his idea to have everyone sleep in the Keep, he probably hated the arrangement the most. Brooksby talked incessantly in his sleep, and Blake Torgerson could clear a room with his flatulence. He did not have much of his break left before he would be back on shift, and he intended to dedicate the rest of his time to sleep.
“For someone that talks as much as you do on the radio,” Kate said, a head appearing through a gap in the curtains, “you’re sure a hard person to locate.”
Rick turned and faced her, his face devoid of any readable expression.
“Either I’m not as funny as I once was,” Kate said, “or you don’t have much of a sense of humor.” Her smile was warm and genuine, and for the first time, Rick caught a glimpse of the girl that everyone admired.
Rick let out a light laugh. “I think a little bit of both.”
She laughed in turn. The reaction seemed easy—not forced. Her eyes locked on his for a moment before they quickly skipped away. Rick had noticed her beauty before but now, he found it difficult to look away.
Rick shook his head, focusing his thoughts. “So, Isaac said you wanted to talk to me.”
“You’re not on watch right now,” Kate said, “but you’re still walking around as if you are. Everywhere I went looking for you, they said you just left. You need to slow down—otherwise, you’re no good to anyone.”