Pops nodded. “How are you fixed for armament for those people?”
Marcus took over. “Not bad but not great. For our twenty-nine or so fighters, we have eight M4s, two M1 carbines, six .22 rifles and five scoped, bolt action hunting rifles. Almost all of our adults have handguns, and we tell ‘em to wear them everywhere they go.”
The Major shook his head. “That’s not enough, guys. Not nearly enough.” He put his hands on his hips and sighed. “We don’t have ammunition for the M1 carbines, and I doubt we’ll find any. That’s not a common load. Can you get me a list of the calibers you need for the hunting rifles? Believe it or not, those weapons could be crucial to your survival. If your shooters are proficient, they can hold any attackers to long distances. That could be a big advantage if your adversaries don’t have any snipers of their own.” He turned to Pops. “If they are adequately armed and supplied, they could defend themselves quite well now, I think. The added numbers help a lot. Do we have enough weapons in storage to properly equip them?”
Pops squinted a bit as he did a mental calculation of our stored equipment. He shook his head. “If we absolutely had to, we could, Major. But I’m thinking we have other methods we can exploit to get the job done.”
“Local gun and sporting goods stores?”
“Exactly. We passed a gun shop on our way in. Surprisingly it was undamaged. The security bars were still in place. It made me wonder why those gang bangers hadn’t burgled it yet.”
George rocked back on his heels. “You mean the little gun shop on Tollhouse Road?” When Pops nodded, he continued. “Well, we haven’t tried it yet because the people who owned it knew what they were doing as far as security. There are bars on every door and window. Thick bars! The roof is thick wood covered by a layer of sheet metal.” He shrugged. “Don’t get me wrong. We could get in. The problem is the noise we would make. The Ragers usually stay hidden during daylight, but when they hear noise, they come flooding out of their hideaways. We haven’t had the firepower to risk it.”
He finished his last sentence with a glance at the big guns projecting out of our SUVs.
The major looked at Pops with his eyebrows raised.
“Yeah, okay. We’ll try it.” He turned to Marcus. “How about that gang? Why do you suppose they haven’t broken into that store and the other ones? Don’t they know about them?”
“Yeah, sure they know about them. Problem is, they don’t need any more guns or ammunition. They broke into the National Guard Armory and took it over. Same place I used to drill. It makes me sick to think of them in there.”
“That presents us with a problem,” the Major said with a concerned expression. “Those armories are stocked with weapons, ammunition, vehicles. If those Bozos know how to operate them that could put all of us in serious danger.” He glanced at Pops. “No place, no matter how hardened, is capable of standing up to an artillery barrage.”
I felt a shiver in my backbone. The thought of dangerously armed gang members running around and victimizing everyone was more threatening to me than all of the infected.
Pops came to a decision. He looked at Marcus and George. “Gather up six of your people who have M4s. Leave the rest of them here to keep watch. We’re going to loot as many stores as we can before those idiots in the gang think of it.”
✽✽✽
Arturo was lying on his cot reading a paperback about a girl who had an interesting tattoo. Chantal, his oldest daughter, was four years old, and she was asleep next to him on the cot, her head resting on his chest.
The sound of automatic gunfire reached him from far away. He carefully eased his bulk out of the cot to avoid waking the girl. He looked down at her and couldn’t resist wiping back a stray lock of brown hair from her face. He then grabbed his rifle, strapped on his handgun and headed for the main gate.
As he approached the gate, he saw Lobo already there, standing with his hands on his hips. The little man noticed his lieutenant and waved him over even though Arturo was already headed in his direction. He quickened his pace.
“You hear that?” Lobo was pointing off to the north side of Clovis.
Yeah Jefe, that’s why I came out. It’s probably some group of survivors fighting off Ragers.”
Lobo shook his head. “Those are fully automatic weapons, Turo. Who has that kind of firepower nowadays?”
“Almost everyone, Boss. AR 15s are plentiful out there, and it’s easy to convert them to full auto if you know how.”
He shook his head and shot an accusing glare at his Segundo. “That sounds like a John Wayne war movie going on. And what is that other sound? Nah, something weird is happening. Gather the troops.”
✽✽✽
We passed up the smaller gun shop in favor of a huge one located in a shopping center near Herndon and Clovis Avenues. The store was a nationwide chain and was known to carry firearms and related equipment. Pops wheeled us around in the almost-empty parking lot and backed up to the thick glass front doors. George jumped out of the Suburban carrying a length of chain. He ran over to the door and looped the links around the metal handles. He then wrapped the other end around the trailer hitch ball on the Bronco and secured it with the attached hook.
George banged on the quarter panel, and Pops gunned it. The two main front doors popped out like they were made from cardboard and slid across the parking lot like sleds on a snowfall.
Then the alarm started shrieking. It wasn’t an extra-loud bell, like on most house and business alarms. This siren was a high pitched shriek that made one need to cover their ears with both hands.
“I thought the electricity was out,” I shouted over the din.
“I think it is. This system must be on some type of battery backup,” Pops shouted back.
Buck and the Major came running up from the Suburban followed by our women and all of the people brought by Marcus and George. The group never even paused; they plunged into the store at full speed.
Marcus was on his way inside when Pops spotted him and waved him over. He ran up to us with his hands over his ears. “Where do you need me?”
Pops shouted so loudly that I feared he would abrade his throat. “Get those other two vehicles backed up to the doors, then grab the M-240 in the Suburban and set it up covering the west side.”
The young ex-National Guardsman nodded without taking his hands down and ran over to the trucks.
“Virgil? Virgil!”
I could barely hear Pops over the alarm, but I saw his mouth moving, so I stepped closer. He put his lips to my ear. “You take the other machine gun and set up over by the cellular phone store. Cover the east side. This kind of noise is going to bring out a lot of infected. Pay special attention to the road out front and that separation between the stores.” He pointed to where one big store ended and was bordered by a small access road that allowed traffic to enter the main parking area from the rear of the stores.
I signaled my understanding, grabbed the M-240 and ran across the narrow street and put the tripod on top of a metal trash receptacle. The weapon snapped into place on top of it, and I opened the chamber to ensure it was correctly chambered. Satisfied, I slammed it shut and latched it. I ran back to the Bronco and grabbed two more magazines, stopped to consider it, then grabbed two more. Each one held a hundred rounds of .308 high-caliber ammunition.
When I got back to my weapon, I could see Marcus on the west side of the sporting goods store. He waved, and I waved back. Having been in the National Guard, Marcus had experience in operating the M-240 machinegun. Seeing him there covering our other flank was comforting. The big stores protected the north side with only the narrow road giving access to our position from behind us. That would be my responsibility. To the south of us was Herndon Avenue, a four-lane street that ran past the shopping center and was backed up by a line of houses. I grasped the metal pistol grip on my weapon and tried to keep everything in my vision.
People were dashing out of the store now carrying armloads of rifles,
handguns, and ammunition. They would run out to the curb, toss their loads inside one of the trucks and run back inside. A few came clattering outside with shopping carts filled to the top with ammo crates and related equipment.
And through it, all that damned siren continued to shriek.
I had already patted my pockets three times, hoping desperately but unsuccessfully to find that I had left a pair of rubber earplugs in my jeans from the last time we had shooting practice. I looked back at the Bronco yearningly. I knew we had a bag of the orange earplugs stashed in the console. I considered risking a dash back over to it, but I just couldn’t let myself take the chance. I looked for Marcus again and saw him talking (shouting) to Pops. They concluded their interaction and Pops came running back over to me. The sight of the little orange rubber pellets in his hand made my heart leap.
Pops handed me the earplugs, and I rolled each one into a thin cylinder between my thumb and forefinger then shoved them as deeply into my ears as they would go. The plugs thickened in my ears and sound was reduced but still punishing. Pops fixed this by handing me my shooting muffs, which I placed over the rubber devices. The result was not quiet, but it was so much better.
Pops had just turned to run back over to the trucks when I glimpsed my first challenge. A horde of some fifty or so infected came running down Herndon Avenue from the east. They spilled out from behind the edges of the shopping center and were making a mad (literally) dash for where we were busily emptying the sporting goods store. By the time I got my gun turned and aimed they were within a hundred yards of us. I used my thumb to flick off the safety and let loose with a quick burst.
The first torrent of bullets tore into the horde with horrifying results. The powerful .308s passed through their primary targets and plunged into one or more who were running behind them. Unlike the ammunition for the M4s, when the .308s hit a person they reacted, diminished shock value or no diminished shock value. My first burst went through about thirty rounds, and it took out almost half of the converging pack. I had to fight down the gag reflex at the sight of human beings dragging themselves along the asphalt with limbs barely attached and splashing gouts of blood.
The remaining Ragers were now spreading out along the parking area making it more difficult to take down in large numbers. I caught a group of ten or more running straight at the Bronco and forced myself to calm down while I took aim and used two short bursts to drop them. I observed Pops standing on top of the Bronco now. He was using his M1A to pick off the lone stragglers who had somehow wound up by themselves as they continued to rush our trucks. That allowed me to concentrate my shots on the pockets of infected that still pushed forward, determined to rip us to shreds. The survivors screamed with hate-filled anger.
I picked off one pack of six, then caught another four. Two of the people from the first group I shot staggered to their feet and I shot them again. Two more dashed out from behind a window van and I took them down quickly. Two women were closing in on Pops, but he promptly shot both of them down from his perch on the Bronco.
I scanned the area just like Buck had taught me. No movement. There! A hugely obese man used the fender of a truck to pull himself into a standing position. He had taken a round to his ribs and blood spurted freely with every heartbeat. The man was dying but did not know it or didn’t care. He shook his head to clear it, then located Pops. He started to stagger in that direction, but he only got four steps along before the blood loss claimed him. He fell, looked at Pops again and tried to pull himself along with his knees and elbows. Then he died, his face falling on the sun-heated asphalt.
I dragged a sleeve across my forehead, did another scan then quickly changed my magazine. I was in the middle of congratulating myself on remembering to refresh my weapon when I saw Marcus jumping up and down and waving one hand over his head while pointing to the south of us with the other. Sunnyside Avenue was one of the streets which dead-ended perpendicular to Herndon. It ran all the way through Clovis to Shaw Avenue, ending at the Sierra Mall. Marcus was desperately gesturing south down Sunnyside at the line of vehicles speeding in our direction. Military vehicles.
Pops lept from the Bronco and ran inside the store while I cast about frantically, trying to find a place where I had cover. The cell phone store behind me was all glass from about waist height on up, but the first four feet from the sidewalk to the glass was cut stone. I made a quick decision and turned my gun around. One short burst demolished the safety glass leaving a pile of diamonds littering the walkway in front. I used the barrel of my weapon to sweep away remaining jagged glass teeth still stuck in the lower frame, then gingerly eased my way over the stone wall and into the store.
The floor inside was also covered in the small granules of glass, and I used my feet to sweep away a clean spot in which to stand and fight. It was while I was involved in this endeavor that the ear-splitting alarm from the sporting goods store stopped.
“Virgil? Come in. Where’d you go?”
I barely heard the radio with my double layer of ear protection on so I pulled my muffs to the side and removed one of the plugs. I propped the M-240 on the window sill and kept the approaching vehicles in sight before answering. “Here, Pops. Inside the phone store. I found cover.”
“Good! I’m sending George over there to support you. Stand by and don’t shoot until I give the word. I’m going to try to talk to these guys. I’ll leave my radio open so everyone can hear what’s going on.”
That sounded smart to me, and I clicked my radio twice to signal I had heard him. A moment later George came sprinting over to my location. He handed me his M4, and I helped him climb into the store with me.
“Let’s keep our heads down,” he said as he balanced his rifle barrel on the ledge.
The military vehicles continued to advance. It occurred to me that the drivers of the Humvees must not have much military experience since they were traveling straight at us with no attempt being made to cover their approach. If we were sure they presented a threat we could have opened up on them while they were still ten blocks away. A trained person would have taken side streets and converged on our location when they drew near. They would also have split up their forces instead of putting all of their people in a straight line. As it was, we could have killed all of them with a few bursts from our two M-240s if we were so inclined.
Pops came over the radio. “All right everybody, be frosty and keep your eyes open for more of these guys who might be trying to flank us.”
I stuck my head out to look left and right until George grabbed my vest and yanked me back inside.
“Stay under cover, Youngblood!”
The Humvees finally stopped on the far side of Herndon Avenue. A few of them pulled up next to the first vehicle in line. I closed my eyes briefly and took a deep breath which I slowly exhaled. My heart was still hammering away in my chest. Instinct told me we were facing a dangerous situation separate and apart from the threat from the infected.
The doors on the lead vehicle opened and a short, skinny guy with shoulder-length hair and carrying a bullhorn climbed out. Heavily armed protectors wearing military clothing surrounded him. The little guy raised the bullhorn to his mouth.
“You in the store. This is General Javier Ramirez of the California National Guard. You are looting. The equipment in that store is the property of the U.S. Government. Return the equipment you have stolen, and we will allow you to leave here safely.”
The pronouncement was almost funny. I heard George snickering beside me. “Is he kidding, this guy?”
Pops’ voice came over my walkie and was amplified by the speaker system on the CB radio in the Bronco. “Try again, friend. You are no more a National Guardsman than I am.”
There was a brief discussion among the men around the Humvee before the small man raised the bullhorn again. “Okay, how about this, bitch? Everything in this town is under the protection of the Mojados. That includes the store you’re robbing. Looters are not tolerated here under pen
alty of death. I will make this one exception because you may not have heard the news about us putting this town under martial law. So take the chance I’m giving you and leave here. I will guarantee your safety.”
I spotted movement over by the Bronco and looked over to see Buck standing at the tailgate. He reached inside, extracted the grenade launcher and bag of grenades then slipped back inside the sports store.
“I don’t think you’re understanding the situation,” Pops’ voice said over my radio. “You’re not in charge here. You have no claim to anything in this town. Now turn your vehicles around and drive away and I will guarantee your safety.”
I swallowed hard. Pops was drawing a line in the sand.
Over at the line of Humvees, I observed the little guy throw the bullhorn to the ground and stomp on it. Several of the other men grabbed at him when he appeared to be trying to run towards us. They held him back until he started punching and kicking them. He seemed to get himself under control somewhat, and I could tell he was screaming at the others around him even though they were too far away for me to hear what they were saying. One of the others finally picked up the bullhorn and handed it back to the leader. He tried to say something into the device, but we heard nothing. The little guy angrily shook the bullhorn and appeared ready to smash it to the ground again, but a big man beside him took it from him and did something to it. He handed it back to the little man who raised it to his lips.
“You want a war, bitch? You want to take on the Mojados?”
Pops sounded calm in his reply. “No, I don’t want a war, and there doesn’t need to be one. Everyone out here is just trying to survive. We don’t have to fight it out over this equipment. I know you have taken over the Guard Armory. You have more than enough gear to allow you and your people to defend yourselves against the infected. There are others out here who also want to survive, and they need this equipment. You don’t.
Virgil's War- The Diseased World Page 12