“Exactly. Good.” He hugged her and left.
It was decided that since Beth, Owen, and Mike each had injuries or health problems, they would be positioned inside the house where they didn’t have to move much. Beth sat on a high stool in her bedroom window, a position which gave her a view of the neighbor’s yard beyond the fence. She’d taken the riot gun. Owen and Mike took a spot in the window of the guest bedroom, where they had a view of the backyard. They each had one of the .357 Magnums.
Amelia and Libby were appointed as runners, moving between positions with messages and supplies. The primary defenders of the house, then, were Shane, James, Jodi, and Corbin. James stood at the front door with the Glock 17 and plenty of ammo. Jodi was positioned at the sliding glass door in back with the shotgun and a box of shells on the dining room table behind her. Shane and Corbin were outside with the AR-15, the Tikka, the Molotov cocktails, and a few lighters, ready to lob fire over the fence at the first sign of approach.
It was the best plan they could come up with, but in the quiet minutes just after nightfall, Shane didn’t feel confident. Suddenly, all of their defenses—from the fence to the weapons to their positions—seemed ridiculously weak.
We’re about to get overrun by a violent criminal gang, he thought, his heart racing. They’ll make short work of us.
As if reading his thoughts, Corbin turned to him and said, “Remember, sir, a super aggressive defense will put them off balance. Don’t hold back.”
Shane looked at the row of Molotov cocktails arrayed on the folding card table in front of him. It had been decided that he would be the one to lob fire on the gang. He just hadn’t felt right about asking a teenager to set people on fire.
“Got it,” Shane replied. “Why don’t you check on Jodi and see if she wants help. I think I’ve got the front yard covered.”
Corbin nodded and headed off toward the house. Once he was gone, the whole world went quiet, with only the usual summer sounds of insects chirping to break through the terrible stillness. Shane glanced back at the house and saw James standing in the foyer, his body positioned mostly behind the front door. He nodded at him, and James returned the nod.
We’re as ready as we’re going to be, the nod said.
Before he heard the sound, Shane sensed it—like a vibration just beneath the level of hearing. It trembled on his skin, and the impending sense of it so filled him that he shook. Gradually, the vibration became the distinct rumble of motorcycles. Libby raced outside, saying over and over in a kind of strangled hiss, “They’re coming. They’re coming,” before running back inside to bear the message to everyone else.
Shane moved to the fence and peered through the slats. The sound was growing, more than a dozen growling motorcycles, but he didn’t see any headlights in the distance. Corbin returned then, taking up a position beside the table, aiming the Tikka at the fence in the direction of the sound.
“Do you see them?” he asked.
“No,” Shane replied.
But then he sensed movement beyond the next intersection. It appeared as an amorphous blob, like some shapeless and sentient thing creeping through the dark city.
They’re driving with no headlights, he realized.
Far from an amorphous creature, he was seeing motorcycles, too many to count but moving in a large mass. As he watched, the mass turned onto their street, engines revving as if promising violence. He thrust a hand behind him.
“Hand me one,” he said.
He felt cold glass against his palm as Corbin handed him one of the Molotov cocktails. Shane pulled a lighter from his shirt pocket and moved to the corner of the front yard nearest the gang. The noise was cacophonous now, echoing far and wide across the city. They seemed to stop a couple of houses away, but he thought they were within reach.
Give it your best throw, he told himself, seeing glimpses of Little League baseball games from long ago. He’d been able to lob a baseball from the outfield to the pitcher’s mound in third grade. Surely, he could reach the gang with fire now.
“Burn, you monsters,” he muttered, flicking the lighter. He touched the flame to the oil-soaked rag, and it awoke with bright orange flame. The light danced off the fence boards.
He reared back, letting his anger and fear feed his strength, and threw the bottle as hard as he could over the corner of the fence. It flew, glittering, through the night, and landed among the bikes. He watched through the slats as the bottle burst, and fire exploded across the street. Suddenly, the motorcycles were visible. He saw them parked haphazardly in the street, flames licking at their sides, smoke rising above them.
There was no sign of the riders. As Shane gazed frantically down the street, he spotted movement and caught sight of someone running behind the neighbor’s house.
“They’re going around behind the house,” Shane said to Corbin. He pocketed the lighter and unslung the AR-15. “I swear to God, they are not getting over the fence.”
As he ran for the gate, he gestured at James, trying to convey that the biker gang was coming in from the back. Then he pointed at the row of Molotov cocktails on the table. It was all he had time for. He flung open the gate, the windchimes making their regrettable sounds, and stepped outside. As he went to shut the gate behind him, he saw Corbin following, bearing some of the Molotov cocktails. He beckoned the teen and rushed along the fence. Corbin swung the gate shut and followed, the Tikka tucked under his arm.
In the side yard, there was a gap of perhaps two feet between their fence and the neighbor’s much smaller chain-link fence. Shane made for this gap, stepping sideways so he could aim the gun toward the neighbor’s backyard.
The sudden sound of gunfire startled him, and he almost fell, catching himself against the top of the chain-link fence, the links jabbing into the palm of his hand. It sounded like the shotgun. Jodi was firing.
It didn’t take long for the bikers to return fire, and suddenly the echoing crack and bang gunshots was coming from both directions. Shane dropped into a crouch and continued down the gap. As he neared the back of the neighbor’s house, he heard one of the gang members unleash a blood-curling scream.
“He’s hit. He’s hit,” shouted another.
And then he came in sight of them. Men in dark leather were lined up behind the chain-link fence on the far side of the neighbor’s yard, guns propped on top of the fence and aimed at Beth’s house. Shane counted almost a dozen, which left at least a few unaccounted for. He dropped to his knees and aimed the AR-15 through the fence. As he was lining up a shot, he felt heat against his cheek. Corbin had lit one of the Molotov cocktails, and he chucked it suddenly, sending it sailing over the neighbor’s backyard, trailing fire like a comet’s tail.
The gang saw it coming and tried to scatter, but the bottle hit the fence in front of them and exploded, gushing flames right into their midst. One biker took the brunt of the hit. Shane recognized him as one of the burly men who’d been guarding the gym doors. He rose to his feet, fully engulfed in flames and shrieking, and took off running toward the wild, weedy field behind the house.
Corbin didn’t wait for Shane to react. By the time Shane thought to take aim, the teen had lit a second Molotov cocktail and sent it sailing toward the scattering gang members.
“No mercy,” Corbin muttered. “Hold back nothing, sir!”
That got Shane moving. He opened fire, firing at the moving men, even as flames licked at their jackets.
“That’s it,” Corbin said, with a wild laugh. “Make them all pay!”
Shane could tell most of his shots were missing, but then he hit one of the men in the side of the head. There was a spray of blood, and the body dropped like a rock into the grass. By then, most of the men had run back toward the front of the house, so he rose to seek a better position.
Just then, he heard more gunshots coming from behind him.
From inside the house.
Suddenly, James cried out, as if it pain. Shane pointed at the front yard.
> “Go, Corbin,” he shouted. “Somehow, they’re inside! Get back there as fast as you can.”
28
Corbin had the Tikka in one hand, a Molotov cocktail in the other, as he raced down the gap and headed for the front gate. He was aware of Shane following, but he didn’t wait for the man to catch up. On some level, he was impressed that the gang had twice flanked them. Despite positioning people on every side of the house, the enemy had still managed to get inside. It was impressive in a way, but it made him furious. He hated that they’d been outsmarted by these thugs.
As he turned the corner, he looked in the direction of the burning motorcycles, expecting to see the rest of the gang coming from that direction. With one hand, he pointed the rifle at them, but he saw no one. Just fire and bikes in the middle of the street.
When he approached the gate, he saw immediately that it lay on the street. Someone had pulled it off its hinges. All the shooting and screaming must have masked the sound. He raced through the broken gate and saw that the front door was also wide open. James wasn’t there.
Shane brushed past him then. “Corbin, block the open gate,” he shouted in passing. “Use anything. I’m heading inside.”
Corbin stopped and turned back to the broken gate. They’d ripped the hinges out of the post—an act of brute strength that disturbed him. Who could have done such a thing? He thought for a second about how best to block the now-gaping opening. Finally, he decided the drag the gate inside the yard, prop it against the back of the fence, and put the card table against it. Not perfect, but probably the best option.
As he moved through the open gate, he heard more shouting from inside the house. He set the Molotov cocktail and the Tikka on the ground and grabbed the end of the fallen gate. He began dragging it back through the fence, but he heard some slight movement off to his right—the crunch of a boot heel, a ragged breath
He had a fraction of a second to process the vast, hulking figure standing in the road, a nimbus of flame rising up behind him. Then he heard the crack of a gun and saw a brief flash of light. He’d never been shot before, and in a strange way, he’d always been somewhat curious what it felt like. As it turned out, the initial impact was somewhat underwhelming. It felt like someone punched him just under the ribcage on the right side—not hard, just enough to knock him off balance. As he stumbled to one side, the impact was quickly followed by a searing heat that filled his whole torso. This was enough to cause him to cry out, even as he fell to the ground, knocking the Molotov cocktail into the gutter.
“Now, that’s just the pup I was hoping to shoot,” the man said as he approached.
Corbin saw the pink scar cutting across the man’s face like a jagged, second smile. He fumbled on the ground for the gun, but his body seemed reluctant to respond to his wishes. Trent took a moment to stand over him, smiling, a .44 Magnum in his right hand. One of his cohorts followed fast on his tail, and they moved into the yard, approaching the open door.
“No, no, no,” Corbin muttered.
By sheer force of will, he managed to roll onto his belly, but his body was burning from the inside out. As he reached for the rifle, weak fingers fumbling against the barrel, he saw Trent and his cohort disappear into the house.
“God, no,” Corbin said, dragging the gun toward him. “Get up, dummy. Hurry. It doesn’t matter how much it hurts. Do it anyway!”
Using the gun as a makeshift cane, he forced himself up off the ground, rising to his knees. Every movement was agony now, and he felt blood tickling its way down his side.
He got me good, Corbin thought. I let my guard down, and this is what I get for it.
He heard Jodi scream from inside the house, then he heard more shots fired. This gave him a burst of adrenaline, and, with a shout, he grabbed the fence and pulled himself to his feet. Then he raised the rifle and shuffled—one slow step after the other—toward the open door.
Don’t hold back, he told himself. Make them pay.
It felt like it took a thousand years to reach the open door. When he finally got there, he fell against the doorframe to keep from collapsing in the foyer. He spotted the body of Trent’s cohort immediately. The man was lying dead, his head blown open, between the foyer and hallway. His gaze rose, and he saw Trent moving slowly down the hall, Jodi held tightly in front of him, the barrel of his gun against the side of her head.
Corbin tried to lift the rifle, but the last of his strength had left him. As his body continued to burn on the inside, a terrible weakness flooded into every limb.
“Don’t…hold back. Make them…pay.”
The words came out as a breath, and then he collapsed, the gun clattering away from him as darkness closed in.
29
The window in the master bedroom was tall enough that Beth could see over the fence when she sat on the barstool. From there, she had a clear line of sight into the neighbor’s backyard. As gunshots filled the whole neighborhood, she smashed out one of the small panes of glass near the top of the window and took aim through the hole. Pulling the trigger on the riot gun proved quite difficult. She wasn’t at her full strength, so she had to put two fingers against the trigger before she could pull it all the way. She managed two shots, the thunderous sound deafening in the closed bedroom, before the burning bikers scattered in both directions.
She didn’t know if she’d hit anyone. It was too chaotic to tell. Once the men were out of her line of sight, she climbed down from the stool, intending to head for the small half-bathroom connected to her bedroom. It gave her a limited view of the backyard. She was moving in that direction when she heard shouting from inside the house. First, it was James, his screams followed by gunshots. Then, as Beth moved toward the bedroom door, she heard Jodi.
Beth didn’t hesitate. Clutching the gun as best she could in her right hand, feeling the heat of it, she flung open her bedroom door. Firelight shone through the open front door, giving her a clear view of the massive figure standing in the hallway. He walked with his shoulder at an angle, and it quickly became clear why. His jacket had parted, revealing a bandage wrapped around his right shoulder. By that injury, she knew this was Trent, leader of the gang, even before she noticed the long scar on his face.
Despite his injury, he had Jodi crushed against his chest, forcing her to walk ahead of him as he made his way down the hall. Beth met the man’s gaze, even as she raised the gun. He had the eyes of a killer. She knew that immediately—dead eyes.
Her gun was loaded with non-lethal rubber bullets, but she hoped they would do serious damage at close range. Though he was using Jodi as a human shield, the size difference between the two was so extreme that it made little difference. She had a clear shot of his head and shoulders. Beth acted mostly on instinct. She didn’t pause to consider whether or not she could get the shot off before he did. Her daughter’s life was in danger.
“How dare you threaten my family,” she shouted, pointing the gun right between his eyes.
She started to squeeze the trigger when a spike of pain cut right through her chest. It began suddenly and quickly radiated up into her jaw, down into her belly, out to her fingertips.
Oh, God, she thought. Please, not this. Not now.
It was the sharpest pain she’d felt since her heart had started giving her trouble, as if someone had thrust their hand into her chest cavity and crushed her heart in his fist. She was falling before she even realized it. Her cheek smacked the doorframe on the way down, spinning her so that she landed on her back.
“Mother,” Jodi cried.
And then Beth looked up and saw Trent towering over her. The depths of the shadows at the end of the hall made his face look like a meaningless jumble of angular shapes, but a single eye peered down at her, dispassionate—a predator’s eye.
“Don’t hurt her,” Jodi cried, even as Trent took the gun away from Jodi’s head and pointed it at Beth. “Please, don’t hurt my mother!”
The initial sharp pain softened just enough for Beth t
o realize what was happening, but not enough for her to do anything about it. She clutched her chest with both hands and struggled to catch her breath. The whole world seemed to spin around her.
“Everything you have is mine now,” Trent said. “That’s the way of the world. You learned the lesson too late, old woman. Pity.”
At the explosive sound of the gunshot, Beth flinched, anticipating the impact. But she didn’t see a flash of light from the muzzle of his gun. Instead, she saw a gruesome spray of blood from his eye. Other gunshots soon followed. As Beth watched, still in tremendous pain, the gang leader’s face broke open above her. Somehow, he managed to take a single step to the right, as if he intended to turn around, but then he fell against the guest bedroom door, hitting it so hard it cracked the hollow wood.
Jodi slipped from his grasp and dropped down beside Beth, as Trent slid slowly down the broken door and wound up in a seated position, his ruined head bowed, as if contemplating his own evil life. When Beth looked for the source of the gunshots, she saw Mike standing down the hall, the .357 in his hand.
“Dude blabbed just long enough to let me take careful aim,” Mike said. “That’s seems poetic somehow.”
He rushed toward her, lowering the gun. Beth managed to raise her hand, trying to indicate that she was okay. She didn’t want them to worry about her when the house was still under attack, but whatever weak hand gesture she made didn’t communicate the right message. Working together, Jodi and Mike carried Beth into her room and laid her on the bed.
“Mother, take it easy,” Jodi said. “Rest. Take deep breaths.”
Beth did as she was told, and she felt the pain diminish somewhat. She waved Jodi away.
“Protect…” was all she managed to say.
Jodi picked the riot gun up from the floor and went to the bedroom window. Mike followed her. Another burst of gunshots let Beth know the fight wasn’t quite over, even if Trent was dead.
Surviving The End (Book 3): New World Page 25