Partholon

by D Krauss

  There were fifty more .223 rounds under the bed in a backpack, not in a clip, dammit, and he doubted he had enough time to load them. But, the shotgun was in there, fully loaded, and there were another fifty shells of pumpkin ball and buckshot in the same backpack as the .223s, along with five grenades, and yes, the .357, the tanto, and the .25. He would take some maggots with him. But not enough.

  John no longer felt like chuckling. No way he was going to win this. Even if he barricaded the bedroom door with the bed and chest, he’d only manage a few grenades and a few shots before they stormed him. They don’t even have to do that. They could wait him out, let him starve, or, better yet, set the place on fire. Houses burn pretty good ’round here, as he’d just shown them.

  John blew out a long breath in the universal sound of exasperation. Idiot. Idiot, idiot, idiot. He was hosed. He’d been partially successful – the Claymores worked, he got a goodly number of the punks while they only got Snuffy, but, ultimately, he’d lost. He was going to die. In a blaze of glory, naturally, but die, all the same.

  Collier would never know what happened, the house would be ransacked and John and Theresa and their particular history would blur into the general tragedy of the times. Inevitable. Ever since the Event, he’d been moving toward this moment. John rubbed the back of his neck. He’d been on borrowed time all along and wasn’t sure he’d made the best of it. Find out when he and the Lord had that long overdue face-to-face. Get ready, Jesus.

  John grinned, working his neck around to loosen the kinks. Wouldn’t do to get a cramp in the last few seconds of life, might mess up his aim. He tilted his head back as far as he could, feeling the tension cracks in the base of his neck, and stared straight up at the attic trap door.

  He blinked just once.

  Instantly he was through the bedroom door, doing a slide-for-home-base, desperately clawing under the bed until he found the backpack and yanked it out. He dropped the .14 and groped for the shotgun, locating it next to the nightstand, and ran back, snagging a bedroom chair with one arm and throwing it under the trap door. Flashlights were converging in the living room so he had, at best, seconds.

  He scrambled up the chair, punched the trap door, threw in the shotgun and knapsack and grasped the attic edge. He pulled himself up, stomach braced on the inside lip, and prayed his natural clumsiness didn’t take this opportunity to assert itself as he swung his legs hard against the chair. It careened away, clattering back into the bedroom.

  Shots raked the landing and, motivated by that, John levered up, momentarily catching the .357 on the lip. He canted to one side, rolling over as he grabbed the trap door and slapped it into the attic opening. He took one gigantic breath and held it.

  No way he just pulled this off.

  The attic was cold as hell and too damned dark, only a little bit of the fire from next door managing to bleed in from the vent at the far end. John heard a lot of running and yelling and a few shots from outside, but he was safe for now. Not only safe, sonofabitch, look at this, he had the high ground, he had the advantage.

  You bastards are going to pay.

  John pulled the NVGs down. All the boxes and suitcases and other crap Theresa and he put up here since moving in jumped out in sharp green relief. He crawled over to the knapsack and sat up, careful not to bang his head on the roof trusses. He was covered in spray insulation and felt itchy and had to suppress a cough. Least of his worries right now, in fact, was actually a good thing because the insulation deadened the sounds he made. He reached into the knapsack and felt the grenades and pulled out several shotgun shells and stuffed them in his pockets. All right, check, .357, .25, tanto, shotgun.

  Bring it on, motherfuckers.

  The shooting stopped and John heard movement in the living room. There was some muttering, the maggots down there having a conversation. Probably about him. The noise suddenly picked up as someone began stomping around and yelling nonsense and then someone else yelled, “Shut up, man!” and it was pretty still.

  Creaking. Okay, they’re on the stairs.

  Let’s review. They don’t know he’s in the attic. They’re coming up the stairs very carefully, figuring he was in one of the bedrooms, the doors of which they could see from the bottom landing. They’re going to be cautious, probing, trying to figure out exactly which bedroom. That’s going to take at least five minutes, and maybe another two to three beyond that before it dawned on even the dimmest of them that John wasn’t there.

  They’ll check the bathrooms, the closets, getting more and more frantic. Someone will then figure out where he’d gone and they’ll start shooting up the ceiling. So, John had ten minutes, at most, to get to the other side of the attic and to the opening located in the carport, drop down on top of the Pathfinder and scoot across the street to another fighting position or back down the fence to the woods and away.

  That is, if none of the maggots notice the drifting insulation as they’re going up the stairs, if he could make it completely across a crap-filled attic without bumping anything and giving himself away, and if no one happened to be standing next to the Pathfinder when he dropped down. Given how everything’s gone tonight, what were the chances?

  He didn’t want to think about it.

  There was jostling right below him. They were crowding the stairs and would reach the bedrooms any moment. Damn. He didn’t have ten minutes anymore, maybe two. Got to get out of here. He peered down the attic towards the carport side, the fire from next door bleeding through the vent and causing the goggles to bloom somewhat but illuminating the wooden walkway.

  All right, a mad dash down that way, fast enough to stay ahead of the bullets, crash through the carport, run like hell. Stupid plan, but what else was there? He braced himself, gathered up the shotgun and the pack, then waved a hand in front of the NVGs to refresh them. His fingers brushed against a leather bag of some kind.

  John looked. Why, yes, his old bowling ball, from that short-lived summer Theresa and he played in a JC Penny league. Was a lot of fun, but work got in the way. He patted the bag affectionately. Gonna miss this. Probably should put it to one last good use, toss it through the ceiling and conk a couple of them on the head... the whole thing suddenly came clear to him, the proverbial bolt of lightning. John pulled the bag onto his lap, turning back towards the bedroom. Gotta time this just right.

  Shots erupted from below and he jumped, figuring they’d had an epiphany and were probing the ceiling, but no bullets zipped past him. Ah, they’re hosing down the master bedroom because they think he’s there and they want his head down while they assault the place. There goes the rock maple bedroom set Theresa picked up in Vermont. Bastards. John really liked that set.

  Some sudden yelling, war cries and a lot of stomping so they must be rushing the place. Shots went crazy and a few even found their way into the attic, holes appearing and letting in streaks of flashlight. John tensed. They’re all standing in the bedroom, confused and firing wildly, and wondering where in the hell he was.

  Now.

  John heaved the bowling ball in the direction of the bedroom and heard more than saw it crash through because he was just too busy pulling out a couple of grenades. Sudden yelps of surprise, followed quickly by sudden blasts from a couple of rifles back through the hole. At least a few of the maggots had good reactions. John pulled the pins, plunged the grenades and tossed them after the bag.

  Haul ass. John grabbed the knapsack and shotgun, hunched over, and flew down the wooden walkway, well, as much as a stooped-over run allowed flying. Had to get as far away as possible. Yells of “He’s in the attic!” from below.

  No kidding. He must sound like a herd of elephants charging overhead and bullets came ripping up from the living room, dryboard and roof trusses splintering all around him. John ducked his head and leaned forward, using his weight to get distance because in the next few seconds—

  Whoom!

  A gigantic fiery hand slapped him hard in the back, knocking him off his fee
t. He gasped for breath in the suddenly superheated air as he landed hard, almost missing the walkway, breaking his fall rather rudely with the shotgun and knapsack. Now, wouldn’t that be great, plunge through the ceiling and end up right at the feet of these assholes? John hung on to the walkway’s edge for dear life while hot air roared past him and blistered his back. Oh, Lord that hurt! He looked back.

  A column of flame and whirling debris shot up from the bedroom and coiled down the attic, reaching for him. Most of the floor, almost up to his feet, was gone, so the bedroom, the landing and probably half the living room must be, too. There were screams and curses from below, which meant a group of messed-up people down there.

  It was very bright and hot and the goggles bloomed like crazy. He tore them from around his neck, losing a few precious seconds readjusting his glasses, and blinked back into focus. A damn good flame enveloped the trusses and the attic crap. His house was on fire.

  Must have been phosphorus grenades.

  A shot ripped through the drywall next to his face and another two or three blasted holes ahead. Someone down there was mightily pissed. Command Voice began calling from somewhere near the front of the house, “What the fuck was that?” Nice timbre, distinct. Someone yelled back, not distinct, and a couple more shots went through the ceiling, too close for comfort.

  Well, what worked once...

  John reached into the bag and pulled out another grenade and hoped it wasn’t phosphorus because, geez, we’ve got enough fire, pulled himself up to a crouch (God, his back), grabbed the shotgun, pointed it towards the floor and let loose. The roar deafened him, the hot air was choking him but he didn’t care, kept cycling the pump and pouring rounds into the living room. Jerks in his house were trying to kill him and everything he owned was going to burn because of those very same jerks, so all of them, every damn one of them, had to die.

  Kali roared in his veins and the battle song wailed in his ears as he wreaked havoc, the sudden screams from below a tonic. He stopped, slung the shotgun, charged the grenade, dropped it through one of the shotgun holes, grabbed the pack and ran.

  He almost made the carport. The attic floor volcanoed and the pressure wave slammed John into the far wall, hammering the breath out of him.

  Definitely not phosphorus.

  The floor canted at a crazy angle and John looked back in time to see the shattered walkway plunging down into the dark smoky hole of what was once the living room. A few people down there were screaming in pain.

  Man, grenades sure do a lot of damage, don’t they?

  Out towards the front of the house, Command Voice was roaring something and there were a lot of answering yells, a whole lot, from the same area. Just how many of these cretins were there? John forced in a deep breath, exchanging air for smoke and was suddenly dizzy and choking. Wouldn’t do to have a coughing fit right now and he slapped a hand around his mouth, spluttering into it.

  Really need to get out of here.

  He dropped down to all fours and crawled the short distance to the trap door and pulled it up a bit, peering out through the crack. Fire illuminated the top of the Pathfinder. He heard people running but didn’t see anyone. It sounded like they were all gravitating towards Command Voice. There was still some screaming from the living room and John supposed a rescue was underway. Excellent.

  Slowly, he lifted the door out of its place, watching the whole time. People notice sudden movements better than gradual ones and he willed patience, take your time, John old boy, pull the door out easy and set it gently to the side. He eased his head through the hole and looked around. No one there. The yelling and cursing from the front of the house got louder, sounded like twenty or thirty people.

  Jesus, what the hell was this, an entire freakin’ army? Just for him? What an honor.

  John grabbed the backpack and dropped it on top of the truck. He levered into the opening, wincing, hot pain racing up and down his back. Really going to feel that tomorrow. John probed for the truck, placing his feet on top. The shotgun got caught and he fiddled with it before it finally came free. He crouched, looking around but no one was there, then crawled down the front windshield and dropped in front of the Pathfinder, shotgun ready.

  No way he’d pulled this off. No freakin’ way.

  He sent a quick “Thank you” heavenwards, reminding himself to be mad at God again later, and did a quick inventory. Shotgun with shells, backpack with two grenades, .357, tanto and .25. Also some pretty good burns and bruises and his left knee felt weak but overall, in good shape. Fighting trim.

  He peered around the front of the truck. The neighbor’s house was a full-blown bonfire, lighting up the whole area with garish yellow flame. Nobody in sight, but there was a lot of commotion from the front of the house.

  All right, take another deep, deep breath. Flush out the lungs and pump oxygen through because you’re going to need it. John was about ten feet away from the corner of the fence that led around to the back of the house. Go that way, take the zigzag path through the Claymores (hope he can remember it) and be down on Kenmont exactly two houses away from a well-stocked fighting position. He could re-arm, reset, get some rest, get some Amoxicillin, then spend the rest of the week hunting these bastards down, one by one. That’s what he ought to do. That’s the common sense thing to do.

  But they’re all here now, right around the corner, in one place. And he had two grenades, a lot of shotgun shells, the .357, the .25, the tanto, and a really bad attitude. And, most important of all, total surprise.

  No contest.

  John eased back around the Pathfinder and peered down the garage wall towards the front of the house. It might as well be daylight, the fire was so bright. He crouch-ran to the corner, shotgun ready but no one moved into his line of sight. He edged a bespectacled eye over the corner and looked.

  They were all over the front yard, ranging from the street to the big pin oak, but about fifteen of them had bunched up on the porch, with maybe ten others scattered around the periphery. Big mistake. Lots of milling and pushing and scrambling around a locus dead in front of the door. John couldn’t see the person standing there but would bet a dollar it was Command Voice. They should have stormed the living room by now but were probably worried John was still in there laying for them, even though the bedroom side of the house was fully engulfed. Right instincts, fellows, wrong location. Too bad for you.

  A strange bunch, neo-punks who had taken extraordinary care with their costumes – black leather vests laced with chains, bizarre haircuts, lots of Mohawks and dreadlocks and strategically cut patches to reveal scalp in the ugliest of ways. John shook a disgusted head. Intimidation, of course, a signal to the straights that here is a dangerous person and you better watch out because I’m going to hurt you and rob you and do anything I want to you. Freaks, piss-ants, pieces of crap. “Oh, they’re just expressing themselves, it’s just a form of social protest, it’s free speech...”

  What a load.

  These Mohawked chain-laced metal-pierced unwashed cretins were arrogant and evil and drugged and sexed. And you bunch of damn cowards, you hand-wringing fearful muffins wanting to be well thought of and considered progressive and cutting edge with great wells of tolerance, accommodated these things, these scabs; you too afraid to call them what they were – scum, just infected pieces of green, rotting scum.

  No wonder Al-Qaeda loathed us.

  John had never been intimidated by these types. When he’d run into a group of them on the Metro Before, he stood close, eyeball to eyeball, glaring. Three or four of them smirked and flexed and made ugly, low comments but John stood his ground, daring. They’d just leave. Confronted, they fold. Fold. You hear that, civilians? You stand, you disdain, you drive them out. You don’t tolerate.

  Because, you bunch of spineless muffins, doing so proves you are weak and frightened, soft, jelly-like, lovely victims. And in caves and mines along the Hindu Kush, they smelled you out the way a dog smells a bitch in heat and they came
for you and your weakness and vacillation and bumper sticker thoughts of world peace and harmony. They drove children into the sides of buildings and sprayed viruses and we fell by the millions and the debris of us lies scattered and rotting all over this well-meaning landscape.

  John stared, getting more pissed off. Tattooed metal-posted assholes were breaking down his front door. And trampling all over Theresa’s grave.

  Mother. Fuckers.

  Who were these guys? Raiders? Sure had all the earmarks except Raiders were a bit more disciplined and didn’t go in for the garish getup much anymore. And why were they attacking him? He certainly wasn’t worth such a commitment of force. Puzzling. He would have to leave one or two of them alive just to answer some questions.

  The setup wasn’t going to get much better than this. John fished into the bag and pulled out a grenade, shifted the shotgun and stood. All right, do or die time. The blast will take out the front porch and the shotgun, the rest. The survivors will flee. John will spend the rest of the night hunting them down and posting their bodies on various light poles around the neighborhood. And then he’d have to see about moving into another house, dammit.

  One, two, three... go.

  He pulled the pin and plunged the grenade and threw it while stepping out. He brought up the shotgun and focused on two or three people standing near the big oak who had turned in his direction. He pulled the trigger, the recoil knocking him back and was rewarded with a scream but no time to gloat and he jacked another round and fired.

  There were cries of rage from the porch and the scrum was turning away from the far side of the porch where the grenade had landed but then it went off, a blinding white-hot flash; phosphorus, not fragmentation, but that’s okay, because people were burning, as was the front of the house.