Chain Breakers (Nuclear Winter Book 3)

by Nathan Jones

  They didn't get far before some of the playing kids noticed them and began shouting and pointing. Pete could only hope the watching slavers assumed it was some childish game and didn't get suspicious. But when an older woman tending the garden plot beside the house saw them and stiffened in terror, opening her mouth for the mother of all screams, he was sure the game was up.

  But before she could make a sound Rawlins desperately motioned at her. Pete wasn't sure if the woman recognized their uniforms as Canadian, or if the sergeant had successfully managed to get the point across to her, but either way she bolted into the house without a sound. That left them clear to make the rest of the distance without raising the alarm.

  Almost.

  Ten feet from the front door it abruptly burst open. “That's far enough!” an older man holding a shotgun shouted. He racked a shell, and from this distance Pete clearly heard the unmistakable sound.

  Although if the farmer thought the gesture was intimidating he was sorely mistaken, at least where Pete was concerned; the guy had opened the door with an unloaded gun, just so he could pump a shell into the chamber dramatic effect? That said a lot about what they were facing.

  “Calm down, sir,” Rawlins called back, again desperately motioning for quiet. “We're here to protect you.”

  “Protect me by stealing my stuff and killing us all?” the man replied sarcastically. Pete saw the older woman, probably the farmer's wife, peeking around his shoulder at them.

  The sergeant did a good job keeping his voice level. “I'm Sergeant Rawlins, Canadian Army. We're here on behalf of the government keeping the peace in this area and protecting citizens from slaver raids.”

  The farmer raised his gun to nearly point at them, and Pete and his squad mates stiffened. He had to fight the urge to aim his own weapon. “If you're friendly then get off my property, si vous plait,” the man growled. But his menacing tone had a strong tinge of fear and desperation to it.

  Rawlins's jaw finally tightened in irritation. “No, because it's our duty to protect you from the twenty slavers hiding in the copse northwest of your farm who likely plan to attack you after dark. Just like we've been protecting you and your neighbors in this area since the first nuclear winter ended. You're lucky we came along when we did.”

  The man hesitated, suspicious. But before he could respond Murrell's voice crackled in Pete's headset as the man reported from atop the hill. “I've got movement among the slavers. They don't look spooked, so I think they still don't know you're there, but they're definitely mobilizing to attack.”

  Pete glanced up at the sun. So they weren't even waiting until sundown. Bad call on his part.

  Rawlins cursed. “I just got a signal from my lookout,” he told the farmer. “The slavers are getting ready to hit you. Now you may not believe me, but my squad is still going to fight to protect your lives. Please don't get in our way.” He paused. “Actually you and your people should probably hide.”

  The sergeant turned and began signaling squad members, sending them out to secure the outbuildings and set up a line of fire in the direction the slavers would come. “Remember,” he snapped, “try not to be seen until it's time to open up on them.”

  Pete ended up staying with Rawlins in the house itself, along with Corporal Westman. Westman was sent after the farmer to secure all the civilians and make sure they were safe, while Pete and the sergeant made their way to the back corner of the house and began looking for good windows to use as firing positions.

  While they were working on that the farmer's wife had rung the dinner bell, doing her best to pretend at calm. The farmers and children still outside looked confused at being called in, probably since they'd already eaten hours ago, but they were no fools and wasted no time flowing to the main house. Once there Westman, the farmer, and his wife urgently gathered everyone by the stairs leading up to the second floor. That was around three dozen people, some clearly family or in-laws, but several who didn't look to have any connection to the family. Farm hands or neighbors gathered for mutual protection, probably.

  One girl about Pete's age came downstairs from the second floor, probably the older couple's daughter. Pete would've told her to go up the stairs to the safety there, rather than joining everyone on the first floor where plentiful windows and thin walls provided little protection from rifle fire. But from what he overheard from the farmer, whose name was apparently Jaques, or Mr. Roy, the house had a large cellar that would be much safer during a firefight.

  Pete was busy setting up at a window, checking its view of the area outside and inspecting the wall to see how well it might stop a bullet. Even so he spared a few moments sneaking glances at the girl. He felt slightly guilty doing it considering he'd just barely left a months-long relationship, but he couldn't help himself.

  She had long, shiny brown hair, obviously clean and well brushed, healthy tanned skin, and a heart shaped face with large green eyes and a somewhat bold nose. Not quite on Alice's level, but she was definitely cuter than Kathleen. Which really wasn't fair to think and just made him feel even more guilty.

  He didn't know if he should be embarrassed or pleased when she noticed his attention and started sneaking glances back. Then her parents ushered her down to the cellar with the other civilians, and Pete was able to concentrate on the upcoming fight.

  In the tense minutes that followed Murrell relayed the slavers' progress; since the enemy was doing their best to stay out of sight of the farm buildings Pete couldn't personally see their approach, even from his vantage at a north facing window. Say what you would about the slavers, they knew how to creep up on a helpless victim.

  Then the lookout cursed in his ear. “Uh, problem Sarge. The blockheads are leaving some men behind to watch the trucks.”

  “Some?” Rawlins demanded.

  “Sorry. I mean four.” A pause. “Scratch that, five.”

  That might seem like a good thing, since that was five less slavers they'd have to fight. But those five men were a random variable that could make things go wrong in all sorts of ways. Or potentially just as bad, they might simply pile into the trucks and drive away when they realized their companions were under attack.

  There might be captured Canadian citizens in those trucks, waiting to be taken back as slaves. Or stolen food and other supplies. Ideally they didn't want them getting away.

  The sergeant seemed to agree. “Hardy, Randall, pick up Murrell in the truck and swing around to cut off those vehicles' escape when the fighting starts,” he ordered. “Secure them and deal with the slavers who stayed behind. We'll make as much noise as possible here to cover the sound of your engine.”

  Pete jumped slightly as someone crouched below the window a few feet from him. Westman? No, his squad mate was crouched in the cellar's stairwell, guarding the civilians as ordered. It was Jaques, clutching his shotgun in shaking hands.

  “You should be downstairs, sir,” Rawlins said.

  The farmer swore in French. “This is my farm. My people. If you're telling the truth about a slaver attack then I'm going to defend them.”

  The sergeant didn't protest further. “Are all your people safe?” he asked instead.

  Jaques shook his head grimly. “Evan and Derek were out checking the farthest field. They haven't come back.”

  Rawlins whispered into his radio. Pete heard the response before the sergeant nodded to the farmer. “My man have them. They've found a safe spot in an outbuilding to wait this out.”

  The farmer's relief was obvious. “Thank you.”

  Pete's radio crackled with Murrell's voice. “Heads up. The slavers are breaking from cover and headed your way fast.”

  Rawlins tensed, lifting his rifle as he replied. “Randall?”

  “Moving now, sir.”

  “Roger. Everyone else, open fire.” The sergeant suited his words by shooting out his window and firing controlled bursts into the yard outside.

  Pete was almost as quick to open fire.

  * * * *
*

  His first target was the lead runner of a trio of slavers bursting from cover to make for the barn. Their motions were stealthy, obviously assuming they hadn't been discovered, but when they heard the gunfire they all scattered in different directions.

  Aside from the one Pete aimed for, who dropped from a shot to the chest. Since the blockhead was wearing body armor Pete shot him a couple more times, aiming for his legs and then his head. It was hard to hit a target prone on the ground, and the man had dropped at an inconvenient angle, so he couldn't be sure he'd eliminated the threat before swiveling his M16 around to shoot at a man running almost directly away from him, towards a fenced in garden.

  Pete had more time to line up this shot, and even with the body armor he was confident the slaver wasn't faking when he stumbled and went down.

  His reckless side wanted him to find the third blockhead and take him out too, but his soldier side yanked him back away from the window and down into a crouch in case of return fire. He waited there, listening to the roar of gunfire, until one of his squad mates on the radio said, “House, you're clear to fire. The remaining slavers are shooting at the barn.”

  He immediately rose and lifted his rifle, setting it on the windowsill as he panned the yard. Even though it was only late afternoon the clouds of the approaching storm obscured the setting sun, bringing an early dusk. That was possibly the reason the enemy had decided to attack now instead of waiting for dark, both because the light was more favorable and also hoping to commit their atrocities and escape before the storm hit them.

  But now the poor lighting worked against the slavers, since their muzzle flashes were obvious as they exchanged fire with Pete's squad mates in the barn. Pete searched until he found an enemy whose cover didn't fully hide him from view of the house, lined up a shot, and squeezed it off. His target went down and didn't reappear, but that was no guarantee of anything.

  To his left the shotgun roared, brief pauses between each shot as Jaques pumped a new shell into the chamber. The farmer was swearing profusely in a mixture of English and French with each shot, although at this distance and in the man's less than experienced hands Pete had no idea if he was even coming close to hitting anything. Hopefully he was at least providing some cover fire.

  Pete searched for another target himself, contenting himself with firing at a muzzle flash that was behind good enough cover that he doubted he hit anything. But maybe his shots would spook the enemy and provide cover for one of his squad mates to line up a better shot.

  In his adrenaline-fueled haze the fight seemed to last forever, but it couldn't have been more than a few minutes. The slavers may have had the numbers, but Pete's squad knew exactly where they were, were shooting from multiple spread out and at least partially protected locations, and had caught them by surprise.

  It was almost ludicrously one-sided.

  Pretty soon Pete founding himself searching for more targets, the rattle of gunfire outside petering down to sporadic bursts, mostly from friendly sources.

  Then Randall swore over the radio. “One of the trucks got away, Sarge. Three slavers inside. The other two slavers are down and the remaining vehicle's ours.”

  Rawlins sighed and straightened, heading towards the door. Pete did a final check out his window, confirming that just that quickly the fight was over. No one was shooting back out there, and he could see ten or so bodies sprawled on the ground in plain sight.

  “Copy that,” the sergeant said, “everyone secure your building, then check your bodies to confirm kills.”

  Pete joined the noncom in circling the house, checking for signs of forced entry or hidden enemies. Then they carefully scoped out the bodies in the yard and the cover the enemy had been hiding behind, checking for movement. A few shots rang out while they performed their sweep, and Pete got a better angle to shoot the slaver he'd downed earlier but wasn't sure he'd killed, making certain this time.

  When he was finished confirming the kills on the slavers he'd shot Pete made his way over to Rawlins, who nodded at him. “Go join Westman guarding the civilians, Private. I'm going to check out the truck we captured.”

  Pete nodded back and trotted towards the house's back door. Randall hadn't been specific about what they'd found in the truck. There might be prisoners to free, maybe supplies to bring in.

  Jaques was waiting at the door. “Is everything okay?” the farmer demanded.

  He nodded. “The fight's over and we'll be done with cleanup soon. Still, we should keep your people in the cellar until we're sure. Are there any other entries into the house?”

  “The garage,” Jaques replied. He turned, hefting his shotgun. “Come on.”

  They passed the cellar on the way through the house, and met a crowd of people coming up the stairs. “Get back down there,” Pete barked, “it's not safe yet. Where's Westman?”

  Everyone stared at him like deer caught in headlights. It was the girl he'd noticed earlier, near the front of the group, who answered. “Mama took him to secure the garage. He heard a noise.”

  Pete bit back a curse. Westman was supposed to protect the civilians, not sweep the house. He and Rawlins had already covered that. “Get back downstairs,” he said again. “Lock the door if you can.”

  Still the idiots hesitated. “Do as he says, Abella,” Jaques said sternly, motioning. The girl reluctantly shut the door, and Pete heard a soft click.

  Unfortunately he also heard scuffing noises coming from somewhere beyond the kitchen to their left. A look at Jaques confirmed that the man heard them too, and his nod verified that they were coming from the garage. Pete raised his M16 and moved along the wall towards the door there. When he reached it he hesitated one beat, then pivoted smoothly through it and panned the room with his rifle.

  And froze for just a moment, stomach churning at the view before him.

  Sure enough the garage had a side door leading outside, wide open now. Beside it Westman lay in a pool of blood, feet kicking weakly at the garage's cement floor as he bled out. That was the source of the scuffing noises Pete had heard.

  In the middle of the room stood the older woman, Mrs. Roy, back stiff and eyes wide with terror. Holding her from behind, a heavy combat knife to her throat, was a wounded slaver.

  In spite of his shock and horror Pete still had the presence of mind to raise his rifle to point at the enemy's head. At least until Jaques, barging in behind him, slammed into his back and nearly knocked them both over.

  “Stop right there!” the slaver hissed in a thick Russian accent, just loud enough for them to hear. Pete couldn't tell if he was shaking or if Mrs. Roy was, but whoever it was was doing it so violently it made them both quiver enough to make the knife jerk alarmingly. The older woman squeaked in pain and terror as it cut into her neck, and a small bead of blood trickled down to soak into the collar of her shirt.

  Seeing the threat to his wife, Jaques moaned quietly.

  Pete ignored the slaver's order and raised his gun again as soon as he had his balance, aiming just left of the man's nose above Mrs. Roy's shoulder.

  The slaver licked his lips nervously at that. “I'm not kidding around,” he growled, “drop the gun and kick it over to me,” His eyes flicked to the shotgun held in Jaques's limp hands. “Yours too, old man.”

  The sharp clatter of Jaques's shotgun hitting the floor rang through the room, but before the farmer could kick it over Pete jammed his foot in the way. “No!” he said sharply.

  For a moment everyone froze. The slaver's eyes widened in disbelief. “I'll kill her!” he screamed, no longer seeming to care if anyone else heard.

  Pete did his best to keep his voice calm. “You think we're stupid?”

  Mrs. Roy cried out as the knife dug into her throat again. “You don't think I'll do it?” the slaver demanded.

  “Oh I know you'll do it,” Pete said. Jaques moaned again. Pete raised his voice over it. “And if we give you our guns you'll do it anyway, and kill us too.”

  “So yo
u'll throw her life away?” The man swore in Russian. “Do you know how hostage situations work?”

  Pete nodded slowly, keeping his aim steady throughout. “Right now the only reason you're alive is because she is, and you know it. And we know the only reason she's alive is because we still have our guns. So the goal is to get you safely away from here and her safely returned to us so nobody dies. That's how hostage situations work.”

  The slaver licked his lips again, eyeing the muzzle pointed at his head. Pete had been on the other end of a gun enough to know exactly how it felt to be looking at that tiny hole of death that seemed impossibly large. “You'll let me go if I let her go?”

  “Yes!” Jaques nearly shouted, desperate. “Yes, please!”

  Pete curtly waved him to silence. Didn't the idiot know anything about dealing with monsters like this? “Yes,” he said. “But you're not going to take our word for it, so let's figure this out so we all get what we want.”

  After a tense ten seconds that seemed like ten minutes the slaver relaxed his knife hand slightly, letting the blade drop until it was an inch away from Mrs. Roy's neck and held loosely in his grip. “Okay, then how about-”

  Pete shot him.

  The report was deafening in the small room, echoing so loudly he barely heard the clang of the knife hitting the cement floor, followed a second later by the thud of the slaver's body.

  Mrs. Roy staggered under the sudden weight against her back and started to fall as well, but Jaques was there to catch her and ease her to the ground, pulling her to him and holding her tight as she began to sob.

  The farmer turned to glare at Pete with murder in his eyes. “Are you insane?” he snarled. “You almost got her killed!”

  Pete staggered over to crouch beside Westman, who'd stopped twitching. The slaver had opened his squad mate's throat with that knife; he was dead, probably bled out while Pete was talking to the blockhead. There was nothing he could've done to save him from that wound, but that didn't stop the guilt.