by A. J. Powers
Chapter 15
Clay tightened his grip on the club as he waited patiently for his time to act. He attempted to block out the shouting and screaming crowd surrounding him and focus on the person standing in front of him—more importantly, focus on what the man held. Clay drew a deep breath and slowly exhaled...Timing would be everything.
Come on, already, he thought.
As if reading Clay’s mind, the man hiked his leg up, pulled his arm back and threw the object at Clay.
No, this no good, Clay thought to himself—his gut was wrong.
“Steeeee-rike!” Shelton yelled as he enthusiastically signaled the call.
“Full count, wuss,” Dusty said as she tossed the baseball back to the pitcher. “I’m betting you’ll whiff on this next one.”
Clay ignored her insults as he stepped back and took a few practice swings. He looked around at the makeshift baseball diamond and admired the effort it took to construct the playing field in such a short amount of time. It had turned out to be a beautiful afternoon—the perfect way to close out an incredible week in Liberty. But as the sun inched closer to the horizon, threatening clouds from the southwest had already started to move in. The rain looked to be at least an hour or two off, and seeing as it was already the top of the seventh, the game would be finished and cleaned up before the first drops hit the ground.
Stepping back into the batter’s box, Clay tapped the bat on each shoe and prepared himself for the next pitch. Two outs, full count and down by four, time was running out for a comeback rally.
“Come on, Kohler! Bring the heat!” Dusty shouted to the man on the mound.
Clay locked his eyes onto the ball as the pitcher made his throwing motion.
CRACK!
Clay connected with the ball and it popped up just out of the centerfielder’s reach and on into left field. As Clay closed in on first base, he was being waved on—he arrived at second base with time to spare. The crowd roared with applause for the big play, but that happened with any big play regardless of which team was responsible. The mere act of witnessing this classic American pastime was in and of itself thrilling, and none of the spectators cared who had the most points on the board after the ninth inning.
Even though nearly two hundred people had gathered to watch the event, Clay was only playing for one person in the stands. And when he spotted her in the crowd, he fell in love all over again. He could see the pride she had for her husband as she clapped her hands and cheered him on. It was that moment, for the first time in a decade, Clay had completely forgotten about the world they lived in. It was pure bliss.
Geoff was now at bat, and Clay could see that Dusty wasted no time ramping up the smack talk. No batter was exempt from the onslaught, but Clay saw Geoff turn around and say something back to her that made her shut up immediately.
What on earth did he say, Clay wondered. It had to be pretty epic to get Dusty to stop running her mouth.
Clay led off second base as the pitcher wound up. As soon as he heard the crack of the bat, Clay took off running. He saw the ball skim along the foul line past third base, but it stayed in play. The third base coach signaled Clay home. Quickly tagging third, Clay aligned his body with home plate and kicked it into overdrive.
Doing her best to intimidate the charging runner, Dusty readied herself to stop Clay at all costs. Halfway home, Clay saw the ball fly over his head toward home plate. It also flew over Dusty’s head and hit the fence behind her. As she scrambled to pick up the ball and return to the plate, Clay made his dive.
“Yer out!” Shelton yelled, throwing his thumb over his shoulder.
Clay immediately stood up and started shouting. “Are you blind? She wasn’t even close!”
“Now, who do you think was in a better position to see that? You or me?” Shelton fired back.
“Back off, crybaby!” Dusty chimed in, smacking Clay in the chest with her catcher’s mitt. “I could have killed and skinned a rabbit in the time it took for you to get here.”
Clay gave Dusty a nasty look before reengaging Shelton. “Get your eyes checked, old man! I was safe by a mile!” By this point, Clay was standing up tall and in the mayor’s face.
The hushed crowd watched in shock as the beginning stages of a brouhaha unfolded right in front of them. Unable to continue, the rage on Clay’s face transformed and he began to laugh. Shelton joined in and put his hand on Clay’s shoulder. The ruse was up and the crowd broke out in laughter. After all, how could they relive an American pastime like baseball without a shouting match between a salty runner and a stubborn umpire? Though Clay and Shelton were in on the scheme from the very beginning, Dusty’s involvement was an added, albeit unexpected, dose of believability.
Clay and Shelton shook hands as Clay headed back to his team’s bench to an off-key rendition of Take Me Out to the Ballgame. Clay bypassed the bench and found Kelsey among the spectators. After a quick kiss, he picked up Charles and sang with the rest of the crowd. The toddler’s perplexed look was priceless—why would people be playing a game, then suddenly break out in song? If only Clay had a camera.
“Buy me some peanuts and cracker jack, I don’t care if I never get back!” Clay shouted, but then lost his voice as he heard a popping sound in the distance. The crowd continued to sing as Clay leaned toward Kelsey. “Did you hear that?” he asked. She shrugged and shook her head.
Another series of popping faintly echoed across the field.
Clay looked over at Geoff, who was on the mound warming up to pitch. He had a startled look on his face. As did Dusty and Shelton.
The crowd’s singing trailed off and the sounds became all too clear; all too familiar.
Gunfire.
For a brief instant, everyone remained motionless, each person thinking the same thing. Did I really just hear that?
The collective question was answered when another volley of gunfire erupted from the center of town. The laughing and cheering quickly turned to panic and screams. The confusion in the crowd upgraded the panic to hysteria. There was nothing but fields around them, providing them little in the way of protection. But scrambling to their homes—directly toward the imminent threat—was also out of the question. The spectators didn’t know what to do.
Shelton and Kohler both sprang into action as if they’d prepared for this scenario before. “You, you, and you,” Shelton said as he pointed at Geoff and two other men in the crowd, “get the women and children out toward the creek and wait for the all clear.”
Each one hesitantly agreed. Clay wasn’t sure if it was because they wanted to help the others fight off the attackers or if it was the fact that nobody in the field was armed—it didn’t make much sense to strap an AR-15 to your back when trying to hit a homerun.
“Stay close to Ruth and the kids,” Clay said, yelling to be heard over the frantic crowd.
Kelsey squeezed Clay’s hand. She didn’t want to leave him—more than that she didn’t want him running toward the gunfire—but the look of worry he had for her safety spoke louder than any words could. “I love you,” she mouthed out, as trying to speak over the commotion would have been fruitless.
Clay kissed Charles on the forehead and then handed him to Kelsey. He then knelt down and looked at Dakota, who was latched on to Kelsey’s leg. “Koty, I need you to go with Mama and Charles. Tyler and Uncle Geoff are going to make sure you guys are safe, okay?” Clay spoke loudly.
Dakota gave a nod and squeezed Kelsey even tighter. Clay stood up and saw Tyler fighting through the crowd. Clay waved at him and then pointed at Kelsey. Tyler nodded his acknowledgement of Clay’s expectations.
As the three men ushered the rest of the crowd toward the stream at the back of the property, Shelton turned to those who remained. “I have no idea what’s going on, but everyone needs to get ahold of a gun right away. If you don’t have one, Daniel Kohler and I have some extras.” Shelton, eager to come to his town’s aid, had nothing more to say. He turned around and ran toward town; towa
rd the continual clusters of gunfire.
Clay and the others followed closely together. Gunfire continued as they approached the center of town, and when they were within a few hundred yards of the first street, they began to split up, each man going their own separate way to retrieve their guns.
Within moments, Clay found himself on his own. Most of the population lived on the eastern side of the community with shops and businesses—including Vlad’s—on the western half. Clay had expected Dusty to travel with him, but she opted to get a more appropriate rifle from Shelton. With his mind in such a frenzy, Clay didn’t think to tell her to grab Geoff’s AK-47.
Clay’s heart pounded harder with each round of gunfire that sounded closer by the minute. He was alone, unarmed, and surrounded by unknown hostiles. It was a tactical textbook case of being screwed. But, with no other viable options, Clay kept running toward his weapon.
He was a block away from Vlad’s when he heard two shooters engage each other. First was the shotgun blast followed by four quick shots from a pistol. The exchange was followed by a frantic cry for help.
Clay darted across the street and rounded the corner of Short Stop Grocery when he saw a body lying dead, face-first, in the dirt. The man still grasped the double barrel shotgun, and was properly dressed for the violent occasion. Clay let out a sigh of relief when he realized the deceased man was not someone from Liberty. Two people toward the back of the house caught his attention, a young woman pressing down on a man’s arm. Her crimson-colored hands shook as she tried to maintain pressure. As the woman searched her surroundings for help, she locked eyes with Clay.
“Lona!” he screamed as he sprinted toward her.
Before he could see the young man’s face, Clay knew it was Blake. Clay came to Blake’s side and assessed his wounds. It looked as if a few of the buckshot pellets had caught his left bicep. It wasn’t a fatal injury, but Clay knew all too well the pain of being hit in the arm with shotgun pellets.
Clay saw the P225 in Blake’s right hand; he was still prepared to defend his and Lona’s life if anyone else surprised them.
“Blake,” Clay said, stealing a glance at the corpse before returning his attention to Blake. “You did good. But we need to get you somewhere safe until this all blows—” Clay was interrupted by rifle fire.
RAT-A-TAT-TAT!
There was no way to know if the shots came from the good guys or the bad guys, but it was close. Clay looked at Lona and said, “Help me get him up.” With little struggle, they helped Blake to his feet and moved to the back of the house.
A door swung open and a man said as loud as he dared, “This way!” He motioned them inside. Clay recognized Simon, the owner of the store, as he passed.
Simon locked up behind them. His wife took over for Clay and helped Blake over to the couch. She then turned and ran down the hall to find some towels.
“What’s going on out there?” Simon asked.
“I don’t have a clue. Are you armed?” Clay responded.
“I’ve got my twelve gauge and a Colt .38.”
“Good. If someone you don’t know tries to get in here, don’t hesitate,” Clay said sternly to the older man who might have been offended with the life-lesson under different circumstances.
Clay looked over at Blake as a weeping Lona continued to hold pressure on his arm. “You’re gonna be fine, Blake. Just a flesh wound,” Clay said and headed toward the back door.
“Please be safe, Clay,” Lona said, struggling to keep her voice steady. “Get to the others.”
Clay heard her, but didn’t acknowledge. He was focused on getting back to Vlad’s and getting his guns. Once outside, he ran around to the side of the house and commandeered the dead man’s shotgun. He took the bandolier of shells off the man and slung it over his own shoulder before replacing the two spent shells with fresh ones. He snapped the barrel shut and started running.
Clay reached the front of the house and looked down the street both ways. Though the gunfire was still heavy, it seemed to be more concentrated toward the center of town. Feeling confident it was clear, Clay quietly but quickly made his way down the road. A minute later he could see Vlad’s place. He was almost there.
As he cut through the back yard of one of the shops, Clay heard a shot from across the yard. He ducked his head and swung the shotgun around. He dumped both barrels toward the shooter. The gunman was nearly twenty yards away, but the spread from both shells was still tight enough to drop the man. Clay barely broke his stride as he cut across the yard, giving little thought to the man he had just killed. He stopped only to reload the shotgun behind a tool shed and take a few seconds to catch his breath, before sprinting to Vlad’s.
Clay was running toward the back of Vlad’s house when the side door on the garage exploded open and an armed man jumped out. Clay raised the shotgun and prepared to fire.
“No shoot!” A voice yelled out with a thick Russian accent.
Clay dropped his arms and shook his head. “Vlad, you can’t be doing that to me,” he said as he puffed for air. “I almost turned you into Swiss cheese, man.”
Vlad held an M44 Mosin Nagant, the Ruger R8 tucked away in his waistband. There was a grim look on his face, one that Clay had never seen before, and it scared him.
“Olesya was in town, I must go find her.” Vlad’s words pleaded for help.
“I need to grab my stuff and find Megan and the kids first, but then…” Clay trailed off and took a deep breath. “Vlad, we’ll find her.”
“Thank you, Clay,” Vlad said.
“Godspeed, Vlad.”
Vlad headed toward the road and Clay ran to the back of the house. He practically knocked the door off its hinges as he stormed inside and up the stairs. He grabbed his AR-15, Glock 17, and every spare magazine he had. The thought of taking the ARAK-21 crossed his mind, but he couldn’t spare the time to load the magazines with .300 blackout. He also didn’t know the rifle like he knew his LaRue.
Certain he had everything he needed, Clay was finally combat ready. Hoping he wasn’t too late, he ran back down the hallway, practically skiing down the stairs. He planted his feet on the bottom landing and bounced off the wall, using the impact to help change direction. Barely a minute after entering the house, Clay was back outside running toward the center of town; running toward the threat.
Clay slowed his pace as he approached the town square—his rifle at the ready. Brief flashbacks to the gunfight in Mesquite made him worry about a rifle malfunction again. But he trusted Smith’s work was as good as his word and pushed the thoughts out of his mind. No distraction, he told himself as he focused only on the battle around him.
The closing feast—the big dinner everyone looked forward to all week—had been ready to start immediately following the ballgame. Tables, chairs, centerpieces, glasses of water and plates were already placed. It had looked similar to the night that Clay proposed to Kelsey three years ago, except now tables were flipped over, broken glass littered the ground, and several bodies lay lifeless—each appeared to be shot in the back as they fled from the attackers. The scene was disturbing.
More gunshots rang out, causing Clay to spin toward the sound. There was nobody there, and the town hall—the repurposed community club house—blocked most of the view in that direction. Clay’s senses were heightened to levels he could only assume were superhuman; he was ready to fight.
Just up ahead was the Robinson’s House. Once the community gym and pool, it was now the town’s daycare and where Megan had volunteered to help watch the kids during the game. Levi chose to stay, too, making Clay feel slightly better. But as more gunfire erupted through the town, Clay began to fear the worst. Neither Megan nor Levi had their guns—a pitfall of feeling safe. Clay scolded himself for knowing better. To think any town could be outside the grasp of evil men was naïve, but he let his guard down again—a habit that was proving difficult to break.
The pools hadn’t been filled in years and the large gated area out back
was now jammed with playscapes and jungle gyms. Every time Clay passed the building, he saw no fewer than a dozen kids outside, swinging and climbing, jumping and sliding. But now, with barking gunfire coming from every direction, the kid’s paradise was a ghost town. The only movement was from a few swings swaying in the wind as the storm drew nearer.
Clay jogged toward the building when he heard gunfire and breaking glass. This time, he saw where the shots came from; he also saw dirt and mud kick up just feet in front of him. The shooters were in the daycare and Clay was in their sights.
Taking cover behind a wall, Clay press checked his rifle to ensure he had chambered a round. Incredibly enough, he hadn’t. In the scramble to collect his gear and get into the fight, he had neglected to charge his rifle. Had he contacted a hostile beforehand, Clay would have certainly ended up on the losing end of that exchange.
“You’re an idiot, Clay!” he said as he tore the charging handle back in frustration. His weapon was now hot.
Unlike the movies, the men didn’t waste ammo peppering a wall they could never hope to shoot through. Clay had sought shelter behind good cover, and they weren’t going to shoot until they had a target to aim at. Clay was at a major disadvantage until he saw a man approaching from across the street out of sight from the shooters pinning Clay down. Unknown to Clay, the man was also there seeking the safety of his three daughters.
Clay immediately recognized the man as one of the shop owners in town. Clay had never learned his name, but he was a tailor or something to that effect. The man saw Clay leaning up against the wall. The two made eye contact and Clay nodded toward the building. The man held up one finger indicating that Clay wait a minute. Clay was unsure what the man was going to do, but got the feeling he would know when it was his time to act.