Push Back: A Post Apocalyptic Thriller (The Disruption Series Book 2)

by R. E. McDermott

  The color drained from Trixie’s face at the mention of going to the ship, and Howell laughed.

  “What’s the matter, Trixie? You worried Dan is finally gonna find out just what a bitch you are?”

  “I … I just don’t want to disappoint him, that’s all,” Trixie said.

  Howell snorted and turned back to Alvarez. “How are the girls?”

  Alvarez shrugged. “Better since we let them into her closet to find clothes. Jimmy and Pete found some food for them in the pantry. They’re packing it down like there’s no tomorrow, so I don’t think Trixie was sharing much of that ‘better food’ she mentioned.”

  Howell looked concerned and moved toward the kitchen. “We shouldn’t let them gorge themselves. They could get really sick.”

  “I have to pee,” Trixie said from the couch.

  Alvarez looked at Howell, who nodded agreement and continued to the kitchen. Once there, she found Jimmy and Pete way ahead of her, trying to withdraw some of the food they’d initially set out. But the girls’ pleading was heartbreaking, and she could see indecision on the men’s faces. Howell interceded and firmly but kindly moved the food out of sight into a cabinet, then turned to the now agitated girls. She had just calmed them when Alvarez came in.

  “Uhh … we’ve got a problem, ma’am. The bitch went out the bathroom window. You want us to go find her?”

  “Good riddance, I say,” Jimmy said, and Pete nodded.

  Howell shrugged. “Solves a problem, actually. I guess she didn’t want to go to the ship.”

  At the mention of the ship, the girl Lana flinched and started shaking her head.

  “Lana, honey, what’s the matter?” Howell asked.

  The girl was on the verge of tears. “Don’t … don’t take us to the ship. The convicts will get us again.”

  Howell wrapped her in a hug. “There are no convicts on our ship, and I won’t let anybody take you. Okay?”

  Lana shook her head vehemently and pulled free of Howell’s embrace. “You … you don’t understand. He was bragging he had almost two thousand men … and … and he’s gonna kill all the men on the ship and make whores of all the women and take—”

  “Who, Lana? Who’s going to do this and when?” Howell asked.

  “The one they call Snag; today or tomorrow, I think … I … I’m not sure. He was drunk last night so I couldn’t understand everything he said, but I know it’s soon. He was bragging about it to Trixie.”

  Howell suppressed her rage. That bitch! “Who’s Snag?”

  “He’s one of the boss convicts. He’s skinny and real mean, with bad teeth and stinky breath. When he’s drunk, he brags a lot and … and he likes to hurt us.”

  Howell pulled the girl back into a hug and held her until she calmed. “No one’s going to hurt you now, honey. Not when I’m around.”

  She straightened and released Lana to dig in her pocket for the truck keys and toss them to Alvarez.

  “Alvarez, bring the truck around. Jimmy, you and Pete find some trash bags and collect anything of use. We’re rolling in five.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Trixie’s House

  1616 Windsor Court

  Beaumont, Texas

  Same Day, 5:40 p.m.

  Howell rolled out of the driveway in the cop car, with Lana sitting beside her and the other girls in the backseat. The cop car was Alvarez’s suggestion, and a good one. If they were attacked, she could get the girls to safety while the men in the truck fought a rearguard action. As an added bonus, the cop car radio might give them an early warning if the cons were onto them.

  There was no picking their way cautiously down side streets now. They had to warn the ship, and the sooner the better, but she had the families to think about too, and they had no hope if they were cut off on land. Her best bet was to get on the river southbound as soon as possible, then break radio silence to warn the Pecos Trader.

  She raced east on Delaware, with the truck close behind. Their plan was simple. If they encountered cons, she was counting on the cop car to confuse them, at least momentarily, and she would swerve around them as Alvarez and Pete popped up from the truck bed and unloaded on the cons in full auto. Even if they survived, the cons would be reluctant to give chase. All she really needed was a little breathing room.

  She flew under US 96 and across North 11th Street at ninety miles an hour and scant minutes later made a sharp right south on Magnolia, tires squealing. She glanced at her rearview mirror to confirm the truck was still with her, and let out a relieved sigh when she saw it negotiate the turn. They were going to make it with no problems, as far as the yacht club, anyway. The radio crackled.

  “Unit 18 to base. Repeat, unit 18 to base. Over.”

  “This is base. Go ahead 18.”

  “Base, Trixie flagged us down in Rogers Park. She claims a bunch of people off that ship killed Red and Leon at her house and tried to kidnap her. She wants to talk to Snag. Over.”

  “Wait one, 18. I’ll try to confirm. Over.”

  There was a brief lull, then the radio squawked again. “Unit 7, this is base. What is your situation? Over.”

  The call was repeated three more times as Howell raced south on Magnolia. It changed when she made the left onto Elm Avenue.

  “Unit 7, please respond. Damn it, Red, talk to me. Over.”

  She’d just made the final turn onto Marina Street when the dispatcher gave up and switched back to Unit 18.

  “Unit 18, this is base. Proceed to Trixie’s house and confirm. Over.”

  “Base, we’re rolling into the driveway now, and there’s a big puddle of blood. I think you better call Snag. Over.”

  “He’s already on the way. Did Trixie say anything else? Over.”

  “Yeah. She overheard one of ’em say something about the yacht club by the I-10 bridge. She thinks that’s where they’re headed. Over.”

  “Roger that, Unit 18. Confirm the situation at Trixie’s, then check back in for orders. Base out.”

  Howell’s blood ran cold as she heard the dispatcher begin routing units to the yacht club and sending others to various places south along the river. They’re probing, she thought, and when they get a fix on us, we’re screwed.

  She slowed as she approached the entrance to the club and stuck her arm out the window to wave the truck past. Running up unannounced on the Gillespie clan in a police cruiser wasn’t likely to produce a happy ending.

  She followed the truck in and skidded to a stop in front of the enclosed dock, confused by the scene before her. People, mostly women, were digging in the narrow grassy strip immediately next to the dock, shielded from view from the bridge above by the dock house itself. They were shoveling the dirt into black plastic bags held open by children. Here and there men were disappearing into the dock house with the half-filled bags while elsewhere along the back of the long dock building, men were removing sections of corrugated sheet metal.

  What the hell?

  Howell ordered the girls out of the car just as Alvarez and the others joined her. She asked Pete to find one of the families to look after the girls, and as he hustled away, Howell turned to Alvarez.

  “They’re onto us and headed this way and also setting up a gauntlet all along the west bank of the river between here and the Pecos Trader. I don’t know what the hell is going on here, but we need to load up and leave, and now. I’m thinking we jam everyone in three or four of the fastest boats and run for it. Any suggestions?” Howell asked.

  Alvarez grimaced and shook his head. “It doesn’t matter how fast the boats are, ma’am. If they’re already setting up south of us, they’ll be in place when we pass, and those boats are only wood and fiberglass. They might not sink us, but they’ll chew the hell out of the boats and anyone in them. We’ve got a better shot in the lifeboat, at least we can shield some of them.”

  Howell cursed. “But it can’t hold everyone, and even with the current we won’t make over five or six knots downstream and it’s twelve
miles back to the ship. That’s a long time to be under their guns, and I’m not sure our makeshift armor will stand up to that either.”

  “We’re almost ready,” said someone behind her.

  Howell turned to see Earl Gillespie, dirt on his hands and his shirt soaked with sweat.

  “Earl, stop whatever you’re doing. We need to get out of here,” Howell said.

  Earl nodded. “We just gotta finish the sandbags.”

  Howell looked confused. “Sandbags?”

  “Well, dirt bags, actually. We found a couple of boxes of heavy contractor bags in the club office and some shovels in the maintenance shed. I figured if we piled dirt bags behind that sheet metal … hell, just come look.”

  Howell followed Earl into the enclosed dock and shook her head in admiration. The bridge level of the closest cabin cruiser was obscured by a length of the corrugated sheet metal, as was the open deck near the stern.

  “I figured anybody shooting at us will be on our right side, so we only rigged up that side of the boats to save time,” Earl said. “We tied a triple thickness of that sheet metal to the rail, then piled up dirt bags about two foot thick behind ’em. I don’t know if it’ll stop everything, but I figured it’s a hell of a lot better than nothing. We protected the boat drivers and made a covered shooting position on each boat. We can put the young’uns and anyone who ain’t drivin’ or shootin’ in that lifeboat of yours, where there’s already protection. Then we run these other boats as a screen on the right side, between the lifeboat and the bank.”

  Howell was speechless.

  “Something wrong?” Earl asked.

  “Hell no,” Howell said. “How did you get this done so quickly without attracting attention?”

  Earl shrugged. “I’ve found when you put folks to work, hard work anyway, they usually quiet right down. It’s hard to run your mouth when you need all your air to breathe. And givin’ young’uns something to do and makin’ ’em feel important tends to keep ’em from runnin’ around like wild injuns. The hard part was gettin’ the sheet metal loose without making too much noise.”

  “Great job, Earl. We just need to get everyone situated—”

  “In progress,” Earl said. “Five or ten minutes max.”

  Howell saw Alvarez glance south, even though he couldn’t see the bridge on the other side of the dock house. “We still don’t have any protection on top,” he said. “If they get shooters on the bridge before we get under it, we’re toast.”

  Howell nodded. “Those guys from the foot of the bridge are probably already there. Think you can take them out?”

  Alvarez shrugged. “Piece of cake if they’re dumb enough to stand at the guardrail and give me a shot. But I’ll need Jones. If there are multiple targets, we need to take them down fast. If any get to cover, it will become a standoff, and that means we lose.”

  “Do it,” Howell said. “And take a radio, but use it sparingly.”

  “Copy that. I’ll go find Jones.” Alvarez jogged away.

  Beside her, Earl looked at the boats and sighed. “They’re all leanin’ more than I like. I wish we had time to load some weight on the other side to compensate.”

  Howell shook her head. “You did just fine, Earl. If we make it through this, it will be thanks to you and your boys. And I’m sorry I got you into this. I guess y’all would have been safer where you were.”

  Earl shrugged. “Maybe in the short run, but like you said, they’d have come for us sooner or later. Anyway, it ain’t me I’m worried about, it’s the young’uns.”

  Beaumont Yacht Club

  560 Marina Street

  Beaumont, Texas

  Day 29, 6:05 p.m.

  Alvarez peeked around the thick trunk of the tree next to the clubhouse and cursed. The con standing at the guardrail was an easy shot, but he could see the guy talking to someone behind him, out of sight farther back on the high bridge. His radio double-clicked; Howell requesting an all clear.

  “What the hell are we supposed to do?” he hissed. “If I give her an all clear and we can’t take them all out, she’s screwed.”

  “Maybe not,” whispered Jones from the next tree. “When those boats crank up, I’m betting it’ll draw all those turkeys to the rail. Then we can have a turkey shoot. We either take ’em down fast, or we don’t, and if we still have an active shooter, you can warn her in plain language before they back out of the docks.” Jones paused. “It is what it is, bro. I don’t think you have much choice.”

  Alvarez sighed and keyed the transmit button on the radio twice, and from up the channel to their right, multiple powerful engines rumbled. Alvarez smiled. Just as Jones predicted, the turkeys came to the turkey shoot. There were four of them lining the guardrail.

  “I got the two on the left,” Jones said.

  “I got the two on the right,” Alvarez confirmed. “On three. ONE. TWO. THREE.”

  The M4s barked four times in quick succession, and three of the cons tumbled over the guardrail to splash into the river below. The fourth man, Jones’ second shot, grabbed his left shoulder and hesitated a split second too long before attempting to drop down behind the cover of the guardrail. The Coasties’ guns barked as one, and the con joined his brothers.

  Alvarez double-clicked the radio and got an answering signal from Howell before breaking cover to run across the yacht club lawn to the bulkhead at the edge of the channel. Earl Gillespie pulled alongside in the leading screen boat just as they arrived, his boat listing to starboard from the weight of the improvised armor. He barely slowed as the Coasties leaped across the narrow gap and scrambled behind the improvised shooting position.

  “Welcome aboard, boys,” Earl yelled. “I hope y’all brought plenty of ammo, because I don’t think there’s gonna be a shortage of targets.”

  ***

  Howell hugged the left bank as she ran downstream at a blistering seven knots behind the screening vessels. As they cleared the bridge, she raised her radio.

  “Pecos Trader, Pecos Trader, this is Howell. Do you copy? Over.”

  Jordan Hughes’ voice answered immediately. “We copy loud and clear, Georgia. Over.”

  “Pecos Trader, we’re at the I-10 bridge southbound, with sixty-seven survivors. We are coming in hot. Repeat, coming in hot. Over.”

  “We copy, Georgia. The cavalry is on the way. Repeat. The cavalry is on the way. Over.” She heard the stress in his voice.

  “NEGATIVE! Repeat, NEGATIVE! We have intel an attack on your position is imminent. Repeat, attack on your position imminent. You may need all your resources. Over.”

  There was a long pause; then the radio squawked again.

  “We copy. Do you have details of attack? Over.”

  “Negative. Repeat. Negative. Nothing but a possible, repeat, possible time of today or tomorrow. Over.”

  The river narrowed ahead and took a sweeping bend to the right, forcing the little convoy closer together and uncomfortably close to the old shipyard in the inner radius. The radio continued to squawk, but Howell ignored it as she conned the lifeboat through the turn.

  Earl Gillespie’s lead screening boat had just drawn abreast of the shipyard when all hell broke loose. There was a shooter behind every piece of abandoned equipment and junk pile, all pounding the screening vessels at point-blank range. The radio squawked again, and Howell raised it to her mouth without taking her eyes off the river.

  “We’re kind of busy now, Cap. I’ll check in if … when we get clear. Howell out.”

  The screening vessels were being pounded, but Earl’s makeshift armor was doing the job, due in part to their attackers’ weaponry. Most cons were diverted from patrol, armed with handguns and tactical shotguns. Accuracy was spotty at best, and though they could easily hit the screening vessels at close range, stopping them was a different story. The engines were low in the boats, and it would take a fantastic stroke of luck to hit the control cables. The boats were hit repeatedly above the waterline, but the operators crouched behind
protection and drove on.

  After the initial terrifying onslaught, the tables turned. The defenders loosed a deadly accurate fire from M4s and ARs and a variety of long guns far more accurate than the weapons of their attackers. Convicts fell and began to lose their appetite for the fight.

  The boats swept around the tight shipyard bend, guns blazing, and the river widened to allow them to move out of the effective range of their attackers’ weapons while maintaining their own accurate fire. Then the river bent left and narrowed again, once more exposing them to fire from convicts scattered along the shore in Riverfront Park. But here too, superior accuracy carried the fight and soon scattered their attackers.

  The children were frightened into silence by the violence of the onslaught, but rather than calming their fears, the slackening fire fueled them, and the children all began to cry.

  Howell flinched at a loud crack and saw a hole in the fiberglass canopy in front of her just as another round penetrated six inches to the left of the first, missing her completely. All of the kids were screaming now, and several women were praying. She keyed the radio, shouting over the noise.

  “Alvarez, do you copy? Over.”

  The speaker clicked twice.

  “Sniper on the railroad bridge ahead. Over.”

  The speaker clicked twice, followed a few heartbeats later by the distinctive sound of multiple three-round bursts from the screening vessel ahead of her.

  Alvarez’s voice came over the radio. “Clear.”

  They crept under the railroad bridge and past the city docks at their glacial pace, giving better than they got. The river widened a bit more as they neared the Exxon-Mobil refinery, and she hugged the undeveloped east bank as closely as she dared to put as much distance as possible between her little fleet and any shooters.

  Then the firing slackened before stopping completely. She could see nothing from behind her screen and she keyed the radio.

  “Alvarez, what’s happening? Over.”

  “I’m not sure. They seem to be leaving. Over.”