“What about it?”
“You could do some FDR. Nothing to fear but fear itself.”
Steele passed him again, going the other way. His M4 was slung across his body. “Nah, too cliché.”
“Or Patrick Henry, give me liberty or give me death,” Kevin said, waiting to see if Steele would bite.
Hand on his carbine, he passed by again. “Fitting but too hostile.”
“Churchill?”
Steele stopped in front of Kevin. “How about some whiskey instead?”
“I can help you there,” Kevin said, handing up a bottle of the honey-colored liquid. Steele took a pull, long and hard. He wiped the extra with the back of his hand. The booze burned down inside his belly. Lack of food made him feel the effects of the alcohol almost immediately.
He looked out on the field, soon to be a field of bloody misery and mournful wails of the dying. Grass stuck up in clumps for a hundred yards, mixed in with sandy clay. After the sandy field, a line of trees stood for about a half mile to the main road. A smaller two-lane road went from the lighthouse parking lot, cutting through the forest.
He glanced at the men and women that sat near the cars whispering to one another in nervous anticipation. Even if they won this contest, many of them would die, and he would be responsible for their deaths. My list will grow longer today, but what choice do I have?
“Tess, want some?” Steele said. The liquid sloshed as he waved it in her direction.
She held out her hand, taking the bottle. She took a big swig and handed it back to Kevin. Kevin handed it to old Bengy, and the Korean war vet looked at the bottle.
“Haven’t drank in thirty years, but who wants to be sober for this anyway,” Bengy said, looking at the bottle with some apprehension. He held the bottle to his lips, tipping it back toward the sky. He looked at the bottle. “Damn, I miss the stuff,” his voice sounded gravelly after the alcohol.
Tess looked out at the line of trees. “You think they forgot about us?” she said.
Steele watched the concealing trees. “No. They’re coming. I assure you the pastor does not forget easily. And I’m sure he won’t be happy about us taunting him with the lighthouse.”
Tess glanced up at the lighthouse. “That used to be a beacon for the refugees. Now it is a call to war.” She turned back to Steele. “Let the bastards come. I’d love to send a few rounds their way,” she said with an air of confidence that Steele did not have.
He stared at this fiery black-haired woman. “Anyone excited for war has never experienced anything but peace.”
***
An hour passed in uneasy silence while the people of Little Sable Point waited. A few piled sand up around the cars, trying to harden their position, until shouting came from the heavens.
“Steele! Steele!” Margie shouted from the lighthouse. She leaned over the edge waving at him. Her fist pumped toward the trees in front of them three times like a referee.
“Hold your fire until you get the signal,” Steele shouted, looking out. He hoped it would be enough. It had to be enough.
Steele hoisted himself up on the hood of a pickup.
“People of Little Sable Point.” He waited as all his people’s eyes looked up at him. “This is our hour of greatest need. You stand on the front line of a battle, not only for survival but for your very freedom. The pastor’s army of fanatics comes to force you under a yoke of tyranny. He wishes to make you slaves to his religion, your lives only purpose to worship him.” All eyes were upon him, people silent in contemplation. “It’s better to die a thousand deaths than to live for one second in servility to these people.” He pointed out as the first of the pastor’s convoy emerged from the trees. “I do not shy away from this battle. I embrace it.” He held his carbine in the air. The people of Little Sable Point let out a ragged, if timid, yell.
“Nice speech,” Kevin said up to him.
His friend helped Steele down. “We need it. You have to fight for something,” Steele returned, hoisting his M4 carbine to his shoulder.
The pastor’s men in pickups slowed down, swerving around stranded vehicles. Steele pumped his fist at Jason above and Gregor down the line. Gregor climbed on top of a camper before laying down prone. Steele turned to the left side, pumping his fist up and down. Larry and Hank did the same.
A car sat about seventy-five yards out, an old clunker that his crew had pushed out in neutral.
“Don’t fire until they are past the tan Honda,” he shouted at the people around him. They looked nervously down their sights. I will be lucky if they hit the ground. We only need to last long enough. His eyes rose to the sky momentarily. Long enough for a divine intervention.
Two pickup trucks pulled out onto the stretch of land between the forest and the vehicle-encircled, red-brick lighthouse. Men held on in the pickup beds, their guns pointing outward. Only two?
His attention quickly returned to the road when the high-pitched whine of a diesel engine caught his ears. A semi without the trailer barreled into view, a hulking heavy hitter of the trucking world.
It was followed by the crunch of metal as it smashed through obstacles knocking them left and right. Steele lined up his red dot optic on the driver. I should take him now. Instead, he watched as the semi took on the two vehicles blocking its path like an offensive tackle driving them backward. The back vehicle rolled on its side and flipped end over end. It was enough.
Blockade free, the convoy of the Chosen drove onto the sandy field pickup after pickup. An old yellow school bus eventually stopped and men ran out, taking their places among the trees. They lined the area between the forest and Steele’s few entrenched defenders. Minutes ticked away from each of their remaining lifespans as the pastor’s men filled in the gaps. Too many guns pointed in Steele’s direction. More men leapt from trucks, taking up firing positions. They spread out, wrapping around the flanks of Sable Point in a horseshoe of metal and flesh. Did I make a mistake by not lighting them up on the road? Should we even have planned our defense around the lighthouse?
A final black, relatively clean SUV rolled behind the others. It stopped near the center of the newly made line. Steele pointed his gun in that direction, letting his optic do the work. A tall gaunt man exited the rear passenger side door. He was dressed in black, a hammer hanging from his belt.
“I see the pastor has made an appearance,” Steele said to Kevin.
Kevin leaned over the hood of the pickup, looking down the barrel of his M4 carbine. “So this is the guy who’s been causing us all these troubles. Seems a bit old to be bothering us, don’t cha think?” Kevin said, his foot tapping the sand about a thousand times a minute.
Steele peered down his line. His men and women looked around, not knowing if they belonged in the fight. They internally debated if they could still run and make it.
“Steady now,” Steele yelled out. He was cut short by the electronic, megaphoned voice of the pastor.
“People of Little Sable Point.”
Steele’s eyes narrowed. That’s my line.
“We’re here because a certain man claiming to be your leader has led you astray. He leads you with half-truths and lies. He desires only power for himself.”
Steele felt the eyes of his followers fall upon him, considering the pastor’s words. Will they hand me over and be done with it?
“You needn’t worry where your next meal comes from. You needn’t worry about those infected by Satan’s Legion. You needn’t fear at all. Look at all my men. My community can provide all these things for you. Food. Shelter. Safety. Salvation.”
The uneasiness from Steele’s followers laid heavy upon them. He could feel their eyes upon him. What would stop one of them from putting a bullet in me and ending the resistance? Nothing. Steele took a moment to covertly scan his surroundings.
“Why do you all so badly want to die? Has there not been enough death already? I only ask that you accept Christ as your savior and join us.”
Voices murmured
back and forth. He could hear their voices.
“It can’t be that bad.”
“It’s better than dying.”
“We’ll finally be safe.”
He didn’t know who said what and it didn’t matter. Fear was driving them. Fear and the hope that somebody would figure everything out for them. I must help them see.
Steele called out from his vantage. “Don’t you see this man has a serpent’s tongue? He murdered my mother when she wouldn’t join him. I watched him murder Pagan. The pastor would rather burn Pagan alive than trade him back to us. By God, he’s no saint. He’s a monster. He promises you safety but at the price of your freedom. He promises you food so you will worship him as a demigod. He gives you shelter in exchange for your soul for he knows no God but himself. Don’t let him fool you. He offers you only chains. Americans don’t wear chains.”
The few remaining in Little Sable stayed in their place. They quieted down. Steele exhaled.
“That could have gone bad,” Kevin said.
“You weren’t considering switching sides?” Steele said.
“Some food and shelter does sound nice.”
“I won’t stop you,” Steele said, watching the man out of the corner of his eye. It was not lost on Steele that he had killed Kevin’s brother. Did it matter that Kevin had hated Puck’s guts? Kin was kin.
Kevin shook his head. “No. No. I prefer a good book to subservience.”
“Glad to hear it,” Steele said under his breath.
The pastor’s voice boomed. “I give any man or woman a pardon to join me now. Before this gets ugly.”
Steele peered down his ragged line, the remnants of a community forced into action. His people looked scared, but their backs were to the wall, and the only way out was to fight like the devil through the pastor and his followers.
Steele brought his attention back to Kevin. “I’m thinking we should get this thing started before anyone gets lured in by his poison apple. Care to do the honors?”
Steele dug in his cargo pocket, revealing a rectangular green remote detonator also known as a clacker. When the green remote was squeezed, it depressed the black button and detonated the explosives.
Steele passed the detonator to Kevin.
Kevin’s hand trembled as he took the device. “I…Wow. I never thought I would be the one to lead an attack.” His long face showed all his nerves. He held the green remote in his hand, palm open, afraid to close his fingers around it as if the device itself could blow him up.
“Here, take this,” Tess chimed in, handing the bottle of whiskey to Kevin. He grabbed it with one hand, took a long swig of booze, and handed it back, his eyes never leaving the detonator.
“Press here?” Kevin asked pointing at the device.
“Squeeze that puppy until it goes boom,” Steele said.
“What say you, people of Little Sable Point? You have ten seconds to make up your mind. Hand over the scoundrel and be done with this madness,” the pastor bellowed.
Kevin motioned for Tess to give him the whiskey back.
“Ten, nine, eight…” the pastor’s voice echoed.
Kevin took another swig of booze and closed his eyes.
“Give them a little taste of freedom,” Steele said with a grim grin.
“Seven, six…”
Kevin nodded and clicked the detonator a bunch of times in his hand.
“Five.”
The treeline on both flanks of the pastor’s line exploded in a roar of fire, timber, and smoke. Men were thrown into the air and onto the ground. Trees fell in a dozen different angles. Men collapsed onto nearby trucks. Chosen soldiers crawled on the ground. Trucks burned. The pastor’s men ran to help the injured. Chaos enveloped the pastor’s line.
Steele’s followers cheered. Many turned his way, eying him in surprise, and for a change, hope. Steele looked down his sights. The pastor crouched low, watching his men scramble in disorganization. Steele grinned. “Nice work, Kevin.”
“I can’t believe that worked. Where’d you get that?” Kevin said, his eyes wide.
“Just a little reappropriation of materials before Thunder deserted us.”
Bullets thudded into the pickup. Steele knelt lower behind the walls of the pickup bed.
“Open fire,” Steele screamed. The command was repeated down the line.
Steele let off a three-round burst near where the pastor had been, but their tall leader had disappeared. He turned his red dot to a man aiming over the cab of a pickup and sent a single round his way. The man flinched as the round entered his shoulder through his collarbone, and he disappeared behind the pickup. If the clavicle was shattered, the man would be out of the fight permanently, unable to shoulder a weapon. If it wasn’t, he would bleed out by the time the battle was over.
As more of the pastor’s men regained their feet, they started firing into Little Sable’s protective vehicle concealment. Metal and plastic punched inward as bullets penetrated cars searching for Steele’s volunteers. Dud. Dud. Holes appeared to the side of Steele. He took cover for a moment, catching his breath. Tess knelt next to him, ducking her head.
Looking down the line, Steele flinched as more bullets screamed above him. Many of his followers hid behind vehicles, seeking reprieve from the building onslaught of enemy rounds. Every now and then a volunteer would lean over, spraying bullets everywhere. Steele crept to a different part of his pickup truck, bouncing upward as he took aim. He shot at three men pinning down his shooters on top of the camper. His rounds forced them into taking cover.
He felt an impact behind him. A different noise than the gunshots, it was like someone had dropped a sack of groceries off a building. He took cover, staring at the remains of Jason near the lighthouse. Brains leaked from the spot where his head had smashed into the pavement, caving in his skull. His legs twisted outward at the knees, white bone and red flesh spraying the ground.
“Keep firing,” Steele shouted, but the rounds kept coming. The faint sound of the diesel engine whined again and then it chug-chug-chugged. The semi rolled over the ground and men fought from behind it. Some of the Chosen rode atop its fifth-wheel, coupling like a tank desant.
“They’re going to ram us!” Steele shouted. He spun past Kevin and moved down the line at a crouch.
“Shoot the truck,” he yelled at Alex on the way by. The college student stood up and fired a couple of rounds before taking cover again.
“Shoot the tires,” he screamed at Bengy as he ran past. He didn’t wait to see if the old man heard him. Steele bounded upright and put three, three-round bursts through the windshield. The semi kept coming. Either the driver was hidden, or they had managed to find a way to have it run by itself. Steele ducked back down as the glass of a car window burst and bullets zipped through the car around him.
Bullet holes dotted the front end of the truck as if it had chickenpox. Its front wheels were deflated, but the truck came onward for their tight defensive ring. Steele put down a man hanging off the back of the semi. He fell underneath and disappeared beneath the tires. Another man filled his place, impervious to the danger. The semi gained even more speed, its engine roaring. Foot by bloody foot, it traversed the ground beneath it.
Steele put another magazine through the front grille.
“Reloading,” he screamed. After punching the magazine release with his index, he snatched a new magazine from his vest pouch and slammed it home. He hit the bolt release button, ready to go. It was too late. He could only watch as the semi barreled down on them, its charge uninterrupted by anything Steele could do. It drew closer until it was about to impact Steele’s line. He dove down onto the ground.
Metal screamed on metal and crunched, concaving as the semi crashed into the middle of a camper. The semi punched through the center of Steele’s line like a harpoon through a fish. Smoke and debris filled the air. The contents of the camper exploded out into Steele’s camp like a tornado had hit a trailer park. It was eerily silent for a moment as both s
ides stared at the destruction.
A few moments later, men that had been following the semi ran through the gap. In groups of two and three, they rushed inside the compound. Orange flames exploded from the ends of their guns as they let loose on the members of Little Sable Point. Steele couldn’t tell who was who now. Kevin and Tess were lost behind him. He had no idea where anyone was in the smoky haze.
Steele bounded upright and moved with speed to the semi, now sitting exhausted, a war elephant riddled with arrows, gasping its last breath after having penetrated the enemy line. Steele scanned. Have to stem the tide or we are overrun.
A man in jeans and a tan hunting vest ran for him. His shotgun boomed from the side of his hip and birdshot pellets tore into Steele’s leg. The pain stung, but his adrenaline did what it was designed to do: it dulled the pain enough for him to ignore it.
“Motherfucker,” Steele screamed at him. Steele sidestepped on his good leg. Always get offline. He fired three rounds, prepping his trigger on each single shot center mass and then transitioned upward, placing one through the man’s chin.
“Fuck,” Steele cursed again. He let himself breathe and glanced down at his leg. He knew he had been shot, but didn’t know how bad it was. Too much stimuli was happening around him. He knelt down and slid next to a car, his affected leg hesitating to obey. He cupped his groin, holding his boys tight. Nothing burned there. No blood. No flaps of skin. The fabric of his ACUs was torn and shredded. In the center of his thigh, he stuck a finger through a tear and wiggled it around. It always takes a minute for the blood. He removed his finger. Crimson liquid covered its tip. Jesus Christ. No time to worry.
Steele stood and went for the gasping semi. With each step, some of the adrenaline wore off. With every movement, he could feel more of the small pellets riddling his leg like needles hiding inside his flesh and his muscles. Weapon in the high ready, he hugged the edge of the truck.
Two men ran through the wreckage of the camper. Steele tapped his finger quick on the trigger and they collapsed.
Steele closed in on the semi. He jumped up on the step and ripped open the truck’s door, thrusting his gun first inside. He looked inside the cab. Dead blank eyes looked at him, the driver’s body riddled with bloody holes. Hopping down, he felt the pain of a thousand stab wounds shooting up his leg from the bird shot.
The Rising (The End Time Saga Book 3) Page 38