“The bandit situation is thick on the ground, all over, and we’ll have to pull soldiers away from other units helping civilians like you, in order to relieve Bravo-Seventeen. Will they hold out that long?”
Emma felt her eyes stinging. How could they hold out that long? Well, they would. Her father would make sure of that. He was there, and if anyone could make Burnsville hold out for two days against some bandit warlord, her father could.
Maggie replied, “Unknown. We will try to relay the timeline. Please hurry.”
The radio voice said they’d hurry, asked her a dozen questions about the bandit forces and the town defenders, then arranged a time for the next day, on Maggie’s shift, to make contact again.
Once they’d signed off, Maggie looked at Emma and smiled. “Don’t worry, honey. Things will work out. Two days is nothing. We just have to hold out that long. The compound will be fine. Maybe Abram can use this information, somehow, but he’ll definitely want to know about it. Update your logs—you know how Abram is about that—and then try to reach him. Let him know he only has to hold out for two days before he’ll get all the relief they need, and more. And don’t tell the kids, okay?”
“Why not?” Emma really wanted to see the look on Henry’s face when he heard the military was coming to their rescue.
“Oh, just in case. Things happen. Best not to tell them until it’s happening.”
After Maggie left, Emma updated the logs and tried to reach Abram—but all she got was dead air. That was worrying. But they only had mobiles, they didn’t have a full house radio with that huge antenna on the tower, like she had. Sometimes, she knew, the airwaves had to be just right for the broadcast to bounce at the right angle to hit whoever she was trying to talk to. She added that to the radio station To-Do List for the next shift, then sipped at her tea until her shift ended. Her mind wasn’t on her drink, anymore, though.
“Who the hell are you,” the smaller Clarks Crossing man said, voice booming.
Nick reached back toward the pistol in its holster, riding inside his pants waistline. It was purely reflex.
The larger man said, “You touch that piece, you die, son.” His voice was squeaky, high-pitched even, and seemed like it would have fit the little one better, but the hard edge in his voice and his adrenalized, saucer-wide eyes told Nick he’d better freeze.
Lucky, neither of them had unslung the rifles hanging from their shoulders, but Nick recognized the setup; it could be shifted to firing position almost as fast as Nick could have drawn his pistol, and there were two of them. He froze in the middle of reaching behind him, then slowly moved his hand out front again, empty. “Whoa, go easy.” He thought back to the streets he’d passed so far. Pine and Poplar were all that came to mind, though he was sure there’d been a third. “I’m just going to see a friend of a friend, doing a bit of a favor.”
“Wrong,” the little man said, voice rumbling from its deep bass. “I don’t recognize you, and that means you’re not from here. How’d you get into town, anyway? We got checkpoints.”
The bigger man’s rifle, a bolt-action hunting rifle, slid from his shoulders and into his hands, barrel pointed at Nick’s chest.
Shrugging, Nick fought himself not to look around and focused on the two men. He consciously tried to appear relaxed, natural, and skimmed through the list of local towns he could remember with his adrenaline pumping and his heart pounding in his chest. He blurted the first one he could recall. “I’m just from over in Nettletown. My buddy told me to look up a friend of his in town, if I ever passed through. Well, I’m passing through, so doing what he said.”
The two glanced at each other, and the smaller man’s eyebrows hovered near his hairline. His rifle appeared in his hands, too. “Nettletown, you said? How’s it going over there, these days?”
Something wasn’t right. Both men were looking at him so intently that they hadn’t blinked in a while. The hairs on the back of Nick’s neck rose up. “Been better,” he replied, tense and alert. “But you know how it is. Things are tough all over.”
“Your mayor doing a good job, whatshisname?”
Nick sniffed. This was definitely a trap of some kind. “I never met them. But like I said, things are rough. What’s this got to do with my buddy’s friend?”
“Who’s your buddy’s friend, Nettletown?”
“My name’s Nick. Her name’s Misty. I’m passing through, and my buddy said his friend would put me up for the night, no problem. If I’d have known I’d get the third degree, I’d have just walked right around, because this is bullcrap.”
Again, they exchanged a glance. The little one raised his rifle to his shoulder and snap-sighted in, leaving Nick looking down a barrel. “Turn around, Nettletown. Harry, zip-tie this freak.” To Nick, he said with a snarled upper lip, “Black is going to want to meet you. Sucks to suck.”
No, no, no. This could not be happening. In town less than five minutes and already captured? And Black was a bandit king of sorts, from what Abram had told him. Nick definitely did not want to attend that meeting. His gut told him in no uncertain terms that, if he let himself get taken now, he’d never leave this place alive…
Nick frowned. “Man, I’m not trying to meet him. Nobody’s got time for that. I just want to go say hi to Misty and see if she knows a safe place for me to put up for the night.”
Harry, the big, squeaky-voiced man, still clutched his rifle in his hands, keeping it at a low-ready stance that nonetheless kept its barrel pointed at Nick. He said, “Not happening. Turn the hell around, jackass, like Norman told you, or you won’t be meeting anyone. Ever.”
Nick paused.
Norman motioned with his rifle barrel to turn around.
Harry shifted his grip and quite obviously sighted in on Nick.
“Damn,” Nick muttered, and turned around with his hands up, like he’d seen in the movies. Hopefully, they hadn’t made him surrender only to shoot him down, like he’d also seen in the movies…“Just ask Misty to talk to me and we’ll sort this out.”
“No deal,” Harry said.
Norman stepped forward so that his rifle barrel touched the back of Nick’s head. He jabbed it painfully and said, “Black will sort this out. Hands down, behind your back, sucker.”
This was it. Nick’s horrible plan was about to get him killed, with his own son watching.
God, get Corey home safe without me.
Nick prayed. Took a deep breath. Then, he spun to his right, raising his right arm. The back of his arm struck the barrel, knocking it aside as his eyes locked with Norman’s, but his peripheral vision was clouded with adrenaline—he had no idea what Harry was doing. At the same time he drew his pistol, he heard a shot ring out, but he didn’t stop to see how badly he was hurt. He was still alive, for the moment, and he used that moment to snap his pistol upward.
Nick’s front sight collided with Norman’s chin, hard, and as the man’s head whipped back, a splotch of blood struck his face. He lifted his foot and kicked Norman in the chest, driving him back.
Just before Nick pulled his trigger, Norman, off-balance, dropped his rifle and then dropped to the ground. He landed with an audible thud, on his back, and grabbed his face with both hands. He let out a piteous moan totally at odds with the deep voice he’d shown before.
Nick looked to the side, moving his pistol in unison, and searched for Harry. Half a second later, he found the man—lying on his side, head on the pavement. Or rather, what was left of his head lay on the pavement. The missing portion was sprayed all over the sidewalk, behind him.
Corey saved me.
That was his first thought, right before a weight of guilt crushed his chest. His son was a killer, now—not merely fighting for his and his people’s lives and land against raiding bandits, but killing a man who was only protecting his home against outsiders, just as they had back at the compound…
Nick grimaced. This was all his fault, but what was done was done. Despite his confused feelings, he wa
s damn glad to still be alive and free. He turned back to Norman lying on the sidewalk, clutching his face and moaning. Keeping Norman covered, Nick side-stepped over to where the man’s rifle had clattered to rest and picked it up, checked the safety and the chamber, then tucked his pistol back in its holster. Norman’s rifle was no bolt-action hunting rifle, but some kind of AK-style weapon. It looked like a miniature AK-47, but a carbine version. It would do nicely.
Nick nudged Norman with his boot tip. “Get up, asshole.”
The man stopped groaning, and he peered up between his fingers, with which he still covered his face. “Why?” he asked, voice cracking and tongue thick. “Don’t kill me.”
“I’m going to see my buddy’s friend, and you’re going to take me there. This is your one chance at life, you get me? If you play nice, I stay nice, too. Cross me, though, and I’ll cross you out. I’d prefer not to have any more of your blood on my hands, but that’s up to you. So, get up and let’s go. Comprende?”
Norman struggled, but was able to get to his feet. Blood splattered on the sidewalk, despite his efforts to hold his flayed chin together. “Okay,” he said between clenched teeth. Once again, he said, pleading, “Don’t kill me.”
“Then go.”
The man turned north, limping for some reason. Nick spared one last glance at the dead man lying with his one remaining eye staring, vacant, in a way that seemed like he was looking at Nick. Judging him…
Nick shook his head clear of that thought. Feel bad later, get the job done now. Nick followed as Norman led them on a course that, thankfully, took them quickly out of view from poor Harry. Nick was pretty sure he’d cracked or maybe even broken Norman’s jaw, but his front sight had cut Norman to the bone and left a wide gash when he’d pistol-whipped the man. It was gruesome to see, and just as gruesome to think about.
Flaying his face half off hadn’t been Nick’s intention, but despite a queasy feeling at the base of his stomach—a mix of a massive adrenaline dump and heavy guilt—Nick was determined to do what he must to get home alive, even if it meant killing his new guide.
As they walked roughly north, Nick made damn sure to stay out of striking distance from Norman. He wouldn’t make the same mistake those two had. He’d do anything, today, to keep his family safe from guys like that walking piece of crap tomorrow.
38
The early evening air had cooled a bit, and the sweat that had soaked into Gary’s shirt all damned day had begun to chill, as well. That brief window between sweating and donning a jacket was a welcome relief as he leaned back in the passenger seat, his feet crossed at the ankles and hanging out the open door’s rolled-down window. Parked back from the others, up atop a low rise where he could keep an eye on things, it was a short break from his duties. The thick woods kept much of the breeze away, unfortunately, but it was cooler there than out in the open and the scenery was a lot nicer than just grass. Plus, it was flat up there.
Gary had set his aide—Bart? Barry? Not worth remembering—to pacing in circles around the SUV, or rather, had told him to get the hell out and he’d been pacing, bored, ever since.
Tough luck, numbnuts.
Right now, those duties Gary was avoiding mostly involved keeping his troops from shooting each other over stupid arguments. “His troops”—that had a nice ring to it. And every damn one of them would come home a hero, once the idiots in Burnsville caved in like the weak little things they were. Their Kumbaya bullcrap might have let them survive this long in spite of themselves, but it wouldn’t stop bullets, and he’d made sure to prove that in the first minute of their negotiations.
It still didn’t sit right, gunning that guy down yesterday, but it’d worked. Just like Black had said it would. It had also cowed the locals into behaving themselves, so it had probably saved more lives than it cost them. At least he could take some comfort in that, just like he had in the cigarette he now flicked out the open door. He hadn’t smoked but once or twice a year, before the CMEs, and there weren’t many packs left now, so it might have just been the last one he ever had.
Sad thought.
Movement caught his eye, down below and across the bridge. Five mounted riders, coming out of Burnsville, aimed for Gary’s blockade. Apparently, break time was over. Gary sighed, called his aide in, got situated, and ordered whatshisname to get the vehicle moving. He tried not to wince as Bart/Barry lightly ground the gears, getting it into first gear; his attention was out the window.
By feel, Gary pulled a pair of binoculars out of the glove box and peered through, scanning the river until he found the bridge, and from there, the approaching riders—and froze, stunned. It was hard to tell through binoculars as the vehicle bounced a bit, but that sure as hell looked like Abram. What was he doing there? Dammit, if that fool had lost the compound already, it’d be even harder to take back, and the new residents could have caused damage. Why else would Abram have been all the way out here, right now of all times? That explained the other familiar face he’d seen, Frank-something.
“Stop,” he told his driver.
The vehicle skid to a halt, finally allowing Gary to get a good look. It was indeed Abram, and he rode beside a woman Gary also recognized, though he’d never met her. He’d seen a framed photo of her in Wyatt’s office, and a name came to mind.
Brooke. That idiot Wyatt’s daughter.
That, too, did not bode well. His mind ticked off the facts, as he knew them. Brooke was here, not out there camping. Abram was here, too—and there wasn’t much that could rip that man off his precious compound. Danny had gone missing. What-if scenarios ripped through his thoughts. What if Danny had known where Brooke was hiding out? He’d escaped at the first opportunity, not the victim of bandits. Together, they’d fled to the first place they could think of where they might drum up support against their new leader, Black, and that had brought them here. Abram might have been looking for allies, or lost the compound—or Kent might have been searching for allies, buying time with that whole bullcrap line about needing to convince the town council, and stumbled across the compound. The odds of them being all in one place on accident had to be damn near impossible.
Danny had to be here, too. It was a day of impossibilities. He scanned the town’s defensive line, the group approaching, and the leading edge of buildings in the background, but saw no sign of him. He refocused back on the approaching group. Kent, Brooke, and Abram rode in a row behind two armed, large men—guards, no doubt. It was hard to tell the group’s mood as they bounced on the trotting horses.
“All right, get us down there, Bart.”
“Yes, sir.” He managed to get it into gear without grinding this time, though as they crossed the hillcrest, he rode the brakes.
The vehicle bounced crazily, despite the cautious speed, and Gary grit his teeth when the binoculars smacked his brow, and debated the risk of telling Bart to grab his nuts and go faster.
He was about to say as much when, despite the crazy bouncing around inside the cabin, he caught movement in his peripheral vision, off to the left. Looking past the driver, it looked like giant locusts crawling out from the tree line. It took a moment to realize what he was seeing—a swarm of people, mounted on burly quads. Light and without armor, the four-wheeled off-roaders were nonetheless fast, faster than his SUV certainly, and they didn’t seem phased by the somewhat rough terrain that so challenged Gary’s vehicle. Each quad had a driver and, riding on the backs, one passenger each—armed. And they were coming right for the SUV.
Reflexively, Gary shouted a warning.
The driver stomped on the gas pedal, and the SUV surged forward, pressing Gary into the tan, leather seat as the speedometer swept to the middle of the dial.
A rut appeared, emerging from the tall grass, and Gary didn’t even have time to shout a warning before they struck it. Gary’s stomach lurched as the SUV rose into the air, high enough for the wheels to leave the ground, and the engine suddenly revved as the wheel friction disappeared for a moment�
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They landed hard on the front left wheel. There was a sickening scream of metal, and then Gary saw only grass and dirt out the front window as the rear end rose up, and up. The next thing he knew, the SUV was rolling, and Gary was flung from his seat to bounce around the cabin, colliding painfully with the driver, the steering wheel, the door, the dashboard…
With a final jostle, the vehicle came to rest on all four wheels, assuming it still had four wheels; the engine was dead, all the windows had shattered, and Gary was covered in glass.
Bart growled, “Sonuvabitch,” and drew a revolver from his thigh holster with one hand as he started bashing into the door with his left shoulder, trying to open it.
Gary only gave him time to try once, before springing into action himself.
Screw this.
He first tried his door, and it swung open easily right as crunching sounds told him Bart had managed to get his door open, too. Gary rushed out, letting gravity shut the door behind him, and bolted to the back fender. It was the only cover he could think of in the few remaining seconds.
As his left foot came down, however, the ground seemed to sprint up at him. Some part of his mind realized his leg had given out. The crash?
That thought spun crazily through his mind, making little sense, and he didn’t have time to figure it out, either. The sound of a dozen or more quad ATVs rumbled over him like a wave, drowning out everything but two other sounds—the rat-tat-tat of an AK-47 assault rifle, with its unforgettable report, and an inhuman scream from whatshisname.
Bart’s anguished scream cut off abruptly.
Gary rolled under the SUV without sparing a moment to look at Bart. The vehicle’s front left wheel had just vanished, while the back fender had been crushed flat, leaving the fenders in the dirt on that side. This made the space he wiggled into a tight fit. Something painfully hot radiated at him from only a foot or two away, but he bit his lip hard enough to draw coppery-tasting blood and stifled his shout.
EMP Crisis Series (Book 3): Instant Mayhem Page 28