"Alright. Hang on tight," Kenny said.
Kenny took the reins and spurred the horse on into a trot. When they grew within range of Shane he pushed the horse into a full gallop and the horse flew down the hillside, its hooves kicking up dust and rocks.
Jack put the rifle to his shoulder and aimed at the rock pile where Shane was concealed. With the horse running at a full gallop, the barrel jumped about wildly and he was only able to aim the gun in Shane’s general direction without fixing him in the sights. He squeezed off a round, hoping that the covering fire would be enough to keep Shane from getting a good shot off as they passed.
Shane popped his head up and returned fire, but the shot went wide.
Jack turned in the saddle, firing two more shots before Shane was out of view.
Kenny urged the horse forward as they descended the trail, spurring it on with his boots.
Just before they rounded a corner in the trail, Jack saw Shane on the back of a horse, rifle in hand as he cut through the woods down to the trail. He was less than a hundred yards behind them.
"Hurry, Kenny. He's got a horse," Jack said.
They thundered down the mountain, following the trail as it wound around switchbacks and through bad sections of terrain. Shane was closing the distance between them, as his horse was unburdened by two riders and saddlebags full of food.
Jack turned around and tried to take aim, but there was no way he could get a clean shot from the moving horse. He had to figure out something quick or Shane would be on them within minutes.
"Kenny, look up ahead. See the slope up that hill? Get off the trail and take the horse straight up the slope," he said.
"I can't, Dad. It's too steep," Kenny said.
"Yes you can. Just do it, Kenny. We have to get off the trail. He's right behind us," Jack said.
Jack slung the rifle over his shoulder and as they approached the steep hillside, gripping the edge of the saddle tightly between his fingers.
Kenny spurred the horse up the hill, and she climbed several feet but then balked from going any further.
The horse slid back down to the trail, and Jack tumbled out of the saddle onto the shifting rocks underfoot. He grabbed the reins and ran back up the hillside next to the horse, pulling at the harness. The horse struggled at first but scaled up the steep slope, climbing into the woods above the trail.
The slope grew less severe twenty feet up and began to level out, providing an area they could ride double again. He climbed on and they moved at a quick trot for a ways. Jack glanced backwards several times, anxiously watching to see if Shane had seen them climb the hill or had kept on going down the trail.
Gunfire erupted and a tree branch cracked next to them. Shane had followed them up the hill and was firing from the back of the horse.
"Kenny, take the horse and get home. I've got to end this. He won't stop until I'm dead," Jack said.
Jack hopped down and then gave the horse's rump a firm smack.
The horse immediately took off running, with Kenny hanging on tightly to the pommel and reins.
Jack put his rifle to his shoulder and took a hasty shot at Shane, then broke for cover. He reloaded the rifle with ammunition from his pocket and waited for the sound of Shane's horse approaching.
"Are you going to hide behind that tree forever, Jack?" Shane yelled.
"Let's end this," Jack yelled back.
"Oh I'm going to end it. You're not going to like how it ends, though. An eye for an eye, Jack, a son for a son. I'm going to kill your boy. And if I can't get this one I'll kill the other one. I know where you live, Jack. You can't hide from me," Shane yelled.
Jack leaned out from the tree trunk, took a shot at Shane, and missed. He took another look around the base of the tree and saw that Shane was now backtracking down the steep hillside they'd come up. A few more feet down the hill and then he was gone, nowhere to be seen.
In a panic, Jack looked around wildly trying to gauge the direction Shane was headed, trying to figure out what his plan was. Where would Kenny be? Would the path he took let him out on the same trail further down the line where Shane could ride up on him unsuspected? Could he catch up to either one of them on foot while they were mounted on horses?
Jack shouldered the rifle and ran straight through the woods, following the hoof prints along the path Kenny had just taken. He had to catch up to him before Shane found him.
He tracked the horse's prints left in the loose soil until they descended and merged back onto the path they followed earlier. He knelt down and saw there were now two distinct sets of tracks. Shane was right on Kenny's tail. He'd never catch the two of them on foot. He had to get up higher on the ridge line and run straight through the woods to cut out the extra mileage of the switchbacks. It was the only way to catch up.
He climbed straight up the steep slope, clinging to short shrubs and tree roots, pulling himself higher. Once at the top he got to his feet and ran through the woods, racing along the ridge. It was more difficult to maintain his footing up here but he had the advantage of being able to run a short distance to the right or left and see clearly down both sides of the mountain.
A half mile ahead he spotted Shane, spurring his horse up the trail. Kenny was nowhere in sight, but he had to be somewhere ahead of Shane.
Jack pushed his body harder and ran another quarter of a mile along the ridge, branches slapping against him as he hurried through the woods. Here the trail began to snake down the mountain and several switchbacks led to a long straight section of trail high above the rushing white waters of a river far below. The gravel underfoot grew increasingly treacherous, and Jack carefully climbed down to about twenty yards above the trail and hid behind a tree.
Kenny appeared out of the woods and trotted by, warily peering up and down the slopes, watching for signs of danger.
Jack held himself as still as a statue, making his figure as small as possible in the shade of the trees. If Kenny saw him he would try to convince Jack to double up and ride out again. He knew that would never work. With two of them on one horse Shane would have the upper hand and it would be the end of both of them.
Here, though, he would be in a good spot for an ambush. When Shane came along he could end this once and for all. His throat still dry and sore, he fought against the urge to cough as several minutes passed. Climbing down the rocky hillside had kicked up a lot of gravel dust, irritating his raw throat. Jack got himself into a kneeling position and held the rifle against the side of the tree, giving himself a stable shooting stance. He kept his cheek tight against the wooden stock and waited for Shane to arrive.
Less than a moment later, Shane rode out of the woods, his horse galloping fast along the trail. He held the reins in one hand and his rifle in the other, his eyes scanning the landscape as he went.
Jack kept Shane in the center of his sights and then moved them sight slightly off center, leading him with the rifle. When Shane was directly below him on the trail, he pulled the trigger.
The rifle made a 'click', as if the hammer had struck against nothing.
Adrenaline flooded through his body, his mind second guessing whether there was a round in the chamber or not. Jack lowered the gun, but before he'd lowered it too far the rifle fired, the recoil kicking the gun back against his shoulder.
Shane's horse reared up and threw him from the saddle. He landed hard on the loose gravel beneath the horse, wincing in pain. The horse screamed and kicked at the empty air, its mouth frothing. A bright red stream of blood began to spurt from its shoulder and the horse took off running down the trail.
Jack fumbled with the gun, caught off guard by the hang fire. He lost his footing and started to slide down the slope, accelerated by the shifting gravel underfoot. He dropped the rifle and then his feet went out from underneath him. He reached for the gun as he raced down the hillside in the middle of an avalanche of loose gravel.
Shane got to his feet just in time for Jack to plow into him, knocking him back d
own. Shane grabbed at the rifle, pulling at it in an attempt to take it from Jack's hands.
Jack jerked the gun back and pried it loose from Shane's grip. The rifle smacked him hard in the forehead, bringing stars to his eyes. He kicked his legs out and pushed Shane away from him, sending him sliding further down the slope.
Shane picked up speed and was carried away in the avalanche, tossed and tumbled in the loose rocks. Half buried in gravel, he clawed at the hillside with his hands until all of a sudden he vanished, sent tumbling over a cliff face.
Realizing the peril he was in, Jack let go of the rifle and scrambled toward a small spruce tree growing in the rocky hillside. He lunged to the side, his fingers gaining a tenuous grip on the pliable branches, and he fought to get a better purchase. He swung out his right hand and got a firm handhold on the wispy tree trunk.
The weight of the rocks in the avalanche tugged at him, threatening to pull him along. A large boulder, weighing at least fifty pounds, dislodged from further up the hill and came tumbling towards him. The rock collided with the tree trunk he clung to, smashing his fingers.
His fingers spasmed in pain and released their grip on the tree. Jack clutched at the shifting rocks, desperately trying to stop himself from sliding further down the slope. His stomach rose into his throat as he slid faster and faster towards the edge of the cliff. There was nothing for him to grab onto.
His heart pounding in his chest like a drum, he flew off the edge of the cliff amidst a shower of gravel. He tumbled head over heels, the world spinning wildly around him as he plummeted towards the ground far below.
Chapter 19
Chief Howell leaned back against the stone wall of the church, absently rubbing at his swollen and aching jaw. The sun had dipped lower in the sky, casting light through a different scene in the stained glass windows than before. The earlier hellish display of fiery orange and red was replaced with a serene cascade of light blue and yellow hues dancing on the wall. As he watched the colors play on the wall, a cloud of cigarette smoke ascended into the colored light, creating the illusion of a heavenly landscape just above their heads. A figure stepped between him and the light, disrupting the vision.
"Here. Thought you might need a swig of this," Roy said, handing him a bottle of whiskey.
He took the bottle and tilted it up, wincing as the alcohol stung a deep cut on his lip. It was one of many cuts and bruises he'd received today, although he was glad to see that he'd given Roy as good as he'd gotten. Roy's face was black and blue on one side, and his lip was swollen.
"Thanks," he said.
Roy kneeled down with a grunt of pain and then leaned his back against the wall, sitting down next to him. Roy took the bottle of whiskey back and lifted it into the air in a toast. "Here's to you, Chief. I can't tell you how good that felt."
"Now that you've got that out of your system, let's get down to business," Dutch said. "Everybody gather round. We need to make sure we're all on the same page here."
He straightened himself up and looked across the faces of the people in the church. Pastor Eisenbach and a few of the townspeople still wore cautious expressions, uncertain of what to expect from him after the violent fistfight with Roy. As the Chief of Police, he was the last symbol of their old way of life: a quiet, backwater lawman that shook hands at church socials and rescued cats from trees. Hell, this town had never been like that in the first place. The town needed to open their eyes as much as he'd needed it. If anything, the fistfight had done some good and shaken them loose from their expectations of law and order. The world just wasn't like that any longer.
Chief Howell groaned as he got to his feet and looked across the people gathered in a circle around him in the church.
"You all know what we need to do. We've got to work together to pull this off. Timing will be essential. If we do this right we can take our town back from these people and keep more of our folks from getting killed. We didn't start this, but we're damn sure going to finish it," he said.
Dutch and the bikers yelled, roaring with approval.
He took his keychain out of his pocket and removed a single key from the ring. Glancing up at the young biker standing next to Dutch, he reappraised the young man one last time. He wasn't a full member of the club yet, something they called a prospect. Sort of like an initiate. The boy had guts, he had to give him that. His would be the most dangerous part of this plan.
"You sure about this?" he asked.
"This will be a first for me. Running into a police station instead of out of one," the prospect said.
The bikers laughed and patted him on the shoulder.
"You pull this off and you've earned your Joker's Hangman patch," Roy said, gripping the young man's shoulder.
"All right. Here's the key to the gun cabinets. Make sure to grab plenty of ammunition and the rifles. Stay put after you grab the guns, don't try to make it back here. Stick to the plan. Wait until we take out those snipers before you leave the station. Don't try to be a hero," Chief Howell said.
"You don't have to tell me twice," the prospect said.
He tossed the key to the prospect, who caught it in midair. Chief Howell picked up his rifle and carried it with him to his post just inside the front door.
"Are you ready?" he asked.
The prospect jogged in place for a moment, warming his legs up. He crouched down into a runner's starting position and nodded his head, a serious look on his face. "Let's do it."
"On three then. One. Two. Three," he said, throwing the door open. He brought the rifle to his shoulder and laid down suppressing fire to keep the snipers heads down, walking backwards into the church at an angle as he fired to avoid making himself a stationary target for the snipers.
The prospect ran across the street and was inside the motorcycle club before the snipers had a chance to fire off a single round.
Chief Howell ducked behind a stone pillar and shouted at Pastor Eisenbach, who stood behind the large wooden door. "Shut it!"
The pastor slammed the door shut and sat down in a pew, holding a shaky hand over his mouth.
"Get up, preacher man. We've got to clear those pews out of the way. We need to make room," Roy said.
Roy and Pastor Eisenbach worked together with the elderly townspeople and moved each of the long wooden pews across to the far side of the room. With the pews removed, a large, open space began to form on one half of the church.
Across the street at the club, motorcycle engines roared to life as their riders revved their motors in the club's garage. The cacophony grew louder as more and more bikers joined the group, each adding another growling motor to the din.
"Here we go, people," Chief Howell shouted over the noise of the motorcycles. He moved to one of the broken stained glass windows and lined up his sights on the rooftop snipers and let loose two rounds in quick succession.
All at once the biker gang rode out of the club's garages. The noise was deafening as they raced down the empty street. The original pack of eight bikers split into two groups, each heading in a different direction down the main street. Further along the road this group split into two groups again, the bikers weaving back and forth across the traffic lanes as they roared down the streets, providing the snipers a more difficult target. The four packs of two bikers split up one last time and each man took a different street out of the town square.
After a moment the bikers swung back around, weaving in and out of the streets at full speed, sowing chaos and confusion for the rooftop gunmen. It was a distraction, keeping their attention away from the real plan they were putting into action.
The prospect barreled through the door of the church and dropped a heavy coil of nylon rope onto the floor. The young man caught his breath, picked up one end of the nylon rope, and then ran out through the door again.
Roy snatched up the rope and fed loops off of it so that it wouldn't become tangled as the prospect ran down the street.
Chief Howell moved back to the open doorwa
y and resumed firing at the snipers on the roof.
The nylon rope spun off the coil, and nearly half of the length went out through the door.
Out front, bikers buzzed through the town square and surrounding streets. As if on cue, they left the town square and rode away. The sound of their engines grew distant.
"He's in," Roy said, closing the church door partially.
Chief Howell stepped behind a stone pillar, his chest heaving for breath.
Dutch came out of the back of the church carrying a long folding table under his arm. "Hey. Found this. This will work perfect. Open that door up."
Roy pulled the door open, careful to stay out of the open doorway where the snipers would have a clear shot at him. Taking one end of the table from Dutch, they slid the folding table down over the stairs in front of the church, creating a makeshift ramp up the concrete steps.
"Think that will work?" Roy asked.
"We'll find out," Dutch said.
Minutes passed in silence except for the nervous tapping of feet and clicks of cigarette lighters as Roy and the bikers chain smoked.
Chief Howell watched the nylon rope intently. After a few minutes, the rope jerked and flopped about on the floor.
"He did it! He got them," Roy said excitedly.
Chief Howell peered out of the corner of the window, looking down the street. Just outside of the police station there was a black duffel sitting in the middle of the sidewalk, its handles attached to the nylon rope. A second duffel bag was tossed through the doorway joining the first, the second bag tied off to the first one.
"Come on, guys. Pull," Roy said.
Dutch and the Pastor joined him at the rope, lining up behind each other as if they were about to play tug of war. The rope went taut and they dragged the bags down the sidewalk a foot at a time.
The activity didn't go unnoticed for long. Halfway between the police station and the church, the snipers opened fire, shooting at the bag and the rope, in an attempt to cut the cord and prevent it from reaching the church.
It was a useless task. The nylon rope was thin, an impossible target for them to hit at a distance.
Desperate Measures: An EMP Survival Story (EMP Aftermath Series Book 2) Page 12