"Don't bet the farm on that," I muttered.
My first shot struck the cruiser in the passenger side front fender. The heavy .50 caliber round did exactly what it was designed to do. The Beowulf was designed to take out vehicles that attempted to run roadblocks and checkpoints. My second shot struck mere inches away from the first, leaving two ragged holes in the fender. Coolant and oil began to pour from the underside of the vehicle.
"One down," I muttered, smiling.
"What the hell are you doing?" she squealed, her voice a panicky shriek.
"Evening the odds," I replied, sighting in on the second cruiser.
I put two rounds through the radiator of the second vehicle and watched as steam poured out from the grill. The hood popped up and smoke rolled into the sky. Weapons began to bark and chatter as they returned fire. I lay on top of the two girls as bullets began to strike the SUV from multiple angles. I felt a slight tug as a round passed through my rucksack. That one was too close for comfort.
The weapons that were firing at us were all small arms. None of them were automatic weapons, and the chatter was from someone pulling the trigger entirely too fast. It was undisciplined fire from untrained shooters. I knew that they only had six deputies, and I had shot one of them on the roof of the jail. That left five. Then there were a ten firefighters, cops and some civilians. They didn't have anyone else, as far as I knew.
Raising the Beowulf, I emptied the magazine at the one remaining patrol vehicle. I wasn't really expecting to score any significant hits, since I was only covering Randall. They stopped firing, undoubtedly diving for cover. The loud roar of the Beowulf was enough to make anyone dive for cover.
I grabbed Randall by the pack straps and started dragging him towards the SUV. It was the only cover we had. We would be completely exposed if we tried to run back to the store. I dragged Randall the last few feet to the side of the vehicle and dove down. I couldn't help but smile when I saw the damage I had done to the one remaining cruiser. I had taken out one of the rear tires and punched a hole in the gas tank.
I yanked my D.A.R.K. kit off of my belt and threw it to Copeland. She was an EMT and would be able to help Randall far better than I could. She deftly caught it and went into a flurry of motion. Despite her lack of combat training, she was ice cold when it came time to take care of the wounded. Randall was in good hands.
Fishing in my pack, I found what I had been looking for, an emergency flare. With an evil grin, I removed the cap and struck the igniter. It sputtered and flared bright red, growing quickly in intensity.
"Eat this," I yelled, and threw the flare in a high arc towards the cruiser that was leaking fuel.
"Oh shit!" I heard Armstrong yell. "Run!"
The flare hit and bounced under the damaged Charger before rolling right beneath the leaking gas tank. There was a sudden "whoosh" and fire erupted all around the vehicle, completely engulfing it in flames. In seconds, it was belching black smoke high into the air.
"Kill that son-of-a-bitch!" screamed Armstrong.
Once more, weapons fire erupted from multiple directions. A round creased my cheek as I dove for cover, leaving a bleeding line across my face that felt like fire. Copeland continued to work furiously, applying a compress to the shoulder wound and wrapping it tightly. Kimberly stayed low to the ground and covered her head with her arms.
I quickly changed the magazine in my Beowulf and tucked the empty back into my cargo pocket. The incoming fire was too heavy for me to risk sticking my head up. I knew the SUV was really taking a beating, but so far nothing had gotten through. It was only a matter of time before they realized just how badly they outgunned us. Then they would come in from every direction and we'd be overrun.
"Grant," hissed Randall through pain clenched teeth. "We can't stay here."
"I can't move him, yet," snapped Copeland, steel in her voice that I'd never heard before. "I can't get the bleeding to stop."
"Fucking assholes on TV," grimaced Randall.
"What?" I asked, glancing at him in surprise.
"People on TV get hit in the shoulder, all the time," he said. "Most of the time they shrug it off like it's nothing. This shit hurts like hell."
"The bullet is still inside," explained Copeland. "I can get it out, but I can't do it here. I need someplace to lay him down and cut open that wound."
"Aw, shit," mumbled Randall.
Suddenly, the pitch of the gunshots changed. I heard the unmistakable sound of an automatic weapon kick in, followed by a second. I glanced up to see two of our Humvees come roaring down the street from the south with gunners on both turrets engaging groups of Armstrong's people.
"Hell yeah!" I screamed, holding my rifle in the air.
The two Humvees screeched to a halt, not twenty yards away from us and familiar faces began to pour out. I could see Webber and Winston were on the SAW's in the turrets. Spec-4, Southard, Gunny and Snake came running towards us, weapons at the ready. In seconds, the SAW's fell silent and you couldn't hear any of Armstrong's people returning fire. Silence filled the streets. That wouldn't last long, the firefight would bring every zombie for a mile or more right down on us.
"How the fuck did you find us?" I asked, grinning from ear to ear.
"Well," said Spec-4, grinning. "We heard gunfire and figured you'd be involved."
"We just knew that it would be you drawing all that fire," said Southard. "Last we knew, there were only a few of you."
Before I could answer, gunshots pierced the silence. The first round struck Southard in the throat, just below his helmet strap. The second entered just above his body armor. Blood erupted from the wounds as Chuck fell backwards to the ground. I turned to see Armstrong emerge from behind an abandoned car, her Glock pistol in her left hand.
I stood to bring up my weapon and felt the impact of three rounds in my chest. I watched in slow motion, as I fell to the ground. Through the burning pain in my chest and trying to draw a breath, I watched in horror as Armstrong continued to advance on us. Spec-4 and Gunny both opened fire, each hitting Armstrong with a controlled burst from their M-4's. She went over backwards and collapsed to the ground, blood pouring from her chest and abdomen. The pistol fell from her lifeless fingers and clattered to the ground, discharging one final round, creasing Gunny's left leg.
I turned to look at Southard only to find him with blood streaming from his nose and mouth. He was trying to sit up and reaching out towards me. His mouth opened and closed as he tried to get his breath, while his eyes were wide open in shock. Through the ragged holes in his throat, blood was spurting at an ever decreasing rate. It looked like he was trying to say something to me.
I rolled on my side and crawled to him, tears stinging my eyes. I was only inches away from his outstretched hand. Spec-4 knelt beside him as I finally reached his side. He was gasping for air, but I could clearly hear him trying to speak. He was still staring the same direction that he had been staring before. I realized then that he wasn't looking at me.
"Mel…," he hissed through the blood, his words gurgling in his throat. "Mel…o…di."
He was calling to his wife. It wasn't me that he had been reaching for. Chuck was dying, and he knew it. Spec-4 applied pressure to the wounds in his throat, but I could see that it was already too late. The blood was now only a trickle. Armstrong's bullet had hit the Carotid Artery. The damage was done and there wasn't anything we would be able to do to save him. As the color faded from his face and his eyes began to lose focus, he turned to me, seeing me for the first time.
"You…were…right," he hissed. "They're…waiting…for…me..."
Then he was gone. The light in his eyes faded away and he went limp in my arms. Tears flowed down my face, stinging my eyes, as sobs wracked my body. Chuck Southard was like a brother to me. I felt his pain when he lost his wife and kids, and I felt it all the more now. I smiled through the tears, knowing that he'd gone to be with Melodi and the girls. They were together again, in paradise. I lay my head on
his chest and cried. I cried for my friend. I cried for my brother. I cried for all that we had lost.
"Wylie," said Spec-4, gently. "He's gone."
I held onto him without looking up.
"We have to go," she said, sadly. "We can't stay here. The dead are coming."
"I won't leave him," I said, surprisingly forceful.
"We'll take him with us," she promised. "We have to go, now!"
We quickly loaded everyone into the Humvees. Gunny helped me carry Southard to the back of the vehicle. There were tears streaming down his face, mirroring the ones on my own. We placed him inside as gently as we could, laying him in the cargo area in the very back of the Humvee. As I started to climb in, Gunny put his hand on my shoulder. I turned to look into the haggard and drawn face of my friend and mentor.
"Gawdamnit, I'm sorry, son," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "It's never easy losing a man, but it's worse when you're as close as you two were. I'm sorry, son."
I wanted to say something, anything, but the words just hung in my throat. All I could manage was a grunt and a sniff before the crusty old Jarhead pulled me into a big hug and held me while I fought for control.
"I'm getting too old for this shit," said Gunny, as he gently let me go. "Ride with your friend, son. We'll take it from here."
Snake and Gunny gathered the fallen weapons and gear while I sat in the back, holding Chuck in my lap. I don't remember the trip back to Bennett Springs. I just remember the words of an old song that my grandfather used to sing. The haunting tune came back to me as I held my friend. There wasn't a dry eye in the Humvee as I sang.
"The minstrel boy to the war is gone, In the ranks of death you'll find him;
His father's sword he has girded on, And his wild harp slung behind him;
"Land of Song!" said the warrior bard, Though all the world betrays thee,
One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard, One faithful harp shall praise thee!"
Chapter Twenty-One
Balefire
“When a great man dies, for years the light he leaves behind him, lies on the paths of men.”
- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
It was still early in the morning when we made it back to the camp. Maddie and the medical team came out and whisked away the wounded. She gave me an apologetic look as she checked Southard, but I already knew there wasn't anything she could do. There was only one thing left to do for him and I would see to that personally. I owed him that much, and more.
"What are you going to do?" asked Spec-4, as I began to clean off his face with a rag.
"I'm getting him ready for a warrior's funeral," I said, not looking up.
"Do you want me to get a group together and start digging?" she asked, putting her hand on my shoulder.
"That won't be necessary," I said, still not looking up. "That's not what I have in mind."
"We're going to burn him," explained Snake, kneeling beside me. "It's the old way."
Spec-4 didn't reply. She just nodded and walked away.
"With or without his gear?" asked Snake, looking down and wiping his eyes.
"With," I replied. "Just unload the guns."
Without another word, we worked side by side. Once Southard was ready, we began constructing the pyre. We built it in the clearing near the river. We soaked the wood in kerosene as we layered it higher and higher. We also layered in several old tires that we found in the maintenance building. The final structure was nearly six feet tall with wood locked into layers that would trap in the heat and build a large pit full of coals. With the addition of the tires, it would burn for a long time and be almost impossible to put out.
By the time we were ready to put Southard on top, we had attracted a large crowd. Even my wife and sons were standing by, waiting to see what was happening. We gently raised Southard to the top and lay him on a bed of tires. He was dressed in his body armor, helmet and black BDU's. I couldn't bring myself to put him back in his patrol grays. He was one of us.
On his right hip was his duty weapon and his badge was pinned in the middle of his Interceptor vest. I placed his M-4 on his body with his hands folded across the barrel and the stock laying on his knees. The last thing I placed on him was the Thor's Hammer that I had given him. It would go with him to the halls of the honored dead.
"Goodbye, brother," I whispered, tears in my eyes. "Save me a seat in the Great Hall."
When I climbed down, I discovered that almost everyone had turned out to see this. I felt I owed them some kind of explanation. I needed to let them know why we were burning my friend instead of burying him. Then I heard a voice speaking. I was surprised to find it was Snake. He began haltingly, but his voice grew in power and volume as he spoke. He held us all captivated by the power of his voice.
"Long ago," he began, "our ancestors lived as warriors. They fought and bled with the honor and dignity that was taught to them by the Gods. We honored our greatest warriors by sending them to Valhalla on the flames of a great pyre, called a Balefire. This way, the warrior would be in paradise instantly."
There were more than a few nods and a few murmurs, but no one interrupted him. Snake's voice was strong and resonated through the crowd.
"Most of us here can trace our heritage back to Europe," he continued. "But it doesn't matter what your heritage is, now. Through the years, our bloodlines have intertwined. Today, we honor our ancestors by honoring this fallen warrior. Charles Southard was a good man, a great warrior and a true friend. He will be missed greatly among us. Although I have only been with you for a short time, I could see how much he was respected by all of you. Let us not mourn his passing, but celebrate the life of a Great Warrior. Valhalla will welcome him home and he will see his loved ones, again. How can that thought make us sad? Let us all celebrate this warrior, each in our own way. I, for one, will lift a glass to his memory and hope that I live my life so that I am worthy of such a glorious sendoff to the next world. This is the old way. If we are going to survive in this world, we will need to remember the old ways. They will keep us alive."
The crowd seemed to murmur its approval. My wife and sons joined me as I used my old Zippo lighter to start a torch. It sputtered but caught fire, sending oily black smoke curling into the air as the oil and kerosene soaked rags began to burn.
"Wylie," said Snake, nodding to me, "say the words."
I didn't need to ask what words he meant. I had felt them welling up inside me from the moment he began to speak. I held the torch aloft and began the stanza written in ages long gone. The Gods only knew how many fallen warriors had this verse spoken over them, or how many more would come. My wife and sons joined in after the first line.
"Lo, There do I see my Father.
Lo, There do I see my Mother and My Brothers and my Sisters.
Lo, There do I see the line of my people back to the beginning.
Lo, They do call to me.
They bid me take my place among them in the halls of Valhalla.
Where thine enemies have been vanquished.
Where the brave shall live Forever.
Nor shall we mourn but rejoice for those that have died the glorious death."[26]
With the final word hanging in the air, I tossed the torch onto the pyre. In a rush of heat and air, flames engulfed the kerosene soaked wood and fire rolled into the sky. The heat washed over me in a massive wave and I had to raise my hand to shield my face. The flames were so intense, the crowd had to avert their eyes. It was in that instant, through the gap in my fingers, that I was certain I saw a shimmering light surround the top of the pyre.
I knew that I was seeing the light from the armor of the Valkyries. Southard had died well in battle and was worthy. He would find his way into the Halls of Valhalla. Just as quickly as it appeared, it was gone. All that remained was the flames. Above us, the dark clouds were gathering for a storm. Lighting flashed through the sky and I knew that Thor had heard us.
I glanced at Snake and could tell by the
look on his face that he had seen it, too. As the black smoke drifted into the sky and vanished on the winds, so did the gathered crowd. One by one, they began to leave. I wanted to stay until the last ember died, but that could take all day. This fire was burning hot and fierce. Even the coming storm was unlikely to quench it before it was nothing but ash.
Tonight, we would gather and lift a glass to the memory of our fallen brother. I couldn't dwell on his passing for too long, though. We might have dealt a fatal blow to the Lacland County Sheriff's Office, but there was still the Stalkers to deal with. They would come tonight and we had to be ready.
I lost myself in the tasks I needed to finish. I went into the room we had set aside for communications and began making marks on the map. I marked all of the places that Randall had told me about. They would be our objectives, in the days to come. We would gather the supplies and get them back inside our facility.
One place stood out in my mind, above the others. It wasn't a place that Randall had mentioned. It was right across the street from where we had spent the night in the liquor store. The place was an agriculture supply and feed store. There we would find all of the seeds, equipment and supplies we would need to begin growing our own food. As important as the OEM warehouse of supplies were, the ability to grow food was far more important. It was the next step for us to begin rebuilding our lives.
"Wylie," said Winston, quietly. "Do you have a second?"
"Sure," I replied, turning away from the big map. "What's on your mind?"
"Bowman and a few others are going to take the Honey Badgers and go check out the people stranded at the Mega-mart," he said, consulting his clipboard. "Do you want to go with them?"
"They can handle this run," I replied. "I need to get to work on finding the Stalkers."
"Yeah, about that," added Winston. "We've been scouring the area looking for places they could be hiding. We've got a theory."
Ragnarok Rising: The Crossing (The Ragnarok Rising Saga) Page 34