by Nathan Jones
Surprisingly Jane was out there almost as much as Matt himself, although he had the feeling she wasn't motivated by loyalty to the town. The hunting parties had to split the meat among them, and give a portion to the town in exchange for use of the guns and ammunition. Meanwhile anyone on patrol who managed to bring down game also had to give the town its portion, but the rest was theirs.
Matt had seen her ranging far out beyond the patrol route, particularly in places where the terrain might encourage game to follow predictable paths down from the mountains. And truth be told her refugee group was faring better than most of the town under her care, fed by the consistent meat she brought in. In spite of the extended ranging she carried out her duties on patrol as expected, and Matt couldn't begrudge her for her resourcefulness: attentive eyes had an equal chance of spotting humans as game, so she wouldn't miss any potential threats.
In truth he had to admire what she managed, caring for the group practically all by herself with whatever help Tom and Alvin Harding, neither of whom were particularly good shots, managed to provide. Matt did his best to do the same for his family, but a lot of the time he felt like he wasn't managing as well as he could. It physically pained him to see how much weight Sam had lost over the winter: she'd always been petite, but now she felt like just a wisp in his arms. Even worse, her cheery optimism had given way to the same sort of plodding dullness he saw in too many faces these days as she mustered the energy to do only what needed to be done.
It scared him.
He knew he wasn't much better off. He'd always been skinny, but now the face that looked back at him in the mirror when he shaved every few days was practically skeletal. He had trouble finding the strength to do more than plod along at a walk, and his arms trembled if he held his rifle up for more than a few seconds to look through the scope. He'd tried to follow Jane's example and find his own game on patrol, but she was either luckier than him or had a better idea of where and how to look. Probably the latter. All he'd managed were a few skinny rabbits and a single doe, which he still counted a blessing.
But his shift was over now, and that meant another cake that wasn't enough but that he desperately needed. More importantly, that meant he could collapse on his cot and rest for a few minutes with Sam in his arms, enjoying being with her for as long as he could afford to before getting back to the business of staying alive. Even a week ago the prospect of that would've been enough to put a spring in his step in spite of his weariness, but now it only served to keep him on his feet long enough to get home.
Smoke drifted up from beyond the shorter hill which lay between him and the shelter, since he was approaching from the west, and as he circled it and the shelter came into view he couldn't help but be grateful for the warmth he knew would be waiting for him inside.
Before going in, though, he made his way up to the observation post to greet April, who was sprawled listlessly staring through the scope of their dad's .30-06. Her gauntness worried him as well, especially when he saw her like this, perhaps even more so because she always made an effort to put up a cheerful and energetic front when she was around other people, hiding her suffering as best she could. Like she did now when she finally noticed him, only ten or so feet from the observation post, and scrambled to her feet to give him a wave.
“It's been nice lately,” she said, holding her arms out as if to embrace the sun. “I know this is just the “in like a lamb” part of March, but it still feels like spring's just around the corner.”
“I hope so,” Matt said, unable to share her mood. “Old Man Winter's overstayed his welcome.”
April sniffed, taking in the scents of baking on the smoke that drifted their way, and Matt heard her stomach growl. “Oh, that smells good. The same thing we've had for the last dozen meals straight and it's still making my mouth water.” She picked up the rifle and slung it over her shoulder. “I'm going to come in and eat with you guys.”
He hesitated, about to object, but then he thought of how close he'd come before she even noticed him. She needed a break, even from something as easy as sitting in the observation post scouting the area. And he was too tired to protest anyway, so he nodded and led the way down into the shelter.
Sam was at the stove frying the cakes, hands trembling slightly on the spatula when she flipped one. Matt came over and put his arms around her from behind, kissing the top of her head, and she gave a contented sigh and settled back against him as she kept working. The rest of the family drifted in for the meal, even Terry from the clinic, and gathered around the stove in anticipation. He heard more than one stomach growling.
Before too long the meal was ready, and they settled down on their cots in the living area with the curtains drawn back so they could all see each other, tossing the hot cakes from hand to hand.
Matt had just finished swallowing his first bite and was about to take a second when he caught movement outside on the ramp leading down to the door. At first his dull wits didn't ring any alarm bells at that, until he remembered that his entire family was gathered around him also eating. Even then it wasn't enough for concern, since he thought it might be someone they knew coming for a visit. That happened on occasion, so he was in no hurry as he looked up to see who it was.
Which turned out to be a gaunt, raggedly dressed man he vaguely recognized creeping for the door, pistol in one hand and eyes squinting into the relative darkness of a large underground space lit only by a single stove in back and light coming through the door. Behind him other figures crowded the ramp, clearly visible in the afternoon sun streaming in around them.
Time seemed to slow down, and the world froze as the fog around Matt's mind vanished into mounting horror. Sam sat beside him, between him and the door. The boys were sprawled on the floor gnawing on their cakes not two feet away from Matt's feet, directly in the gunman's line of sight. In fact, sitting there eating their lunch with an open door and no one manning the observation post they were all in his line of sight like fish in a barrel.
Matt drew the .40 he always kept on his hip and pointed it towards the door, inches from Sam's face. In spite of her own haze of hunger and exhaustion his wife had the presence of mind to duck back, hands darting to her ears, as he opened fire.
The shots echoed deafeningly in the enclosed metal space, and the placid sounds of eating and murmured conversation were replaced by his family's screams.
The gunman fell, his pistol thumping onto the carpet inside the shelter as its owner slumped across the threshold. Another man behind the first also fell, and with the sort of agility that comes from seeing a gun being fired your way the other attackers all dove back up the ramp and out of sight.
Matt bolted for the door, kicking at the groaning gunman to get him clear so he could close it. In the painfully bright sunlight outside he saw a dozen or more men and even a few women standing or sprawled around the ramp, some with guns but most bearing machetes or wood axes or other improvised weapons. The few guns he saw lifted his way, and Matt threw his weight behind the door and slammed it shut just as the first shots rang out.
Some of those weapons had been large caliber rifles, and he could only hope that Lewis's solid wood and sheet metal door could keep out bullets meant to bring down big game. It seemed like it could, or at least he didn't see sunlight shining through any new holes. It probably helped that they were firing down the ramp at an angle instead of straight on, giving the bullets a better chance to ricochet rather than penetrate.
He locked the doorknob and then the two sturdy deadbolts, just in time as the entire door shuddered under the weight of multiple people slamming against it. Which didn't worry him too much, since a door that could stop bullets would be hard to break down, and they'd have a fun time trying to chop through a quarter inch of sheet metal to get to the wood behind.
Behind him the screaming had stopped, at least among the adults. His dad hurried up, stooping to pick up the pistol the fallen man had dropped. “What in the world is going on?” he shou
ted.
Since Matt's ears were ringing from the shots he'd fired he appreciated the volume, although the question itself seemed a bit unnecessary. “We're under attack!” he shouted back. “More than a dozen people, four or five guns. I saw them sneaking in while we were eating.”
His dad scowled at the door. “Five guns? If we'd had someone in the observation post we could've sent them packing before they got within a hundred yards of this place.”
Matt felt a stab of anger, which wasn't enough to overwhelm the even more powerful surge of shame he felt. He'd left their home unguarded even when he should've known better. “You think I don't know that? I get it, I messed up.”
“That's not what I meant,” his dad protested. “We've just gotten careless. This isn't the first time we've brought everyone in to eat instead of bringing food out to whoever's on watch, and that's on all of us.”
That didn't make him feel any better, since he of all people should've been on top of making sure someone was in the observation post at all times. But before he could respond the thumps at the door abruptly stopped and a voice cut in harshly from outside.
“Larson!” The door shuddered under a pair of blows. “We know you've got food in there, Larson! An entire bunker full of it. And your doctor's probably got medicine too! Bring it all out and it's the last you'll see of us.”
Matt glanced back at his family. His mom had gathered up Aaron and Paul and retreated back behind the stove where they'd be safer from any stray shots. Sam had snatched up Matt's AR-15 from where he'd set it on the bed and was staring at him with wide eyes, while Terry held the shotgun Matt had given him and April held their dad's hunting rifle.
They were as well armed as the bandits outside, the problem was they were in here and the bandits were out there. At least this place was built like a bunker and the entrance could hold for a while. Matt pulled his radio from his belt. “Chauncey?” No response. “Mayor Tillman?”
Blast. Of course the radio wouldn't work this far from town and inside a metal shed buried under a few feet of dirt. Which left just one option, talking. “Who's out there?” he called through the door.
“As if we'd tell you!” came the immediate reply. The door rattled again. “Listen, Larson, we don't have anything against you. Most of us even respect you. But we're getting that food from you one way or another.”
Matt didn't need them to identify themselves. He vaguely recognized the man he'd shot as one of the refugees, nobody who'd worked with Ben or helped defend the town, though. He thought he might've seen him go out with the hunting parties a few times. The others were probably his friends and family, willing to risk exile or even execution in the hope of food. Although they'd probably planned to leave town after this attack.
“Not through this door you're not,” Matt answered. “And you've got about fifteen minutes to realize that before the help I just radioed Mayor Tillman for gets here.”
There was a doubtful pause, and he thought he heard the faintest sounds of conversation drifting through the thick door from the people outside. “No way your radio works in there!” the attackers' spokesman finally said.
Matt laughed, although he felt more like throwing up. “Haven't you heard anything about this place? My friend thought of everything. He's got an antenna going out. Not only can I radio the town but I've got double the range I usually would.”
“I didn't see any antenna. Besides, we've got a nice tall hill right here. If we see anyone coming from town we can be long gone before they get here. Assuming you aren't lying. And if you are lying then you should probably just give up now. We don't have to bust down this door to kill you guys, you know.”
Before Matt could respond a slightly muffled crack shivered through the door, and a hole appeared in its center at about chest height. Matt was so surprised by the sudden circle of daylight that he barely noticed the sting on his arm where the bullet had grazed him.
Instinct kicked in and he shoved his dad to one side of the door, putting his back against the wall on the other as he followed the path of the bullet towards Sam, April, and Terry, still standing farther back. He could see the whites of all their eyes. “Anyone hit?” he hissed.
“No,” came a chorus of replies.
Matt beckoned frantically to them, and after an uncomprehending moment they all rushed to the front of the shelter to crouch beside him and his dad on either side of the door. The safest places to be aside from behind the stove, which was already occupied. Matt took his dad's hunting rifle from April, doing his best to control his breathing as anger replaced his shock and panic.
“It would be nice to call whoever just shot at me by name,” he said. “You realize that bullet flopped like a dying fish by the time it got through a door this thick?”
“That was a .308, Larson,” the spokesman replied. “I'm guessing none of you got hit, but if you did you'd definitely be fee-”
While the attacker was still talking Matt spun out partially in front of the door and leveled his dad's gun straight out in front of him. He fired a shot at the near edge, worked the bolt as he shuffled a bit to the side and fired another shot, repeated the action and fired a third, and repeated the action again to fire a fourth and last shot at the far end of the door before flattening himself against the wall beside his dad.
Everyone else was holding their hands over their ears, and he wished he'd had ear protection as he shouted over the renewed ringing in his own. Sometime during the short space between shots he also thought he'd heard screaming, but he didn't hear it now. He barely heard himself as he called to the attackers.
“That was a .30-06! I'm guessing someone got hit, and you're definitely feeling it!”
The reply came in the form of a long string of cursing through the five holes now punched through their front door. It was a different voice than the one who'd spoken before. It also seemed to be coming from farther away, as if their attackers had retreated up the ramp to escape the unexpected return fire. Matt took a chance and quickly looked through the nearest hole, which only seemed large until he tried to peer through it.
He couldn't see much, but from what he could tell of the shadows in the ramp no one was down there. He did see a bit of a foot and leg crouched up beside the ramp, and he lifted his rifle up to the very top of the door in line to try for a shot at it.
He must've hit, because over the renewed ringing in his ears he heard another string of cursing and shots fired wildly from the top of the ramp, none of which pierced through since they were shot at an angle.
“You're dead, Larson! You hear!” the new spokesman screamed. “You and your whole family are dead!”
Matt peered through the new hole he'd made higher up, but nobody was in sight there. He tried the other holes as he darted across to the other side of the door to rejoin Sam and April, but he couldn't see anyone from them either. “They're trying something,” he muttered. He glanced up at the ceiling, which was unbroken aside from the holes for the stovepipe and the two vents, one near the front of the shelter and one at the back. “Don't go anywhere near the vents or stovepipe holes, just in case they try to shoot down.”
His dad was breathing hard even though he hadn't moved in several minutes. “The vents have those wind turbines on top and the stovepipe has its hat. We should be able to hear something if they try to take those off to line up a shot.”
Matt nodded but didn't respond, since he'd just heard noises coming from the stovepipe only a few feet away and a bit farther back. Just to be safe he rushed his wife and sister to the other side of the door before following himself, and in a huddle they all waited for some sign of what the attackers had planned, ears quivering for any sounds.
No gunshots came from the stovepipe, and only that brief bit of rustling. He also heard some rustling from the vents, but no shots came from them either. After several minutes of tense silence Matt felt himself relaxing a bit.
Time was on their side. He might have lied about radioing out for help but eventu
ally someone in town would notice that no one from the Larson clan had been around for a while. Matt might not be missed, since he didn't always come back into town for planning and paperwork after his shift. But Terry probably would be, or if not him then Sam or April since they continued to help at the clinic and even took over his duties when he wasn't available.
While Matt was thinking that over a sudden uneasiness settled over him: something about the room was different. He couldn't tell what it was, but after living here for months he knew there was something wrong. Sam had been fussing with the bullet graze on his arm while they waited, but he gently pushed her fingers away and straightened, looking around.
Woodsmoke. That wasn't all that odd since they had the stove slow burning most of the time to heat the large space, but usually most of the smoke made it out through the pipe stretched along the ceiling, heating the room before making its way outside. The only time the smoke would be this thick was if they had a large fire going in the stove or if the flue was shut.
Feeling a sudden surge of dread, almost as much as when they'd shot at him through the door, Matt leaned close to his dad. “Watch the door,” he hissed. Without waiting for a response he hurried across the room to the stove, barely sparing time for a reassuring smile for his mom and nephews huddling behind it before throwing the door in front open.
Smoke billowed out, and as he coughed against it he snatched up a nearby pail of water they used for hand washing and threw it onto the flames. With a sharp hiss the smoke was joined by steam, and Matt hurriedly shut the door again to close it off, then turned to his worried looking family. “They've closed off the stovepipe and vents. They're trying to suffocate us.”
“Matt!” his dad shouted, eye pressed to a hole in the door. “They're starting a fire!”
Matt sprinted back to the door and looked through a hole beside his dad. As he watched a flaming log flew down the ramp to thump against the door, quickly followed by another. “It's okay, the only thing anywhere near that fire that's flammable is the wood in the door, and it's behind sheet metal. They're not burning this place down.”