30. ‘Justice might kill off some of the bad ones but everyone else has got to die of something else.’
Hope plunged his hands into the black cargo bag he was lying beside and pulled out a Browning rifle; he sprayed the direction of the last potshot. The dense, dark woods swallowed up the rounds with an easy appetite. There was a reaction, however, as the sniper’s next bullet came much closer, spitting off a tree not far from Hope’s head. To Hope’s mind it was an improvement: if someone was to take a shot at him, let it be to kill.
He rummaged through the bag again to one of the half dozen Mills grenade lurking within. He pulled the pin and tossed it from a kneeling position, finding the gap between trees that could have sent the grenade bouncing right back at him. The explosion panicked the forest: birds fled their perches and rabbits took to their burrows.
Hope was up and running again, taking the bag with him. There was a road not far away from which he had dumped the cargo bag on his approach to the Youngs’ residence and it would take him on to Sacksville. The town would not swallow his bullets nor conceal the sniper quite so easily as the woods and so stood as his best chance to break the death grip upon him. He threw out a second grenade as further encouragement for the sniper to keep his distance, which obligingly erupted in a loud fury.
Reaching the road with the effects of the explosion still reverberating through the trees, Hope found that he had caught the attention of a police patrol car. The car was outward bound from Sacksville just ahead of Hope’s position and was crawling along, its uniformed occupants trying to make sense of this disturbance to what some would call Sackville’s dependable tranquility while others would less charitably dismiss as malaise. Hope was quickly able to catch up with the patrol car and jumped into the backseat.
‘A drive in the country?’ said Hope through his bandana handkerchief, training his guns on the two officers in the front. ‘Where is the picnic hamper? I’m famished.’
The driver, a giant of a man, sneered into the rearview mirror with a grim calmness. ‘We’re looking for a murderer.’
‘But not looking to get murdered. So, we’re going to turn this heap round and roll back to Sacksville. I’d prefer Chicago, but Sacksville will have to do.’
‘Before you start barking instructions,’ replied the officer, ‘you’d better consider what’s coming up on you.’
‘If you’re talking about the devil stalking me, I’m aware.’
‘Boy, I’m talking about a whole truck load of them.’
Hope noted the wry smile in the mirror and glanced quickly out the back window over his shoulder. There was an oncoming military truck, less than a quarter of a mile away.
‘The national guard has been mobilised,’ informed the cop. ‘Roadblocks are up. The whole county is locked down tight. You’ve been robbing banks and murdering innocent folks and now it’s time to put down your weapons and face justice.’
Hope cocked his two pistols with his thumbs. ‘Justice might kill off some of the bad ones but everyone else has got to die of something else. Start driving or you’ll get your what right here.’
The thick-necked cop put his foot down on the accelerator only for gunfire to scream out from the woods, shooting out the tyres and front windscreen. So, the sniper could hit a target if he put his mind to it. Still, it was less than clear whose side he was on, and he certainly hadn’t convinced the cops in the front it was theirs.
‘We’re hit!’ cried the driver as he struggled to maintain control with the car riding on its rim and the windscreen cracked and holed. With anther bullet smacking into the bonnet in an apparent attempt to demobilise the engine, he had reached his limit. He veered off the road, hitting the brakes, though finding more stopping power with the tree he bounced off.
‘Get out!’ He cried and tumbled out the door onto the dusty road on his hands and knees and scrambled for the cover of trees. The front passenger was heading in the same direction, albeit in a more cumbersome fashion, hampered by a pronounced limp.
Hope squeezed his way between seats to the steering wheel and peddles. He reversed and heaved the patrol car round to be Sacksville bound. There was still speed to be had from the engine, though the steering wheel was shuddering so violently it was threatening to break his wrists.
The military vehicle tried unsuccessfully to cut him off, only succeeding in smashing out its tail lights in the midst of a bump that heightened the patrol car’s contortions. Hope’s burst of profanities was drowned out by the sniper, who turned his attention to the truck, again taking out tyres and windscreen in a barrage of precise shooting.
Hope watched in his rearview mirror a scene of soldiers pouring out of the truck, returning fire haphazardly into the woods as they scattered for cover. Their sheer numbers would give the sniper something to think about. And as the scene began to fade into the distance, Hope crossed his fingers that it would give him time. The shot out patrol car would not go far. Sacksville would have to do.
Death of the Extremophile Page 41