“Still to be decided…” began Bob.
The gunshot cut through his words, pushing him to the ground, a large pool of blood spreading all over him.
Chapter 14
Roger had taken up position atop their garage, a monstrosity built at the request of his wife. The pyramid roof complete with bell tower, was for once in its existence, proving its worth. He had complained bitterly at the additional cost and height of the garage, but she had wanted a feature that he was finally appreciating. The fake bell tower, although flimsy, offered him an exceptional shooting position to see down the street. Their house, the largest on the street, sat at the far end, set back from the rest of the houses and on the upslope, affording it frontal views out across the city below.
Roger had heard them coming. The moment he heard the horses’ hooves crashing against the tarmac, he knew it was Bob. The man was nothing, if not resourceful. He had half-expected them to have appeared on mountain bikes. Bob was a big guy, an imposing man, it would have been a comical sight.
Roger put his eye to his scope, tracking the noise, waiting for the horses and their riders to appear. His M1A M21 Springfield was ready to propel its .308 cartridges to wherever he pointed with deadly accuracy. A horse’s head come into view first, poking above the fence and beyond the house at the end of the street. Roger’s body tensed at the sight. There was still a chance it wasn’t the militia. He had the faintest of hopes that he was wrong. Then Bob rode into view, his image filling the scope briefly, to be replaced by three other horses and riders, blocking his view. In a fraction of a second, he had missed the shot. He chastised himself as the horses continued to protect his target.
He could see the men talking as they jumped down from their horses. They were unaware of his bird’s eye view, his line of sight allowing for an angle over the fence they thought was shielding them. They had no idea that he was ready for them. Bob came back into view and Roger couldn’t afford not to take the shot again. Without Bob, the militia was nothing. He squeezed the trigger, the rifle exploding into action, pulling up and pushing back into his shoulder. He pulled it back onto target, but Bob was no longer standing. He scanned down to see that Bob had been propelled backward into the open and was on the ground, kicking and flailing wildly.
***
“Get him off me!” shouted Bob as he struggled against Jerry’s dead weight on top of him.
Patting Jerry on the back had saved his life and ended Jerry’s. The slight movement, combined with Roger’s hastily-aimed shot had caught Jerry perfectly center mass and propelled his dead weight forward, crashing into Bob and sending them both tumbling to the ground.
Neil had reacted as soon as he’d heard the shot, catching sight of the gunman’s location. He ducked out of the gunman’s line of sight, an elevated position allowing him a clean shot over the fence line of a home a few yards behind them. Neil crawled forward, keeping low. He grabbed Bob’s boot, pulling at it with all his might. Vince, the other rider, quickly caught on and keeping low, helped with Bob’s other boot. Between the two men, they were pulling over four-hundred pounds of dead weight, two-hundred pounds of which had no inclination, nor need to move. Bob inched towards them as another crack of gunfire echoed across the estate. Neil felt the whiz of the bullet as it cleared the fence behind them. He felt the world had slowed right down as he pulled even harder, despite already pulling as hard as he thought possible.
***
Roger had no idea who he had hit. He could see two bodies on the ground, blood spilling out from beneath them. All he knew was that Bob was still moving. He lined up the headshot and squeezed the trigger once more. This time, he was ready for the kick and was surprisingly more calm. The first shot had been, as they’d said, the hardest. He kept his eyes on the target and followed the bullet.
“Shit!” he screamed, as somehow Bob’s prone head slid away at the very moment the bullet struck the sidewalk. He looked for another shot, but the fence now blocked his line of sight. The body, still visible, was unmoving. His first shot had killed whoever had been standing next to Bob. He’d had the shot and had rushed it.
***
“Jesus, that was close,” gasped Neil as the bullet tore into the tarmac surface where Bob’s head had been just moments earlier. Bob was sitting with his back to the fence, patting himself frantically to ensure the blood that soaked him was all Jerry’s and not his own. After a few seconds, he turned and smiled at the two men next to him. They too had their backs to the fence, offering only Jerry’s corpse as a target.
“Things are getting fun now,” whooped Bob, a manic look on his face. The adrenaline, after two near misses, was pumping through him. He grabbed his rifle and checked it was good to go.
Neil and Vince readied their weapons.
“What’s the plan?” asked Neil.
“Kill that deserting blood sucker!” said Bob, moving up to a crouch. He edged his way along the fence line towards the end and snuck a look down the street. He could see Roger’s shooting perch, a ridiculous appendage atop his garage. He wasn’t even sure what it was supposed to be. A bell tower or something but it had no bell, just a little pitched roof above a balustrade. He ducked back.
“He’s got absolutely no cover up there. Vince, you draw his attention and I’ll take him down.”
“How will I do that?”
“You’re gonna make a dash for the horses.” Bob pointed to the horses which were tied to a railing beyond the safety of the fence.
“I’d rather not,” said Vince, looking at what he guessed to be a ten-yard kill zone between him and the horses.
“I’m not asking whether you’d rather do it, on three! 3…2…1…”
***
Roger’s eyes caught the movement at the side of the fence, but whoever had looked was already gone by the time he had a chance to shoot. They had seen where he was, of that he had little doubt. His hide was exposed. He turned and sat on the steeply sloping roof, sliding down on the far side, out of sight of the attackers. His feet slowed him as he neared the guttering at the base of the roof. A few tiles were damaged in his haste, but that was the least of his concerns. A seven-foot drop to the driveway followed. Fortunately, his foreboding visions of twisting or breaking his ankle didn’t come true. He landed in a crouch with his rifle slung across his back and raced into the house, just as a burst of gunfire tore his wife’s bell tower to shreds.
Barbara was waiting for him, tears streaming down her face and a bag at her feet.
“I’m ready to go,” her voice wavered in fear.
“Too frigging late! Get down in the basement and lock the door! Come out for no one but me!” He bolted past her and up the stairs, towards the loft. A small feature window at the top of the house, almost invisible from the outside due to the shadow cast from the overhanging roof, offered a view back down the street. He got to it and watched as an attacker darted diagonally across the street, working his way towards him. They were still a few houses away. Roger took aim and squeezed the trigger as the attacker attempted his next diagonal.
***
“Damn, he’s not there any longer,” shouted Bob as he emptied his magazine into the small tower.
Vince thanked God he’d reached the horses and promptly ran back to cover.
“Okay, we’ll work our way down the street, darting from house to house, moving up one house at a time.”
Neil and Vince both nodded.
“Okay, go!” Bob slapped Neil on the back, whilst holding Vince back. As Neil reached the cover of the next house, Bob waved Neil onward.
“Go!” he shouted to Neil. As Neil ran to the next house, Bob raced to the first house. Two men running as fast as they could across the street, Bob crossing the opposite way from Neil. Another pause and Bob, back with Vince, pushed him onwards again. Vince had the short straw. He was making the crossing on his own, offering Roger no confusion over who to target. One target, one shot.
A shot rang out and Vince fell, followed almost instantly by a burst of gu
nfire. Bob had used Vince’s movement once again to take aim. He had remembered the small window at the top of the house, almost indiscernible from a hundred yards away, in the shadows of the overhanging roof. He had thought it an excellent vantage point looking back down the street when he had visited previously, and he hadn’t been wrong when he saw the flash of Roger’s rifle firing from the shaded darkness.
Roger failed to return fire. Bob knew there was little chance he ever could. He had returned fire instantly towards Roger’s line of fire. A hail of bullets tore into the only place Roger could have occupied.
Vince’s screams cut through the otherwise silent street as the shooting stopped.
“D’you get him?” asked Neil from across the street.
“Yep,” replied Bob, despite not actually seeing the kill shot.
Neil raced out to check on Vince. Bob followed a little more cautiously, his eye remaining on the shaded area beneath the roof.
“Oh shit, it’s bad. He’s taken out a chunk of his lower spine,” explained Neil, as Vince writhed in pain.
“Can you move your legs?” asked Bob, kneeling at Vince’s side, his eyes constantly checking Roger’s house.
“I can’t even feel them.”
Bob stood and fired a round into Vince’s head without so much as a pause or a goodbye before walking towards Roger’s house.
“What the hell?” struggled Neil, not sure whether to console the now dead Vince or chase after Bob.
“This isn’t a world for invalids. If he’d lived, he’d never walk again,” said Bob without a backward glance.
Neil had a choice to make. Follow Bob or make a stand for Vince. Vince was dead, but Bob had survived two attempts on his life and had killed another two men. He was also the man who had given him a purpose to what had been a shitty life. He stripped Vince of his weapons and ammo and hurried to catch up with Bob.
***
Another hit, thought Roger when he spotted Bob. His mind raced to get his body to react. The lightning speed of his thought process slowed catastrophically as his physical processes took over. He knew what he wanted his body to do, it just couldn’t do it anywhere near fast enough. His feet felt the force of his leg muscles pushing them into the floor as the first bullet struck, his M1 taking the full power of the shot, adding additional momentum to his moving body. The second bullet took out his scope, merely a tenth of a second later. To his racing mind, it felt like a lifetime before the third bullet struck, directly above the top of the scope, mid-forehead, a perfect kill shot. All thoughts instantly stopped.
***
Bob stood over Roger’s corpse which lay in a strangely contorted position.
“It would have been better if he were still alive,” said Bob, frustrated at how good his return fire had been.
Neil searched the body and discarded the M1 in frustration. “Ruined,” he said, throwing it and the shattered scope aside.
“We need to find his wife,” said Bob urgently.
“Why? She’s not done anything wrong,” said Neil.
“He may have told her things,” said Bob, stomping away, his mind preoccupied with the frustration of not being able to torture out of Roger whatever he had known.
“What things?”
Bob spun around, his eyes flaring in anger. “If you needed to know, I’d tell you! Just find…,” he shouted, stopping mid-sentence and lowering his voice. “What was that?” he whispered.
“What?” asked Neil, hearing nothing as his ears still rung from Bob’s tirade.
Bob stood at the top of the narrow staircase that led into the loft area. It wasn’t what he had heard, he too had heard nothing over his own voice, but he had felt a vibration through his foot. Somebody had stepped onto the staircase below. Bob stepped back, the entry to the staircase was below him to the left, around two ninety degree turns, four steps, a small landing, a straight run to another landing before turning another ninety degrees and a final four steps into the loft. The staircase was one complete unit and unlike the rest of the house, which was on show to the world, was not the best money could buy, but a functional and cheap set of stairs, knocked into place and hidden out of sight to all but the homeowners themselves.
***
Crazy didn’t even begin to describe how Gary’s morning had been. The Sherriff’s office had no working communications, no vehicles, and no idea what was happening and quite frankly, from what Gary surmised, no clue as to what to do. He had stuck it out for most of the day but as reports of violence were relayed, it became clear there was little or nothing they could do in response. By the time they had received the report, to the time they could get help to the area, the incident was over and or far too dangerous for two deputies on mountain bikes to deal with. With no communications, calling for back-up wasn’t an option.
The jail itself was a mess with no electricity, and although it was November, the prisoners were overheating without air-conditioning. The toilets had backed up within hours of the water going off, and with sanitary conditions worsening by the minute, it was clear the situation was only going to get worse. Without transport, food for the inmates wouldn’t arrive. All in all, it was a disaster. Without sanitation or food, the Sherriff had no choice other than to order all but the most serious offenders to be released. One thousand and twenty-three inmates became eighty-seven, as lunchtime came and went without food being delivered.
Gary and the other deputies had managed to scrape together enough to feed the eighty-seven. With far less strain on the toilets and with some shuffling around of cells, they’d managed to rehouse the more serious offenders in almost humanitarian conditions. Dinner and the following morning’s breakfast were catered for, but beyond that, nobody knew what they were going to do. There was already talk of releasing everyone but the five murderers, and that was less than ten hours after the power, water, and everything had stopped working. Ten hours, thought Gary, and it was already messed up beyond comprehension. He headed home for a few hours’ rest and to check on his family before going back to work. The Sherriff wanted them to maintain high visibility as much as possible, and as such was authorizing overtime, something Gary hadn’t seen in a long time.
It was only as he hit the hill at the bottom of Warm Springs Mesa that he realized how exhausted he was, or more accurately, how unfit he was. The hill, although not steep, was long and slow. The view behind him of the unmoving Boise was not one he wanted to linger over. He kept his head down and pushed on the pedals. All forward momentum had all but stopped when the first shot rang out from ahead. His head automatically snapped to the direction from which the sound had come. It was from the same direction as his house. He pushed on the pedals and began to move faster and faster. He had a wife and a three-year-old at home. A second shot rang out. He pedaled harder. He reached the first street in the community to see his neighbors scurrying into their homes at the sound of the shot. While they ran away, Gary cycled towards it, two streets away, two uphill sections still to mount. He pushed on, his holster flap unclipped, allowing quick and easy access to his Sig Sauer P226 pistol. He didn’t care that he was alone, his family was in danger.
The body next to four tied-up horses had his heart racing as he entered the street. Another body lay opposite his house in the middle of the street. He cycled with every ounce of energy he had left to his front door, jumping off his bike as he mounted the sidewalk and driveway. The momentum carried him through his front door at a full run. His wife threw her arms around him.
“Thank God, you’re home,” she cried.
“Where’s Debbie?” he panicked, looking around for his daughter.
“She’s fine,” she calmed him. “In the back playroom.”
“Bob Jackson, the Little League coach?” asked Gary for the third time as his wife described what she had seen.
“Yep, but with the meanest look on his face. Pure evil. He shot that man,” she pointed into the street. “Without a thought, and he was with him!” she stammered between tears
.
Gary looked out of the window and squinted to see Roger and Barbara’s house, which sat at the end of the street. All was quiet. He pulled out his pistol and checked it was ready.
“What the hell are you doing?” asked his wife.
“My job.”
“Your job is looking after your family!” she commanded.
“I’ve sworn an oath, and Roger and Barbara need help.”
“And who’s going to help us if you don’t come back?”
“I’ll be back,” he said confidently, opening the door and closing it behind him.
Gary worked his way along the front of his neighbors’ homes, but none of them came to his aid. Grown men cowered with their families from the evil that was on their street, outside their own front doors. He shook his head as he made it alone to Roger’s front door. It lay open. He could hear voices from upstairs. He climbed the stairs carefully, his pistol leading the way, ready to take down whoever came at him.
“Just find…” As the volume of Bob’s voice rose, Gary made his move. The first stair to the loft creaked under his weight. He wasn’t worried about the noise with the shouting, but he could have sworn the staircase moved. Bob’s shouting stopped instantly. Gary paused before moving onto the first small landing. He was still out of sight.
“Who’s there?” came a shout from above, Bob’s voice. He knew Bob well. He was a larger than life character who’d kept himself to himself.
“Gary. I live a few doors down. I’m a sheriff’s deputy.”
“There’s nothing for you here, Gary. Now head on home.”
“Bob, there’re two dead bodies outside that tell me otherwise.”
“What they should tell you, Gary, is that things have changed here today. Best go on home. I know you’ve got a lovely wife and daughter who’ll be needing you.”
TRIAL: A Post Apocalyptic/Dystopian Thriller Page 7