The Last Bastion_Book 4

by K. W. Callahan

  Up at the roadhouse, Dan and Ben had just finished dumping the last dead biter into the roadside ditch.

  Dan led the way back toward the roadhouse.

  “Be there in a minute,” Ben said after him. “Gotta take a piss,” he veered off toward one side of the roadhouse where a large oak tree loomed.

  Dan found Marta inside with Jill. They were finishing setting up the last few chairs that had been knocked over in the biter attack.

  Jill picked up one chair, set it down, and then watched it topple right back over again, one leg having been broken by a falling biter.

  “Guess this one has seen better days,” she eyed it with a grim smile.

  “Good fodder for the burn barrel,” Dan observed.

  “I’ll break it up,” Marta took the wounded chair from Jill.

  “If you guys have this under control,” Jill gestured around her to the barroom that was starting to look halfway normal again, “I’m going to search for more firewood. I don’t think broken chairs are going to cut it. It’s going to be a long, cold night.”

  “Good thinking,” Dan said. “I’ll stoke the fire and then come help you,” he followed Marta into the kitchen where she had begun breaking up the chair with heavy kicks from her booted foot.

  He paused for a moment, watching Marta stomp the chair. He was amazed that somehow, after the attack in town, the travel to the roadhouse, the ensuing biter assault, and dressed in her winter gear, Marta still looked good. A blue knit cap covered most of her blonde locks, which had faded to a lighter shade of brown since the outbreak.

  Dan had always wondered if Marta was a true blonde. Now he had his answer. He stood, admiring a trim, yet shapely frame, the top of which was hidden beneath a bulky black coat. Yet the bottom half of Marta was packed snugly into tight-fitted jeans that revealed legs that just wouldn’t quit and that led to a firm, yet shapely rear. Maybe it was just the lack of companionship talking or the extreme duress under which they currently labored, but Dan was suddenly finding himself more attracted to Marta than ever before.

  “Nothing I find sexier than a woman beating the hell out of furniture,” he joked as he moved around her to pick up several pieces of wood from the floor.

  “Is what they call ‘woman’s work’ in Poland,” she glanced over at him with a deadpan look and then the slightest upward curvature at the corner of her mouth. It was just a twitch, barely a glimmer of a smirk that Dan had termed her ‘Polish smile’.

  Marta always seemed so serious, so dark, so brooding, so mysterious. It drove Dan nuts sometimes. He wanted to see her break from behind the façade, to come out of her shell, to be wild, silly, laugh uncontrollably, act girlishly. But she was always so composed, such a woman, such an adult. He knew that somewhere deep inside, there had to be that piece of her that just wanted to break free and let loose, but he’d yet to see it. Even when she was drunk, while she would laugh and joke, it was always with an air of restraint. It almost intimidated Dan.

  Marta was the type of woman that Dan figured wanted a truly manly man. And he considered himself reasonably close. He was strong, he was handsome, he had owned his own business before the outbreak, and he had been a fair employer to Marta at the bar. Yet on the several occasions he’d asked her out, she had politely, yet sternly, refused. And as time passed, he found himself acting silly around her in an attempt to break through that barrier of seriousness. In so doing, he hoped finally to gain access to the inner sanctums of Marta’s personality.

  Suddenly the sound of gunfire erupted outside.

  “Shit. More goddamn biters?” Dan huffed, his shoulders slumping. “I’d better go help Ben and Jill. If I never have to deal with another biter, it’ll be too goddamn soon,” he moved back around Marta and pushed his way through the swinging door and out of the kitchen.

  Marta’s foot had become wedged between a cross section of the chair she’d been stomping. “I’m right behind you,” she called after Dan as he disappeared through the swinging door.

  She grabbed the remnants of the chair with her hands, yanked her foot free from where it had become lodged, and grabbed her rifle from where she’d set it on the nearby stainless steel prep counter.

  It wasn’t until Dan opened the roadhouse’s main door and stepped outside that he realized his mistake. It wasn’t biters attacking. And it wasn’t just Ben and Jill outside shooting. But he didn’t have time to contemplate his miscalculation. As he scanned the scene outside, he saw Ben over by the tree where he had gone to take his pee, firing his rifle at a group of armed assailants. He saw the armed assailants firing back at Ben. He saw one of the armed assailants hit by Ben’s fire and go down. He saw Ben hit by one of the armed assailant’s fire and go down. He heard Jill scream. He saw Jill firing at the armed assailants. He saw them return fire and Jill jolt and then drop to the ground after several rounds tore into her body.

  It all seemed to happen in slow motion, before he could even begin to comprehend what was happening or why, or before he could bring his own weapon to bear.

  Dan scanned the group of assailants who had just shot Ben and Jill. There were four of them left standing. Another was down on the ground, the one Ben had shot. They stood at the edge of where the road met with the gravel parking area. Two more assailants were on the other side of the road, firing from behind a tree. It seemed that another group had taken shelter at the far end of the parking area, near a cluster of trees. Flashes of gunfire were coming from the area, but it was impossible to tell how many people were taking cover there.

  Dan instinctually knew that they were screwed. He was instantly frustrated, angry, damn pissed off that they couldn’t just be left in peace to hide out here in the middle of nowhere. His impulse to return fire outweighed the smarter impulse of self-preservation that told him to duck back inside and take cover. And his determination to protect Marta, still inside, outweighed all else.

  The group of men standing at the edge of the gravel parking lot had now directed their fire toward him. And Dan returned the favor.

  He hit one with a burst of three rounds, dropping the man to the ground where he lay motionless in the damp gravel.

  As Dan adjusted his line of fire toward a new target, rounds tore into the roadhouse around him. They splintered wood, smashed through the metal signs affixed to the building’s exterior, and knocked several of the signs to the ground. Several rounds thudded into the door jam just above Dan’s head.

  Dan dropped to a knee for better cover, albeit not much. But his rage was taking over. At this point, he almost didn’t care if he lived or died. Other than Marta, he really had nothing to live for. His world as he knew it had been stolen from him. And if these men got to Marta, there would be nothing else in his life.

  Suddenly there was gunfire from the doorway behind him. It was Marta.

  “Get back inside!” he yelled.

  Her only response was to continue firing, a determined grimace on her face.

  Dan briefly wondered how Poland had ever lost the war with women like her.

  Marta let loose with a spray of bullets, taking down another of the men at the roadside and sending the two remaining men running for cover.

  Dan was proud to have this woman fighting alongside him. She was just as competent with a firearm as any man he’d fought with over the past two months, and he had to admit, braver than most too. But this pride was equally balanced by fear, fear that a bullet could forever steal this woman from him and any chance he had of making her his partner both in life and in love.

  And he was right. A bullet did steal her from him, but not in the way he’d expected or feared. But if anything positive could be taken from that last moment in Dan’s life, it was that he was thinking about the woman beside him, a woman that in his last breath, he realized that he loved, and had loved, even if he would never know if she had loved him in return.

  Marta was shocked by the sight of Dan dropping to the ground, a bullet having found its way into the left side of his head, a
nd out the right side in a puff of blood, bone, and brain matter. She was so shocked in fact that she stopped firing, momentarily unsure of what to do.

  The lull in her fire gave the men surrounding the roadhouse the opportunity they needed to break from their positions. They continued to fire, advancing toward Marta, their bullets pushing her back through the roadhouse doorway and into the barroom.

  Inside, Marta glanced around her, wondering where she should or could make her last stand. Behind the bar seemed the obvious choice. She fell back toward the rear of the barroom, heading for the pass-thru at one end of the bar near the entrance to the kitchen and the doors that opened to the deck outside. But before she could get there, men were inside the roadhouse with her. There was no time to take up a good defensive position, and if she ducked behind the bar, she would be trapped and as good as dead. Retreating to the kitchen would leave her in a similar situation – trapped. The only option other than death was to duck back outside onto the roadhouse’s rear deck that overlooked the river.

  The first man inside the roadhouse sprayed the room with rounds from an automatic weapon. Marta ducked behind the rear of the bar as bullets blasted the glass doors leading to the deck into a million glittering shards.

  She took the smashed glass as a sign that her shot to make it outside was now or never. She gripped her rifle tightly and made a break for the blasted-open doors. She had no plan other than to get away from the attackers. If plunging headfirst over the deck’s railing, and down into the icy river below was the best way to escape, then that was what she’d do. What came after that, well, she’d deal with that when the time came. Being swept away downriver, drowning, hypothermia – none of that mattered to her now. All that mattered was life.

  She hurled herself through the remains of the shattered doors and hit the deck running. She hoped to make a sort of headfirst lunge, diving over the deck rail that stood just over waist high. She just prayed the river water below was deep enough to absorb her impact and that there were no large rocks directly below the deck’s edge.

  But this was not how it happened. Instead, just as she was about to make her leap for freedom over the rail, Marta felt herself hit hard in the back by three hammer-like blows. The force of the impacts shoved her forward awkwardly, knocking her off balance just as she reached the end of the deck. She lurched ahead, stumbling, and hitting the deck rail so that she went heels over ass over its side. Marta tried to regain her breath as she fell, knowing that she would need vital oxygen to be submerged beneath the frigid waters into which she would soon plunge. But it was a failing effort. No breath came. The three bullets that had hit her in the back had seen to that.

  Marta felt herself tumbling as she fell. She wondered how she would hit the water. Interestingly, there was no pain from the bullets that had struck her, only a breathless, stomach-churning descent. All she could think about was regaining her breath. The lack of oxygen, her desire for air, it was almost debilitating.

  Suddenly Marta felt water, then at almost the same instant, hardness against her back and head, which was not what she expected. Then there was nothing.

  Two armed men walked over to the edge of the deck and peered over its side.

  “Told ya I got her,” the one nodded to the other, and then looked back down at the motionless Marta lying below, face up in the river shallows.

  “Na…that was me. I hit her right in the back with that last burst,” the other said.

  “Whatever,” the first guy shook his head. “Too bad,” he added after a second. “She was kinda hot. Bet she woulda been a good fuck.”

  “Might still be,” the other sneered, giving his buddy a sidelong glance. “Probably still warm if you hurry up and fish her outta that water.”

  “You know, you’re one sick fucker,” the first guy looked at the other and shook his head.

  “I know,” his buddy laughed. “Well, you don’t want her, maybe I’ll have a go,” he jostled his buddy’s shoulder with an arm.

  “Disgusting,” the other shook his head. “Come on, let’s get outta here.”

  “Yeah, guess the fish will get her all to themselves.”

  Back in front of the roadhouse, a pickup truck had pulled up into the parking lot. Armed men were climbing into its bed while a lone man exited its cab.

  The lone man wandered into the middle of the parking lot and stood, hands on hips.

  “All clear, Groush,” one of the armed men paused on his way to the pickup truck.

  Groush nodded approvingly. “Idiots,” he said. “They should have laid low. We can’t have people hanging around here like this. It could come back to bite us. They could give us trouble down the road. And the way they got that town set up back there, we might be staying for a while.”

  “Well, we got ‘em. They might have escaped us in the raid last night, but we got ‘em,” the man grinned, nodding confidently.

  Groush looked at him, suddenly angry. “What? You want a fucking cookie or something?”

  The man’s smile instantly disappeared.

  “So were there any supplies left inside?” Groush asked the guy. “You did check, didn’t you?” he eyed the man intently.

  “Uh yeah…I mean, yes, we did. We searched the place. But we didn’t find much. Doesn’t look like they got out of town with much more than their weapons. There were a few cans and some bottles of water, but nothing much more than that.”

  “You got their guns? Ammo?” Groush pressed.

  “Yep, got it all,” the guy nodded.

  “Good,” Groush sneered. “Maybe next time they won’t be so fucking stupid as to use their weapons so close to home…or what was their home,” Groush scoffed, shaking his head with a grim smile.

  The other man looked around somewhat uncomfortably at the bodies of Dan, Ben, and Jill still laying where they fell in the firefight. “Uh, yeah, well, I don’t think there’ll be a next time,” he snorted sarcastically as he nodded at the bodies sprawled around the roadhouse. “Doesn’t take a fucking brain surgeon to see that.” Then, realizing what he’d just said, he swallowed hard, cleared his throat and looked away from Groush’s searing gaze.

  Groush stared at him, jaw clenched. “Good point,” he nodded calmly as he mashed his lips together. Then he pulled his weapon, aimed it at the man, and squeezed the trigger.

  A single round hit the man in the chest and he fell to the ground.

  “Smartass,” Groush snarled, walking over to the man, aiming his gun at the man’s head, and firing one more round.

  CHAPTER 6

  “Remember folks, handguns and ammo in sealable freezer bags,” Michael announced. “We don’t want them getting wet.”

  The Blenders had spent the day since returning from their boat-scavenging expedition organizing and packing the remnants of their supplies. The fact that these remaining supplies were already starting to dwindle made their packing easier. But they still had to contend with an array of items to fit into their boats.

  They selected the smallest generator and four gallons of fuel for the trip. They also chose two coolers for the remainder of their meat and other supplies that needed to be kept cool. They had packed this material in snow and ice inside several coolers during the last snowfall to help keep it cold. They packed two camp stoves, a large tank of propane, and several smaller camp-size propane tanks that they had brought with them from Brookfield.

  They then worked to split up things like drinking water, canned goods, clothing, flashlights, lanterns, select tools, toiletries, medical supplies, and other foodstuffs among various packs. They wanted their supplies spread out as much as possible among the two canoes and fishing boat. This way, if there was an accident of some sort, they didn’t have all their eggs in one basket – or more aptly, all their supplies in one boat. They placed a tied-shut garbage bag full of food inside another cooler and secured its top with several bungee cords.

  “There!” Josh gestured proudly toward the cooler. “If this goes overboard, it should fl
oat just fine.”

  “Might even act as a sort of life raft,” Ms. Mary added.

  Other goods were being placed inside freezer bags and trash bags to help keep them dry before being placed inside packs.

  Michael looked at his watch. “All right people! We go in one hour!” he announced to the group, still busy making final preparations.

  * * *

  “What in the hell is that, and why are you packing it?” Patrick paused with helping Justin with his pack to watch Ms. Mary with the item she was preparing to shove into her own pack.

  “It’s mayonnaise gone bad,” Ms. Mary said matter-of-factly. She held up the plastic jug inside which the brownish-hued mayo had obviously separated.

  “Ugh!” Justin made a face, coming over to see. “Yuck!”

  “That’s disgusting!” Patrick recoiled, his lips curling at Ms. Mary’s revelation. “Why would you keep that?”

  “Well,” Ms. Mary said, seeming unperturbed by Patrick’s distaste for the item, “it might be disgusting, but it can work as a great source of light in a bind.”

  “Light? What, are you nuts? How’s rotten mayonnaise going to provide us with light?” Patrick shook his head in disbelief.

  “I don’t have time to demonstrate right now,” Ms. Mary explained. “But the liquid fats and oils that have separated themselves inside the jar can be poured onto a plate or bowl. You can make a wick out of cloth, tissue or paper towel or something similar that will absorb these liquids. And voila! You light it, and it burns.”

  “Yeah right,” Patrick gave her a look of incredulity.

  “That’s impossible!” Justin picked up on Patrick’s lead.

  “No really,” Ms. Mary said. “I did it once. It actually burns for quite some time.”

  Patrick just stood for a moment, shaking his head. “The things you know, Ms. Mary. I’ll never know how or why you know them, but you certainly are something else.”

  “Thank you,” Ms. Mary smiled, shoving the mayo container into her pack. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”