He was nearly at the bend when he chanced a glance behind him. The Raiders were a vision from a medieval past, their faces distorted with bloodlust as they steered their horses into the canyon mouth. Carl knew that his survival was now measured in minutes as the dust cloud approached, and drove himself faster, blood streaming freely from his mangled leg, his boot wet from it pooling in the sole.
He estimated that he had another fifty yards of distance before he was in reasonable range for Alan to cover him, and realized with a sinking heart that he wouldn’t have time to make it all the way. Hopefully the younger man was ready for what was to come – their carefully crafted plan was unraveling and would turn into a chaotic gun battle within moments.
He made it to the turn just as the first shots rang out from behind him, but the Raiders were still out of accurate range, and their shots went wild. He continued with determined effort, ignoring the agony that accompanied every step, and once out of sight of the horde bearing down on him, he increased his pace to a stumbling jog, aware that he was leaking his lifeblood onto the rocks as he searched for a good place to take cover. If he could find some place ideal, the gunmen would be wide open as they rode into the crossfire – and maybe, just maybe, he’d live to see another day.
Feeling was gradually returning to his arm, but the news his body sent wasn’t good. While the bones didn’t feel broken, he’d torn ligaments, and the appendage would be of limited use. He tried to flex his fingers with only marginal success, and the effort sent a searing burn the entire length of his arm and through his shoulder. He looked down and saw that one of his fingers was dislocated, compounding his problems – he’d deal with that once he was behind the boulders to his right, which, while not ideal, would have to do.
He staggered the final yards like a sailor on the deck of a ship in a storm and threw himself behind the shelter of the rocks just as the first Raiders entered the narrow gulch. Carl flipped the safety of his AR-15 off and set it to single-fire mode, painfully aware that with his arm and hand in the condition it was in, he might not be able to swap out magazines in a timely manner. He would have to make every shot count.
With only seconds to spare, he popped his dislocated ring finger back into place and then steadied the rifle against the rock and sighted on the lead rider.
Carl squeezed the trigger and the rifle bucked against his shoulder. The Raider pitched forward on his horse, which kept galloping, unaware that his rider had just taken a round through the chest. Carl fired again, drilling the man a second time for good measure. He flew from the saddle and landed headfirst, his foot still caught in the stirrup, and the horse dragged him forward, leaving a bloody streak on the gravel in its wake.
The other Raiders opened fire, and the ravine echoed with detonations as Alan’s rifle joined the fray from up the gulch on full auto, striking riders and horses alike. Carl tried to be more surgical in his shots, but it was difficult as the Raiders at the front slowed and the ones in the rear bunched up and pushed past, creating pandemonium in their midst.
Rounds blew chunks of rock in sprays of chips around Carl’s position, but he kept firing with the methodical regularity of a clock, choosing his targets. He missed more often than not, but he was determined to make the shots that landed count. Between Alan’s shower of lead and his efforts, five of the men met their deaths within the first few volleys, and by the time there was a lull in the shooting as Alan jettisoned an empty thirty-round magazine and slammed another home, the surviving Raiders had gone to ground, taking cover behind whatever they could find – several using boulders like Carl, others the carcasses of their downed horses.
The chatter of Alan’s automatic fire resumed, answered by the deeper rattle of the larger caliber AK-47s the Raiders carried, but neither group scored any more hits. Carl waited for a clear shot at the nearest shooter and, when the man’s head rose above the rock, loosed three shots in rapid succession.
The top of the Raider’s skull vaporized in a spray of bloody emulsion and he fell back, dead before he hit the ground, his Kalashnikov emptying in a long burst as his trigger finger clutched reflexively. Carl shifted his aim to where another gunman was hiding, and bided his time, waiting patiently for the man to show himself.
Motion from the rocks to his left drew his attention, and he saw too late a Raider, one of the last into the jaws of the trap, drawing a bead on him. Time seemed to slow to nothing, and then he felt two hammer blows to his chest and tumbled backward. The third shot blew most of his larynx away as his head twisted, his rifle sailing from his hands as if of its own volition.
Carl’s last thoughts as he lay dying were of himself as a boy, running like a fury through the tall grass in a field adjacent to the trailer where he’d grown up, laughing in delight as he chased his beloved German shepherd, Ringo. The vision dimmed as his brain, starved of oxygen, shut down, replaced by the sun, high in the summer sky, receding into oblivion as everything faded to nothing.
Alan’s rifle continued to lay down salvos of fire, but his aim was imprecise at the greater range, and two of the surviving Raiders were able to dart from cover to cover and backtrack to the mouth of the gulch. Another gunman fell to Alan’s rounds, and eventually a lucky shot tagged the lone remaining shooter, and the canyon fell silent as the roar of Alan’s final shots boomed off the sheer rock walls.
An uneasy silence settled over the area. After five minutes of watching and waiting, Alan cautiously called out from his position.
“Sheriff?”
The absence of a response to two more cries told the deputy everything he needed to know. When he was sure he was alone, he rose and picked his way along the rocks to where his horse was waiting just over the gully crest for his return.
Chapter 19
Lucas belly-crawled forward in an effort to put more distance between himself and the cave mouth, and only once the daylight streaming through the opening had dimmed to nothing did he dare switch on the flashlight again. He had no room to maneuver; if one of the Raiders had caught sight of him as he’d vanished into the hole and decided to lob a grenade after him or loose a few rounds, Lucas would be dead in the water. That left him with only forward as an option, and he inched along, dust blinding him, more than aware that the snake in the other cave wasn’t the only menace that awaited the foolhardy.
The passage opened slightly, and he found more room as he slid further into the cave. After an eternity he found himself in a rough chamber carved from the earth by groundwater that still collected in rivulets along the base. Slowly he played the flashlight beam along the length of the natural vault. At the other end he spotted another opening, and he considered his options. There had been only two riders, judging by the hoofbeats. He could either hide in the cave in the hopes that they eventually left when their companions failed to return, or he could crawl back, this time facing the opening, and catch them unawares before they had a chance to react.
Given that they hadn’t pursued him, he concluded that they had no idea he was there, which was all the advantage he would need. He freed the M4 and retraced his route, crawling the last ten yards.
At the opening, the sunlight so bright it took his breath away, he peeked out and saw the pair arguing near the fire. Their voices were indistinct but obviously agitated. Both gripped their assault rifles, which was the only bit of bad luck – his ideal situation being one where they’d left them with their horses, which stood patiently near the skeletons.
He estimated the distance at a hundred fifty to two hundred yards, well within the accurate range of his weapon. They were grouped close enough so he could cut them down with a few well-placed bursts, but just in case, he worked a spare magazine free from his flak vest and set it beside him.
The danger of shots drawing more Raiders was now the least of his worries. The girl was in the other cave, and after he took this pair out, he’d retrieve her, make his way to Tango, and ride to where he’d agreed to meet Alan and Carl on the trail by the burned-out ranch hou
se. Any new Raiders would come from their territory to the south, or if the lawmen had failed to neutralize the rest, from the north. Lucas would be heading east and so would have plenty of advance warning if pursued. He knew this stretch of foothills well from chasing mustangs along its crests, and he liked his odds.
Returning his attention to the gunmen, he drew a bead on the closest. He thumbed the fire selector switch from safe to three-round burst mode, the weapon always locked and loaded when in the field, and exhaled slowly while exerting gentle pressure on the trigger.
The rifle barked and shell casings shot to the side as he emptied half the magazine in a deadly hail of bursts. The nearest Raider jerked like a marionette as armor-piercing rounds shredded through him, but the second was too fast and dove for cover as Lucas adjusted his aim.
The Raider was good. He stayed in motion, rolling toward a pair of rocks that would offer protection, and Lucas watched as his advantage slipped away. He fired at the gunman, but his bullets only sent fountains of dirt into the air inches to the man’s right.
Lucas fired again, and this time one of the slugs tagged the man’s upper arm, wounding him, with the other two ricocheting harmlessly beside him. The gunman was almost behind cover, and Lucas tried again as the shooter paused to raise his AK – his only mistake so far.
But it was sufficient. Two of the next three of Lucas’s rounds found their home in the Raider’s upper chest, where ruby blossoms appeared as the exit wounds fountained red into the air. Lucas resisted the urge to empty the magazine into the man, and instead waited, his ears ringing so loudly he couldn’t hear himself think. The man shuddered and lay still. Lucas watched his chest through the scope, searching for any sign of breathing, but saw none.
After a minute, he emerged from the cave and edged over to the one where he’d heard the little girl crying.
“Eve? We need to get out of here. Can you make it on your own, or do I need to come in and help you? Don’t be scared because of the shooting. Everything’s okay now.”
He didn’t hear an answer, but couldn’t be sure. He called again, and when he didn’t get a response, slid the M4 into the hole and tried crawling through again, this time just barely succeeding. Once inside, the cavity narrowed, and he almost got stuck twice, images of being entombed for eternity due to being unable to wriggle through vivid in his mind.
The passage opened up once past the initial run, and after negotiating the bend he’d seen in the light, he flipped on his flashlight and saw that he was nearing another larger cavern, this one twice the size of the neighboring one. In the center was what appeared to be a pool of still water, but when he emerged from the passage and shined the beam into its depths, he judged it to be a cenote, with no bottom anywhere close. The cave walls were a darker gray than the loose gravel outside, streaked with mineral veins that glittered in the LED light. He swept the chamber slowly, probing the nooks and crannies, but saw no other passage.
She had to be in there.
But where?
“Eve? Come on out. The bad men will be back. We’re running short on time. Are you all right? Where are you? Sierra, your aunt, sent me.” When he received no response, he tried again. “She told me she hid you in here and left you with some water and food. I couldn’t know that if she hadn’t sent me, Eve. Please. Call out so I can find you. I know it’s scary. So let’s get out of here.”
A tiny figure in a soiled tunic, her shins skinned, emerged from a depression at the far side of the cave. Eyes the size of saucers stared at Lucas, framed by a mop of unruly black hair. Lucas nodded and did his best to offer a friendly smile. The little girl didn’t look convinced, but he was running low on patience.
“Are you okay, Eve?”
A nod.
“My name’s Lucas. I’m going to take you to your aunt Sierra.”
“I…I’m hungry,” she said in a tiny voice he could barely make out, and then Lucas was hurrying over to her as her knees buckled and she sank toward the floor.
Chapter 20
After checking on his horse, Alan worked his way down the slope to where Carl had been, a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He held his AR-15 at present arms, wary of being bushwhacked. When he reached the rocks where he’d last seen the sheriff, his worst expectations were confirmed – Carl lay on his back, his eyes staring into eternity and his mouth open in a permanent O as though startled by death’s untimely intrusion.
Alan said a few words, head bowed, and then removed Carl’s plate carrier and slung it over his shoulder. He unstrapped the sheriff’s web belt, removed his holsters, and finally, retrieved his AR-15. The next sheriff would require weapons, and with a pragmatism born of years of contending with post-collapse reality, Alan knew that despite his despair at having lost a good man, the equipment would still be needed back in town. One quickly learned to waste nothing and to leave nothing behind, and he next moved to one of the dead Raiders and repeated the process of stripping him of guns and ammo.
Two trips to his horse later, he’d stashed away the serviceable weapons in his bags. After a long pause to look around the gulch a final time, he led his horse down the trail to the dry wash, the only sound the moan of the breeze through the canyon and the squawk of buzzards already circling overhead.
Alan felt guilty for not burying Carl, but he was keenly aware of time slipping by, and he didn’t want to miss Lucas, who he suspected would wait not a minute longer than he’d agreed to. The man was tough as boot leather and didn’t suffer fools, but Alan could think of nobody he’d rather have watching his back in a firefight.
The shoot-out had shaken him, and his hands were still trembling as he passed another dead Raider. He’d had close calls, but had never been in a combat situation before, and even though he’d been shooting from a distance, which made the kills somewhat surreal, the bullets ricocheting around him had been unmistakably deadly. Carl’s body drove the point home. Only one of them would be returning to Loving, and he’d be breaking the bad news to Carl’s wife.
Alan stopped and leaned to the side. Tears streamed down his face and he vomited, supporting himself by leaning against his horse, heaving until his stomach was empty and all he could do was spasm. He gasped for breath and wiped his nose on the back of his forearm, and then forced himself back under control. He was wasting time he didn’t have. There would be plenty of opportunities for remorse on the ride north.
Alan straightened and squared his shoulders, AR-15 in one hand, reins in the other. He was alone and would have to man up. There was no cavalry to come to his rescue if he made a mistake, so he needed to collect himself and push on, saving the emotional storms for when he could afford it.
“Just you and me,” he muttered to his steed, who eyed Alan with equine disinterest, waiting for him to indicate what he wanted to do. Alan nodded to himself and climbed up into the saddle, and the horse picked his way gingerly along the gorge, obviously skittish from the shooting and the stink of death around them.
He rounded the bend into the wider canyon and held a hand up to shield his eyes from the sun’s glare. It seemed impossible that the day was little more than half over – it felt like he’d been in the ravine for days, not a couple of hours.
A falcon alighted from the far side of the canyon mouth, and suddenly Alan bucked backward in the saddle as pain spread across his chest. The report of the rifle shot arrived a split second later, and then his horse was galloping forward, panic in its terrified eyes. Alan dropped his rifle and felt the front of his flak vest. His hand came away dry.
The ceramic body armor had stopped the bullet.
But he knew that would only happen once.
He hunched down, ignoring the ache from his sternum, and held on for dear life as his horse tore for the open plain. The steep walls of the canyon flashed by, and pain tore through his ribs with each jarring bounce. Another shot echoed from his left, but it must have missed, because he felt nothing.
“Come on, boy, come on. You can do it,” h
e screamed as the flatland neared.
The horse stumbled but didn’t go down, and then it slowed as another blast sounded. Alan drove his heels into the animal’s sides, but it was no good, and Alan realized too late that the gunman had aimed for the horse instead of the rider, the target far easier to hit and no ceramic armor to contend with.
Alan’s heart was in his throat as he leapt off the beast as it crumpled with a heartrending scream. It kicked its death throes, now on its side, and then three more rounds slapped into it as Alan used it for cover.
He felt for the saddlebag and got the flap open, and his fingers latched onto one of the AK-47s. He withdrew it and fumbled with the safety as bullets thwacked around him. His teeth were chattering like he’d been submerged in an icy stream, and he fought for calm even as his body rebelled.
He peered around the horse’s shoulder, spotted the shooter seventy-five yards away, and squeezed off several rounds, unaccustomed to the kick of the larger caliber gun. The rounds did no damage – the Raider had selected his spot wisely, and now the tables were turned, with Alan stranded in the open and the gunman occupying the high ground, shielded by rocks.
More slugs struck the now-dead horse, and Alan closed his eyes for a brief moment. The face of his daughter swam into focus, joyful as only three-year-olds can be, laughing at some secret joke only she was privy to. His stomach twisted and sour bile rose in his throat at the thought that he’d never see her again – wouldn’t be around to protect her or her mother, to fend for them or watch her grow up.
He opened his eyes, grinding his teeth. If he gave up, he was already dead. That wasn’t an option. He would fight until his dying breath. The alternative was unacceptable.
If he was able to hold out until dark, the playing field would be even, or at least more so. Five or so hours seemed like an eternity, but he had plenty of ammo and wasn’t going anywhere. The gunman couldn’t hit him if he kept his head down and his wits about him, so it was a standoff of sorts.
The Day After Never - Blood Honor (Post-Apocalyptic Dystopian Thriller) Page 11