by neetha Napew
Helen sat on the bed in a dressing gown, holding Sukie on her lap. Jocelyn and Jack were on either side of her. Helen had a chromed .22-caliber revolver on the blanket by her leg and she grabbed at it as her father appeared.
"Wow, sorry, Dad," she hissed, giggling with tension. "Not used to having you around again."
"Sure, munchkin, sure." He steadied his own breathing as he flattened himself against the wall and squinted down into the narrow strip of side garden.
There were shadowy figures running backward and forward. A body lay slumped against a low wall, black blood leaking from the lower abdomen. Someone noticed him on the second floor, and a rifle was pointed. Mac ducked back just in time, the bullet smashing through the window and burying itself in the ceiling with a snowy burst of plaster.
Sukie started to cry.
"Let 'em have it, Dad!" shouted Jack. "Go on, kill them."
Henderson McGill closed his eyes. The ragged figures outside were from a nightmare. He wasn't really standing there, holding an unfired shotgun, with four of his children behind him.
Of course he wasn't.
"Kill 'em, Daddy!" squeaked Sukie, giggling at her own nerve.
"Yeah," he said, nodding. "I'll do just that, sweetheart."
Pushing the barrel of the Brazzi through the shattered glass, he took hasty aim at the nearest of the daring silhouettes.
The gun kicked against his shoulder with a satisfying jolt. He peered out, disappointed to see that there was still only one corpse down in the trampled white of the garden.
"You get one, Daddy?" asked Jocelyn.
"Sure did," he said. "Plugged the critter plumb between his mean, ornery eyes."
DESPITE THE dead bolts and security devices, the raiders managed to break in the kitchen door. Jeanne and Angel kept them at bay for five or six minutes with steady fire from their handguns, but the mob outside had several sawed-down shotguns and used them to drive the defenders up off the first floor.
An overhanging porch ran the length of the back of the house, and Preacher Casey had encouraged his screaming followers to use it for cover from the defenders' shots.
Mac joined his wives, daughter and two sons on the first landing, opening fire on anyone stupid enough to show themselves.
John and Paul were both furious.
"Bastards will raid our food supplies once they get into the cellar," said the older boy. "Could finish us. Must be twenty still alive and unwounded."
"Can't have that." Mac glanced at them. "We stay up here and they steal everything. Might as well get killed quick as face that. Think of the little ones starving slowly to death."
"Should we risk attacking them?" asked Paul. "Lot of them."
"Sure. Rabble. Six of us, well armed. Six McGills against a raggedy mob. Let's go get the bastards! Check ammo."
"If we go down the stairs, they'll…" began John McGill.
"I'm going out on the roof. And you're coming with me. Shotgun each. Won't expect us attacking them through the broken kitchen door. Moment you hear us open fire, then Paul and Pamela come down to help. You two—" Mac pointed at Angel and Jeanne, "—stay up here and guard the little ones. No matter what happens, you both stay put."
"I'd forgotten how forceful Mac could be," Jeanne said with a grin, kissing him lightly on the cheek. "Go get them."
IT WAS BITINGLY COLD and the shingles on the sloping roof were treacherous with ice. Mac and his son were both barefoot, picking their cautious way down. There was still bedlam from inside the first floor, with someone singing out an obscene parody of the good old hymn, "Shall We Gather at the River?"
There was deep snow piled at the eastern end of the porch, and Mac went first, gasping as he landed clumsily, twisting his ankle on rutted ice. But he was able to stand, wincing as he put weight on the right leg. John was quickly down at his side.
"You all right, Dad?"
"Sure. Can't run far, but I'm not figuring on doing any bastard running. Sure a squid like you can keep up?"
"At your shoulder, Dad."
McGill nodded, feeling a surge of pride and love for his boy.
He gripped the Brazzi tight, and John followed suit with the Winchester. He had a handful of shells in his pocket.
The door had been completely destroyed, the wood ripped apart by dozens of hacking ax blows.
"Need to layer it with steel next time," muttered John.
"Get the house back first."
His son clapped him on the shoulder.
Mac braced the shotgun at his hip, carefully stepping in over the splinters of painted wood, picking his way between the shards of broken glass.
A man and a woman were copulating on top of the table, taking it in turns to swig from a green bottle of wine. For several heartbeats neither of them took any notice as the two men appeared at their side.
Then the woman's mouth dropped open, showing toothless gums, and she drew in a long breath ready to scream.
Mac didn't hesitate. He pressed the muzzle of the Brazzi shotgun into the man's back, just to the right of his spine, and squeezed the trigger.
The sound of the shot was muffled, but the effect was utterly devastating. The shot tore through the liver, shredding it to rags, then carried on almost unchecked into the woman's lower stomach.
Mac knew enough about death to be certain he didn't have to waste another round on either of them.
The man rolled off, the back of his shirt flaring into yellow flames from the proximity of the blast. He was rigid with shock, arms spread as he crashed to the floor. Blood was pouring from the massive exit wound above the hip.
The woman lay on the table, legs splayed. Both hands had gone to the gaping wound in her belly, as though she was trying to stuff the yellowish coils of intestine back inside herself.
The man was making a harsh rattling sound in his throat, and the woman was gasping, her breathing fast and shallow.
Nobody else on the first floor of the house seemed aware that the avengers were among them. Ahead of them, in the dining room, the light was on, and the singing was louder, accompanied by the smashing of glass. McGill had a moment to wish he'd put on his combat boots.
He glanced at John, whose face was white as death, eyes wide, mouth half-open.
"Here we go," he said, and the young man managed a nod of agreement. It was a massacre.
Not one of the tatterdemalion gang even managed to fire a shot.
Mac stood to the left of the open door, John to the right.
The central figure in the room was standing at the head of the table, clutching a cognac bottle in his left hand, his right fondling the sagging breasts of a fat young woman.
The bottle was being used to conduct the singing of a revolting version of "Bringing in the Sheaves." He was skinny, aged around fifty, with a short-handled ax tucked into his belt. He was wearing a stained black denim shirt with a strip of white plastic pinned around his wattled throat like a deliberate parody of a clergyman's collar.
As soon as the two men opened fire, the room exploded in bedlam. Blood sprayed everywhere, walls and floor and ceiling dripping crimson. Bodies stumbled and fell. Men and women screamed and fought to get away from the ruthless execution. But the windows were barred, and the only exit from the room was blocked by the murderous shotguns.
It took less than ten seconds to butcher the majority of the raiders.
Both Mac and his son kept a single cartridge in the breech, standing ready.
The room stank of hot blood and shells and excrement, a smell that any soldier would recognize as the true scent of death.
Mac banged the butt of his Brazzi on the door. "Those who can walk, get the fuck out of my house. Take your wounded with you. All of them."
John slipped seven more rounds into his pump-action Winchester Defender. He fired one off above the heads of the dazed crowd to emphasize his father's words. "Move it!" he shouted, voice ragged and high with the tension.
From behind him, Mac heard Angel's voice calli
ng out to him. "How is it?"
"Under control. The guests are just readying to leave."
He couldn't believe how he felt. His heart was going like a trip-hammer, his mouth was dry, and his hands were sweating. With the help of his son he'd just massacred at least eight or nine men and women. Slaughtered them at point-blank range. Gunned them down as they stood there helplessly.
And it felt so good.
One by one the survivors were getting to their feet, dragging up their wounded comrades. The screaming had stopped, and there was only a low moaning from the injured.
"I'll watch the back door," said John.
"Sure."
Mac noticed that his son's eyes were wide with shock. His face was dappled with smeared gobbets of crimson, his beard filled with tiny bright rubies.
Mac had snatched a moment to reload his own shotgun, covering the remnants of the murder gang as they slouched past him.
One short man muttered, "Didn't have to waste us all, mister. No harm."
There was a flaring temptation to take his head off with another shot. After so much death, one more wouldn't make any difference. But Mac managed to overcome the killing fever.
"Just get the fuck out," he said, calmly.
"Want help?" called his second wife.
"No. Stay there. Nearly done. Just the dead left to get rid of. We'll drag them out in a while. Deal with them later."
There were finally seven corpses, sprawled among their dining-room furniture. The ordinary chairs and table seemed to mock the grotesque stillness of bloody death.
Mac saw that one of the dead was the skinny man dressed like a priest, lying huddled up against the glass-fronted bookcase.
He stepped toward him, conscious of the hot stickiness between his bare toes. John called from the kitchen, making him turn away.
"All gone. Gear over the bottom wall and across Beulah Creek."
"Good. We'll…"
The corpse at his feet erupted into violent life, swinging at him with a vicious ax.
Mac parried the first blow with the barrel of the scattergun, the blade of the hatchet sparking off the blued steel.
"Messiah'll drink your fucking brains!" screeched the madman.
Mac jabbed at him with the gun, gripping the stock, unable to shift his hands to reach the trigger in case it gave the killer the chance to chop him.
"Dad?"
There wasn't even a splinter of a second to call out to his son; every particle of his mind was concentrating on the rheumy eyes of the lunatic in front of him.
"Yes, yes, yesyesyes…" The chanted words slithered into each other like a nest of tangling cottonmouths.
The scarred blade came in again, low, aiming for Mac's groin. But he was able to step back outside it, swinging the scattergun backhanded and catching the man a glancing blow on the side of the head. Blood trickled from the long cut. Mac was quick. He used the butt to knock the weapon aside, then dropped the Brazzi and got in close enough to use his hands.
Though he still wasn't back to the level of fitness he'd achieved before the Aquila's last, doomed mission, Henderson McGill still remained an enormously powerful man.
His left hand gripped the mock-preacher's right biceps, fingers digging in like chromed-steel claws, separating the muscle from the bone and making Casey cry out in agony. The short-hafted ax cluttered into the puddled blood around their feet.
Mac's right hand had the helpless man by the throat, clamping off the air. Fingers crushed the windpipe, cracking the fragile thyroid bone, tighter and tighter, all of his vengeful rage flowing down his arms, into his hands.
The leader of the attackers was choking to death. His eyes protruded like the stops on a mission harmonium, his tongue flicking out like a rattler tasting the air, darkening, purpling. Blood was suffusing the man's face, and his hands clawed at Mac's arms, struggling desperately to loosen the death grip.
"Dad? You all right? Let go of him and I'll shoot the scum!"
"Waste of a good bullet," Mac said through clenched teeth. "No need, son."
With all his strength he hoisted the preacher off the floor. His feet drummed at Mac's shins, but there was no power left in them.
Crimson worms inched from the open mouth and from the corners of the eyes.
Breath croaked deep inside the man's throat, and he went limp. Mac didn't let go at first, still holding him in the air until he was sure that life was truly gone.
He dropped the corpse to the carpet to join the others.
"We'll clean up this mess in a while," he said, rubbing his hands on his pants. "First, though, I reckon we all deserve a mug of coffee."
Chapter Five
For a few moments it seemed to Jim Hilton that the shooting had nothing to do with them or with the hovering Chinook.
The amplified voice carried on for several seconds, as though the speaker was oblivious to what was happening below them.
"We'll take you north, to the secret base. Code name is Aurora. Before we land there'll be identification and… What the sweet fuck is going on, Major?"
The noise was like someone tearing along a seam in a bolt of silk.
Kyle was closest to Jim, yelling. "What they shooting?"
"Don't know. Machine gun of some sort, I guess. Nanci?"
"Probably they've somehow managed to obtain a military SAW."
"What's that?"
"Squad Automatic Weapon. Replaced the good old M-60 years ago. Lighter and faster. Listen to it go. The M-265. Eight hundred rounds a minute. Put a hole in a steel helmet at a mile."
The chopper had started to climb, slipping sideways toward them as it tried to dodge the stream of bullets from out in the desert. There wasn't just the machine gun, but the single shots of rifles, as well. The searchlight had gone off, but the loudspeaker was still switched on.
"Get the missiles primed, Major! Jesus, they hit us!"
Down on the ground they could hear the end, even before they saw the flash of fire. Lead sliced through the camouflaged fuselage of the big helicopter, perspex smashed, men yelled. The turbo-powered engine was faltering, then racing out of gear.
"That's it," Nanci shouted.
There was enough light now for them to see that the Chinook was doomed. One rotor had jammed, and the other was flailing erratically with broken blades. The whole body of the chopper was starting to revolve, nose up. Someone managed to get a missile off in those last, doomed seconds. It flew erratically into the air, straightening toward the west, and vanished, leaving only the pale, feathered plume of its vapor trail behind it.
The shooting had stopped abruptly, the hidden group of ambushers able to see that they'd achieved their aim.
"Look out!" shouted Jeff Thomas, throwing himself flat in the street, followed by Sly Romero, whimpering in terror.
But the rest of them could see that the tumbling helicopter wasn't going to come down all that near to them.
Like a demented banshee, the amplified voice gave a final truncated cry.
"Hilton… Aurora. North to… Oh, shi—"
There was a dazzling burst of light, blooming from near the tail of the Chinook. It was white-hot silver at its center, shading through gold to smoky crimson near its edges. There was surprisingly little noise for such a bright explosion, just a soft rumble that rolled out across the wilderness all around the old ghost town, echoing from the distant mountains in a whisper of sound.
The point of impact, as near as Jim Hilton could figure it, was around six hundred yards from the edge of Calico. Roughly northeast, in the general direction of the long-abandoned military installation of Fort Irwin,
The fire burned with a terrible crackling intensity for less than twenty seconds, then the night came flooding in again, riding on the back of an immense stillness.
"No point going to look for survivors from that," said Carrie.
Steve had helped his son to his feet, patting him on the shoulder to reduce the trembling terror to an occasional gulping sniff.
Jim Hilton stopped him. "Wrong," he said. "Guess it's more like a beginning."
Kyle Lynch had brought out his Mannlicher .357 rifle and now he rested the stock gently on the stones by his bare feet. "You reckon those guys with the guns'll be coming in to see us, Captain?" he asked.
"Yeah." Nanci started to speak, but he talked over her. "They'll have heard the loudspeaker and know that we're here."
"Whoever they are," said Kyle.
"Could make a guess." Nanci Simms was looking around at the desolate ruins of the old township. "Best get ready for them, Jim," she said.
"Sure. But who do you think they are?"
She took him by the arm, leading him away from the others with a surprisingly strong grip. "You know that Jeffs told you I'm a teacher."
"Sure."
"Believe that?"
"No."
The older woman smiled at him. "Figured you didn't get to be doing the job you did by being a real idiot, Jim."
"My guess is something close to military Intelligence, Nanci."
"That's close enough for now. It's not right, mind, but it's close enough for now."
"So?"
"There's always plans, Jim."
"For what?"
Again came the smile, her teeth white in the moonlight. "For everything. President dropping dead in a bordello in Juarez. Chinese invading Alaska in sailboats. You name it and some government high-forehead little nerd will have produced a contingency plan for it. So, Earthblood wasn't entirely unexpected."
"Was it a plant cancer from one of our laboratories, Nanci?"
"Doesn't signify where it came from. It came, it bred and it conquered."
"Now its effect is passing."
She nodded. "Looks possible. Seen a few touches of green breaking through the dead red. But it's done its stuff with great efficiency, and the world won't ever be the same."
"Speaker shouted something, just before it went down, about a place called Aurora." He could smell the stench of aviation fuel from the crashed Chinook, over the ridge.