by AJ Powers
Dusty’s efforts to put out the flame on the blanket were in vain, and the room started to fill up with smoke. Staying low, Clay and Dusty made their way to the trap door. “Go!” Clay shouted as he lifted the hatch. Dusty wasted no time getting to the ladder and made a quick descent. Clay dropped his legs through the hole in the floor, finding the ladder rungs with his feet. After climbing down a few feet, he reached up and grabbed the handle of the trap door. As he started to close it, he saw another Molotov cocktail flying in, this time the pitch had been in the strike zone. Clay slammed the door shut just as the bottle hit, but he had lost his footing on the ladder while doing so. The flimsy cabinet-style handle on the door was not strong enough to withstand Clay’s weight and quickly separated from the door, sending Clay to the ground below. The drop was only eight or nine feet, but it took him several seconds to find his breath, and there just wasn’t time to waste on such trivial things as breathing.
“Holy crap! Are you okay?” Dusty asked.
“I’m fine,” Clay managed to eke out before rolling over and, with Dusty’s assistance, getting to his feet.
As he and Dusty made their way to the first floor of the tower, the echoes of war from outside let Clay know that Kohler had been right—Arlo had brought the fury of Hell with him.
The first thing Clay and Dusty saw as they emerged from the clock tower was several structures on fire, including the one they had just vacated. Like looking at a train wreck in the making, Clay watched in horror as the buildings, already riddled with dozens if not hundreds of bullet holes, were gradually consumed with fire. The sensation of his stomach being torn out of his body made him want to double over in pain. There would be no efforts made to douse the flames—to save these buildings that were part of what Clay considered his second home. They would continue to burn until they were reduced to nothing more than a pile of ashes—almost symbolic.
A barrage of incoming gunfire snapped Clay out of his daze, bringing him back to the gritty reality of his present situation. With chaos in every direction, Dusty looked around, trying to figure out where she could be most useful.
“What do we do?” she asked. Having planned on being in the clock tower far longer, the teenaged soldier was unsure of her next move.
“Kohler’s going to be somewhere near the pool house, go see where he wants you,” Clay said. “I’m going to make sure the rear perimeter is secure, then I’ll swing back around and meet up with you guys.”
“Okay,” Dusty said, a tinge of fear in her voice.
“Hey!” Clay said, grabbing Dusty’s attention. “It’s gonna be okay. Just be smart,” Clay said, giving her a reassuring slap on the shoulder before turning around and jogging toward the northern border.
As Clay got further away from the front, each of the individual shots started to meld together, transforming into a constant, thunderous rumble. As was the case with the previous attacks, Arlo concentrated his efforts on the front gate. However, the lingering embers and melted snow from several unsuccessful Molotov throws around the foxholes suggested they were attacking on all fronts.
“DeMarcus, give me an update!” Clay shouted as he jumped down into leftfield’s foxhole.
“Can’t see nothin’, brother, but as far as I know, ain’t nobody dead back here,” he replied, “but that goes the same for them guys outside the wall, too.”
“So, no breaches?”
“Far as I can tell, no. But, like I said, we can’t see nothin’, so one of those fools could have tip-toed his way past us, and already be on his way into town.”
Just then, another fiery bottle tumbled over the fence. The aim was long, and it landed about fifteen feet behind them, but as they all prepared for the impact, a rifle barrel squeezed between a gap in the fence and opened fire.
“Tag that SOB!” DeMarcus yelled as he raised his shotgun, squeezing off several shots along with a half-dozen other men. By the time Clay had raised his AR-15, the muzzle flashes from the fence had stopped.
“Cease fire!” DeMarcus shouted. “You all heard the Captain before, make ‘em count.”
Clay turned around to see the crackling fire behind them started to burn out. “You got your flare?” Clay asked, redirecting his attention to DeMarcus.
DeMarcus felt around his vest to make sure. “Good to go.”
“Remember, if they get through, you paint the sky,” Clay said.
With only two flare guns to share and three flares in total, it was decided that the two most vulnerable positions in town—the front gate and the northwestern corner—would be equipped with them. In the event the perimeter became compromised, a flare was to be deployed, and depending on who sent the signal up, a nearby post would act as a QRF (quick reaction force) to close off the breach.
“All right, keep your heads down, fellas,” Clay said before heading out to the next group.
As Clay moved to the next defensive position, he looked to the horizon for some good news, but, once again, came up disappointed. It seemed that the longest night of his life would carry on just a bit longer.
His stops at the other two posts were very brief. Thanks to the steep drop off into the creek on the northeastern border, Levi had reported they had only experienced minimal contact in centerfield, while right field had not seen any attempts to break through.
Clay had started heading back to town to rendezvous with Kohler and Dusty when the sky lit up to his right. Whipping his head over, Clay watched as leftfield brilliantly lit up under the red-hot flare that drifted back down to earth. He realigned his body toward the distress signal and ran.
His aching lungs wheezed in agony as his overworked body crossed the several acres of snow that separated him from DeMarcus’s group.
The QRF was already there and engaging the enemy by the time Clay arrived. The battle was intense, but pretty one sided at that point. Clay could make out several bodies scattered around a sizeable hole in the fence just before the flare overhead fizzled out.
“Need some light!” DeMarcus shouted.
Makeshift floodlights on either side of the foxhole, each one consisting of four separate Maglite flashlights, quickly zeroed in on the damaged section of fence, allowing DeMarcus’s team to efficiently receive additional intruders with sixty-two grains of love. Clay noticed a man peeking around the corner, contemplating his strategy, but three dangerously close shots from Clay’s AR-15 gave the man more to consider, and he quickly retreated.
“Contain! Contain! Contain!” DeMarcus screamed. Two men hopped out of the foxhole while several from the QRF broke away and ran outside the lit areas. Moments later, they returned, each one grunting as they pushed a Ford Explorer toward the hole in the fence. Clay ran over and assisted their efforts.
With a man inside persuading the front wheels to turn ever so slightly, the side of the SUV began to scrape along the fence as they approached the gap. Just as they reached the opening, the SUV wrenched to a halt.
“What happened?” someone yelled from the back of the SUV.
“You’re stuck on a body!” DeMarcus shouted from the foxhole.
Clay ran around to the front, keeping as much of the mobile cover in front of him as he could, and grabbed the corpse’s arms. He tugged, but the weight was too much for Clay’s weary body to muscle. Amidst the gunfire, Clay heard heavy footsteps tromping through the snow from behind—it was DeMarcus.
He all but shoved Clay to the side as he crouched his gigantic frame down next to the body and pulled it out of the way. A furious growl erupted from DeMarcus as a bullet tore through the side of his stomach, causing him to release his grip on the body and fall backwards. Digging deep, Clay found the energy to finish the job, allowing the SUV to lurch forward again, finally sealing the hole.
The man steering the two-ton blockade scrambled out of his seat and over the center console to open the passenger door. As the door opened, the man fell to the ground with a thud, no attempt to brace his fall. Bullets continued to drill through the driver’s door
and over the heads of those in the foxhole.
After helping DeMarcus back to the foxhole, Clay took the opportunity to trade out his half-full magazine for a fresh one. “You all right, DeMarcus?” he asked as one of the other men dressed DeMarcus’s wound.
He grimaced as he nodded. “I’ve taken harder hits with shoulder pads on,” he said.
Clay laughed at the man’s casual comment about his gunshot wound.
With the breach properly contained, Clay hopped out of the foxhole and headed south. Seeing the dozens of rooftops toward the center of town ominously silhouetted against the growing fires near the front gate gave him chills. Even when he closed his eyes, he could still see it—the devastation was indescribable.
As Clay’s legs clumsily carried him toward the destruction up ahead, he heard a terrified scream for help.
Megan.
No longer bogged down by the effects of the physical beating he had taken over the past few weeks, Clay moved faster than he ever thought he was capable of. Megan frantically looked around for help as she stood just outside the infirmary door. She was covered in blood, and her expression was wrapped in fear. “I need some help here! Anyone, please!” she yelled.
“I’m here, Megan!” Clay announced as he approached the sound of her voice.
“Clay!? Thank God!” she said, the panic in her voice slightly diminished. “I was helping him back to the infirmary when he just collapsed, and I can’t move him by myself,” she said through rapid breaths, pointing to the dying man on the ground. It was Hicks, and he had taken a cannon of some sort to his gut. “I hit the wound with some Celox, but it’s still bleeding. The wound is just too…I mean it’s so massive! We need to hurry; he’s lost a lot of blood.”
A nearby fire provided just enough light for Clay to observe the damage on the man’s abdomen. The only possible culprit for a hole that size was a twelve-gauge slug.
“On three,” Megan said, grabbing Hicks’s arm just beneath the armpit; Clay mirrored the position. “One…two…three!”
Hoisting the man’s body up off the ground, Clay and Megan ineptly dragged him to the infirmary the last seventy-five yards down the road.
“Doctor Sowell!” Megan yelled as soon as they were close enough that she was confident the old doctor would hear.
The door to the infirmary swung open and Doctor Sowell took over for a struggling Megan, helping Clay bring Hicks inside. “Over there,” Doctor Sowell said, nodding toward a vacant bed, its sheets having not yet been changed since it’s last patient.
Both men grunted as they laid Hicks down, and Doctor Sowell immediately got to work. The look of exhaustion on Megan’s face adequately described Clay’s current state, but rest would not be found.
“Stay in here,” Clay said to Megan.
“No way, there are others out there, Clay. We have to get them help!”
Before Clay could argue, a barrage of bullets pounded into the side of the building, two of which made it through, burrowing into the wall on the opposite side of the room.
Startled patients around the room screamed out in a mixture of surprise, fear, and anger. Clay looked at Megan, then down at her holstered sidearm. “If you’re going back out there, that gun had better be in your hand!”
Megan’s fingers wrapped around the handle of her pistol and pulled it out. “Okay, let’s go.”
As they walked back outside, Clay hesitated for a moment with the sight in front of him. Much like the first breaths after an asthmatic taking an inhaler, Clay finally felt some relief after seeing the vibrant purple, orange and blue start to fill the sky. “Dawn,” he said wearily. Then the sky turned red. “Oh, no…” Clay said, his newfound hope quickly dashing.
“What does that mean?” Megan asked.
“They’re inside.”
Chapter 50
The entrance to town teemed with Liberty’s armed fighters attempting to prevent the invaders from crossing a threshold that was once protected by a reinforced wrought iron gate—a gate that was now lying on the ground. The sounds of shouting and screaming as people tried to communicate were snuffed out from relentless gunfire, only adding to the total chaos of the scene.
As Megan broke away to help a wounded man who had managed to crawl out of the line of fire, Clay ran toward the screams and incoming bullets—toward the end of this war.
Slowly and carefully, Clay made his way up to the front entrance where a mountain of dead bodies had started to accumulate—he hoped it was Arlo’s mountain. As he got closer, Clay could hear Kohler giving orders in between shots, doing his best to accomplish a goal that would have been a tall order for an entire special ops team. Standing right by his side was Shelton, smoke pouring out of his Mini-14’s muzzle.
“Do not let them through!” Kohler shouted before blasting his M1A in the direction of a man gutsy enough to cross that line. “This is where we make our stand!”
With a short-lived lull in bullets being exchanged, Clay found cover behind a car that was positioned directly behind the gate. Two of Liberty’s fighters took turns popping up like armed prairie dogs, getting off as many shots as they could before ducking back down behind the car. With his back to the front wheel, Clay spun around and up, dropping his elbow on the hood of the car to steady his shots. Five shots and two tangos down—not a bad ratio. Unfortunately, those shots proved to be dumb luck, as making his bullets find their targets became more of a challenge with each pull of the trigger.
Dropping down to his knee for a reload, Clay heard the brutal sound of a bullet careening through a human skull. The man next to him went rigid for a brief moment before falling straight back, smacking to the ground with a lifeless thud.
“No...no…Wesley!” The other man screamed, grief and hatred dancing throughout his words. “I’m going to kill you all!” he said as he stood up, carelessly firing his rifle as fast as his finger would allow. “I’ll see you in Hell!” he shouted until his gun ran dry, an opportunity the enemy did not waste.
As the other man’s body crumpled to the ground, hopelessness began to parade through Clay’s spirit. This was, in fact, going to be the last battle, but the outcome would be much different than what Clay had envisioned.
With Liberty’s defenses continuing to falter, Arlo’s forces started stacking up in the Deadly Eighth. Surrendering pawn after pawn to gain a little ground, each duo of men ran through the gate and inflicted as much carnage as they could before being taken out, getting in a little further each time. This method had been far less effective while the gate was still standing, but now it was like watching a lumberjack swinging his heavy axe at a trunk, swing by swing chipping away at the timber until one last blow finally brought the tree down.
Clay jumped up from his cover and fired multiple shots at an incoming attack, sending both men into a scramble for cover. Dropping back down, he suddenly felt a stinging sensation in his neck as the car shuddered from the return fire. “Son of a—” Clay said through clenched teeth as he felt the blood start to slide down his shoulder. Reaching up with his hand, his fingers found a flapping fold of skin just above his shoulder. He wasn’t sure if it was a graze or shrapnel, but either way he counted his blessings it hadn’t been an inch to his left.
Regrouping himself, Clay slid along the length of the car, stepping over the middle man’s legs and stopping just short of the back wheel. With a few deep breaths, he jumped back up and fired his AR-15 over the roof of the car. With daylight in full effect, there was no more wondering where his targets were, but this tactical advantage was a two-way road.
To keep the enemy guessing, Clay changed his location on the car between each volley of shots. It was working.
While reloading his second to last magazine, Clay heard Kohler and several others all shout at the same time. Suddenly, it sounded as if someone mashed down the trigger on a minigun as five different men opened fire on the same target.
Clay saw movement out of the corner of his eye, causing him to turn his head just as the
attacker’s body started to fall to the ground just past the car, his legs still trying to walk. After smacking into the ground, Clay saw the flames spit up before he heard the bottle break—a bottle that had Clay’s name written on it.
Dripping with blood, sweat, and rage, Clay stood to his feet and opened fire on the attackers advancing up the Deadly Eighth. Empty shells furiously kicked out of his rifle as he engaged a seemingly endless barrage of targets. He took out two more guns before his own rifle was silenced from a bullet punching through his left shoulder. The impact caused Clay to stumble back, tripping over a body.
As he lay bleeding in the snow, Clay gazed up into the near-perfect blue sky as he listened to the hypnotic sounds of copper-jacketed lead screeching overhead. What little energy remaining in his body absconded with the rifle bullet that tore through his shoulder. Winded, and feeling faint, he didn’t try to get back up. He had nothing more to give for this cause.
His eyes welled up as the constant nightmares that he would never see his wife or children again became cemented in reality. After ten long years of surviving some of the most brutal situations a man could face, the end had finally come.
“Hold the line!” he could hear Kohler yell over and over. “We’re still in this fight!”