Last Man Standing

by Vance Huxley

  Emmy stepped back, her head jerking left and right to make sure nobody else was in the street, aiming this way. All clear, so she looked sideways out of the shattered bow window, towards the one guardhouse she could see. A rifle fired from there and the half-dressed guard running towards the gates, one of the Riot Squad, spun and fell. There were two other bodies in the street, both Riot Squad, so the Hot Rods had taken the gatehouse! Emmy tried the phone, but nobody answered so the Hot Rods must have cut the wires.

  She put a new clip in her pistol before scooping up two spare clips, then peeking out of her bedroom door to check there weren’t any more surprises. At least the shooting had quietened Sooty; he came barrelling back up the stairs with his tail between his legs. Emmy turned back to pluck Tammy out of her cot before heading for the next bedroom door. Not surprisingly, Tammy started crying, but Emmy simply didn’t have time to stop and comfort her. She’d barely knocked before a nervous voice answered. “Who is it?”

  “Emmy, with Tammy. Be quick, I’m needed.” The door opened because that was the deal. This couple, neither of them fighters, lived here with their baby. They felt safer with Emmy to protect them, and in return they were willing to look after Tammy now and then. After a quick explanation they took Tammy, Sooty, the pistol and the two clips. Despite the urgency, Emmy took the time to remind the man how to release the clip and slide another in. “Sooty will keep quiet now because he’s terrified, so stay alert. If you hear people on the stairs, crack the door open. If you don’t recognise them, shoot. Don’t try to aim properly, just empty the gun down the stairs and stick another clip in. I’ll come out of my room and clean up.” Emmy kissed Tammy, hugged her and turned away. “I’ll be concentrating on my shooting so keep your ears open, and one of you watch the back garden.”

  Once back in her room, Emmy didn’t waste any time. She took her rifle, ammo, and her spare pistol to the window, threw a pillow on the dressing table to support her rifle barrel, and settled in. The rifle fired from the guardhouse again so she waited, her right eye to her sights. A few moments later the barrel showed again so she fired. It flipped up and back. Emmy slid another round into her big hunting rifle, pulling the little monocular night-sight on a headband down over her left eye as she started hunting for Hot Rods. It didn’t take long.

  * * *

  The man who designed and built the Orchard Close telephone exchange, Isiah, struggled out of his armchair as the front door crashed open. His lame leg slowed him, so his wife reached the door into the hallway first. “Veronica?” But it wasn’t their daughter, working late in the library tonight. An armed man, wearing the bright red piston rod logo of a Hot Rod fighter, grabbed Kerry by the front of her dress before turning to shout back over his shoulder.

  “In here, but the girl is missing.”

  “As long as you’ve got the telephone bloke.” This Hot Rod glanced at his phone. “Yup, that’s him, and his missus will keep him obedient. Caddi wants their girl to keep the missus working so she must be useful as well.” As the first man pushed Kerry back to sit near her husband, the gangster with the phone turned to call into the hallway. “Check the other rooms for people on Caddie’s list. Tell anyone we don’t need, if they stay in their rooms nobody gets hurt.” He jerked as gunfire roared in the street outside. “Shit! Keep an eye on these two. Once we’ve checked the other rooms I’ll take the lads to sort out that shooting. Grab the lass if she comes home.” With that he turned and left.

  “Hands on your heads.” The Hot Rod gestured with his pistol, drawing a machete with the other hand. “I’ll cut you both if either of you give me any trouble, cripple you if I have to. You don’t need your legs to work for Caddi.” He stood to the side of the window, facing the door, but didn’t open the curtains. “Just sit quiet for a bit, until Caddi cleans up.”

  * * *

  Something woke Alicia, a stout, unprepossessing, twenty-five-year-old woman who had spent nearly four years living in constant fear. It had taken that long to finally get rid of all her nightmares about the night when a mob stormed the neighbouring block of flats. Three years of nobody getting over the Orchard Close walls had finally done the trick, helped by Barry. The sixty-five-year-old ex-fireman, Mattie’s and Doll’s grandad, wasn’t a fighter but he was kind and reassuring. If he’d been just a little younger…. The noise came again, then shots. The attack had started!

  Alicia swung her legs out of bed but hesitated when she heard voices. The muffled noises were followed by a creak that had to be the fifth stair. It creaked again, so more than one person must be sneaking up. With trembling hands, Alicia picked up her revolver, the one she’d been given after proving her accuracy. Even so she’d confessed she might not be able to fire at a human target, so she hadn’t been given a proper fighter’s gun.

  Alicia crept to her bedroom door, turning the handle very slowly because the hushed voices were nearer. Maybe Abigail had finally relaxed enough to find a fella, and was sneaking him in without disturbing anyone? More gunfire outside, closer, made her realise it might be a raid, so the Hot Rods could have come after Barry. They’d be expecting a pacifist but Barry lived in the Granny annex at the back. With a nasty little smile Alicia opened the door, pointing her pistol. “Freeze!” She froze herself, her mouth open in shock. At least four fully armed gangsters were on the stairs!

  “Alive, take her alive. The bomber is sweet on her!” That shocked Alicia again, but when the men surged forward she pulled the trigger. She fired again and again in a drumroll of shots that cleared the stairs, pulling until the hammer clicking on empty brass brought her to her senses. “It’s empty. Get her!” Cursing and the thump of footsteps on the stairs followed, so Alicia turned back into her room. She slammed the door, running the few steps to her bedside table, putting the pistol on top, pulling out the drawer and grabbing her box of bullets. Her head spun while her gut roiled and churned. She’d just shot someone, another human being!

  Her bedroom door slammed open as Alicia fumbled, knocking the gun and box off the table, spilling her ammunition across the floor. Only a dozen rounds but she shouldn’t have needed more, not here, not inside the walls. Alicia dropped to her knees, scrabbling for reloads, but she looked up at heavy footfalls and a chuckle. “Too late.” The man pointing a pistol at her raised his voice. “Got her, I think. You’re sure it’s this one? She doesn’t look much.”

  Another man appeared at the bedroom door, glancing at the picture on his phone then Alicia. “Yeah. No accounting for taste.” He looked at the empty bed, then back at Alicia. “Where’s your boyfriend? Barry the bomber?”

  “He doesn’t sleep here. He’s just a friend.”

  But the Hot Rod didn’t care. “Caddi heard he’s a lot more than that, so he should be here. Now where is he?” He grinned at her in sudden humour. “We know he’s a pacifist, doesn’t fight, so give him up and we won’t have to persuade you.”

  The door had swung shut behind the second man. Now they all heard a startled exclamation followed by a thunk in the hallway, then a thump as something heavy hit the floor. As the Hot Rods turned, Alicia’s fingers crept forward and snaffled two reloads. Now she just had to get the chamber open, the empties out and these in. Just? Even as she faced up to the chances of it happening the door flew open yet again. Something gleamed in the light as it swung in and up, striking the nearest gangster with a dull thud. Alicia stared as she recognised Barry’s big fireman’s axe.

  Only the flat of the blade hit the man because Barry could never bring himself to shed blood. As far as Alicia knew, the only other time he’d even hit a man was to stop a rapist who’d cornered Matti, his granddaughter. The Hot Rod grunted, a pained sound as the breath was driven out of him. As he staggered, hunched over, scrabbling for his gun, the big fireman filled the doorway, his grey-blue eyes as wild as his snow-white hair and beard. Barry slid his hand up the shaft to the axe head and chopped, a short, awkward blow so he didn’t hit the wall or ceiling. The side of the axe head hit the front of the Ho
t Rod’s helmet, doing the job despite the steel protection. The man crumpled, stunned, as Barry turned towards the last gangster.

  Alicia had the pistol open now, brass spilling out over her knees as she crouched, frantically trying to stuff the new rounds in. She tore her eyes away from Barry, concentrating, but she was always going to be too late. The remaining gangster fired, then fired again and again, the bullets smashing the ex-fireman against the wall but the big man still didn’t go down. Barry’s grip loosened, the big axe slipping from his grip but he fumbled for the shorter version hung from his belt. The gangster fired a fourth and fifth time, until the strength finally went out of the fireman’s legs. Alicia finally got two bullets in, slamming the chamber into place before looking up to see Barry sliding down the wall, leaving bright red streaks. “Barry! No!” His eyes met hers, just for a moment before he tipped forward onto his face. Alicia raised her pistol. She hadn’t any qualms about this live target.

  The Hot Rod looked back when she shouted. Seeing the pistol he tried to get his own gun around, but Alicia pulled the trigger. It clicked! Both of them froze, then she pulled the trigger again but it clicked again. The man started to smile, his gun swinging round and up as Alicia pulled again, and again. The fourth time was the charm. The bullet knocked him backwards, wiping the smile from his face but the gangster stayed on his feet. Alicia only had a .32, not heavy enough to knock him down especially through an armoured vest. The Hot Rod brought his gun up, biting back a snarl of pain.

  Alicia knew she only had one more but she’d spent hours training with Finn, learning to shoot Finn’s single-shot .22. Since then, Alicia had regularly hunted pigeons and rabbits with an air pistol, where the first shot had to count. Now she breathed out, centring the barrel, and pulled gently but firmly. The man went over backwards as his helmet flew off and brains painted the far wall and half the curtains. Alicia dropped the pistol, scrambling towards Barry.

  “Barry. Talk to me, Barry.” She pulled him over, hoping he was still alive but already knowing it was too late. The five big holes in his back told her that, and the blood soaking into her bedroom wall and carpet. This was the first time he’d ever been in her bedroom despite all the jokes people made, despite her being sometimes tempted to ask him. A movement and sound sent Alicia diving for the gun dropped by the gangster!

  “It’s me, Abigail. Are they all dead? What’s happening?” Terrified eyes met Alicia’s, nervously darting around the room and then back to her.

  Alicia slumped again. “I don’t know, Abigail.” Outside, shots rang out and screams split the night.

  Abigail cringed back against the wall. “Not again. No! I can’t stand it. Not again!” She’d spent a year as a sex slave with her son Rory, now five, used as a control to keep her docile. When Abigail finally escaped she’d been pregnant with Violet, now two.

  Alicia took a deep breath, firming up. Barry had died to save her, so now it was up to her to make sure Abigail stayed safe. “Don’t worry Abigail. I’ll look after you, and Rory and Violet. Nobody will do that to you again, I promise.” She pulled herself to her feet, collecting her dressing gown, revolver, the spare bullets and the firearms from the two gangsters. “Give me a hand to get Barry to your room, please. I don’t want to leave him with these pigs.” The two women managed to drag the dead fireman along the hall towards Abigail’s room.

  They only stopped once, when Alicia heard a moan from downstairs and went to look. Abigail heard a protest, then a single shot before Alicia came back upstairs with a crossbow. She paused near the top to shoot a man through the head and pick up his crossbow as well. Abigail pointed at the unconscious gangster on the landing, presumably Barry’s first victim. The only hesitation Alicia had while shooting him and the unconscious gangster in her bedroom was while she wiped away her tears. Without a word she tossed the guns and crossbows along the landing towards Abigail’s room, before taking hold of Barry again.

  When they were finally there, Alicia stopped just outside the door. “Go inside and look after your kids, Abigail. We’ll keep watch. Don’t worry, none of them will get up the stairs.” Once Abigail had closed the door Alicia sat with her back to the wall, arranging all the weapons on the floor next to her before pulling Barry’s head onto her knees. She’d kept it all bottled up but now Alicia bent over him, tears splashing on his face as she kissed his forehead and smoothed his beard. “You silly, silly sweet man.” Alicia finally scrubbed her eyes dry, sitting up so she could see along the landing and down the stairs. As mayhem raged through Orchard Close she sat stony-faced, one hand stroking a dead man’s beard, one hand holding a pistol, and murder in her heart.

  * * *

  Charlie ignored his wife’s usual complaints about needing the table, concentrating on fixing a little windmill that had jammed. She didn’t mean it anyway because Charlie’s expertise with washing machines, and his brainwave for generating electricity, had bought a relatively good life for their little family. He laughed when she told him she’d fill her half of the bed with windmills, so he could cuddle them at night. Someone knocked on the door, probably Rob coming to talk about the ongoing project to supply back-up lighting for the whole enclave.

  The cry of alarm, when his wife answered the door, jerked Charlie’s attention away from windmills but it was too late even if he’d had a weapon. The knife at her throat, held by a man wearing an armoured vest, left Charlie with no options at all. He raised his hands.

  * * *

  Two houses away Rob the plumber sat quietly, staring at the crossbow pointed at his wife’s head. “It’s all right Rob. You heard him. We’re safe. Caddi won’t hurt me. Just keep calm.” Rob tried, because he knew that was the condition for Caddi’s man not hurting Susan. Caddi wanted the Orchard Close plumber alive, and under control. He sat on his hands, as instructed, but couldn’t tear his eyes away from the man stood behind Susan, or the tip of the crossbow bolt inches from the back of her head.

  * * *

  Seventeen-year-old Veronica knew her mum and dad would expect her home soon, but she liked being in the library. She loved sitting peacefully in here with all these books, searching through them for whatever Harold and the Coven, or Emmy, wanted to know. She’d tried to join the Riot Squad, but she hadn’t the co-ordination to fight or shoot and anyway the mere thought of shedding blood terrified her. Maybe that was why Hazel landed Alfie; they were both fighters. Alfie didn’t matter so much now because there were other young blokes in among the latest refugees.

  She should stay here, maybe overnight because with an alert on she might be needed. Veronica’s little smile acknowledged that Orchard Close might not need books in a fight, but if they did, both Hilda and Faith were here. Hilda was the librarian and Faith the telephonist, but both of them could operate the exchange so they didn’t really need their assistant overnight. The women lived here, upstairs, though at the moment Faith had made up a bed on the library floor so they could take turns sleeping during the alert. The telephone exchange meant that Veronica could call home and explain she was needed here tonight, but was she?

  When the door opened Veronica turned to look, as did Hilda. Both of them gaped as two heavily-armed gangsters came in, Hot Rods! One aimed a crossbow, while the other pointed a pistol as he put a finger to his lips. “Shush, or you get a crossbow bolt. We can stop the telephones working just as easily with you both dead, but Caddi wants us to capture the operators as well.” As Hilda and Veronica hesitated, the gangster with the crossbow looked them over for weapons.

  Not just weapons, a happy smile split his face as he took in Veronica’s age and sex. “I thought this pair were old biddies? You can keep that one under control, while I take this one off behind those bookshelves for a few minutes. She can help me with a bit of research.”

  “You’ll keep it in your pants until Caddi tells you okay. We’re here to make sure nobody uses a phone, not choose women.” A little smirk touched this man’s face. “Though I’ll tell him you’ve got first dibs on that o
ne.” Two bulbs lit up on the manual telephone exchange, wanting a connection, but the Hot Rod shook his head at Hilda. “Leave that alone.”

  “No!” Nobody had a chance to react as thirty-eight-year-old Faith took one step out from behind a bookshelf before shooting the man with the gun. Despite her being small and light, the recoil barely jarred her because Faith only had one of the two-two target pistols. That didn’t help the target; she’d made sure to put the small rifle round through his head.

  “Fuck!” Despite being caught by surprise, the Hot Rods had been in a war for the best part of a year so combat reactions took over. The heavy hunting head on the crossbow bolt punched Faith off her feet, back into the shadows. Before the gangster could say or do anything else, a tiny bundle of teeth and fury erupted from under the desk! Rascal the toy poodle might be old, doddery, and almost deaf, but the gunshot woke him up. Without hesitation the diminutive bundle of tatty fur launched himself at the startled gangster. The man retreated a step, realised what it was and drew his machete. He paused as more barking rang out but two-year-old Mischief, a fluffy Staffy cross, was a shouter not a fighter.

  As Rascal tried to bite through his jeans, a vain hope with his remaining three teeth, the machete rose but it didn’t fall. “You leave my Rascal alone!” Hilda might only be an ex-clerk who liked filing and books, but nobody was attacking her dog! “Help! Help! Murder! Hot Rods!” She grabbed the man’s arm, swinging off the ground as she tried to pull his weapon away. The Hot Rod hit her with the crossbow in his other hand, knocking the fifty-five-year-old woman away, but he missed Rascal with the machete.

  Veronica stood frozen as the Hot Rod died, Faith was hit, Rascal attacked and Hilda launched herself at the gangster. As the older woman staggered back, then launched herself again, Veronica’s eyes fastened on the dead man’s gun. She could use one of those, because she’d been shown when she tried to learn to fight. In some sort of dream Veronica found herself walking forward and bending down to pick it up. A short yelp sounded behind her, followed by language from Hilda that would have cost any visitor a caning at least. Veronica turned, still looking at the gun while she tried to work out if the safety was off.