“We’re still alive,” he said. “I made it off the roof and am going to engage at street level. Can you help?”
“You betcha. I’m on the roof of the diner to the northwest.”
Mason looked toward the diner to see if he could spot Coon, but the firelight made it impossible to see anything above street level.
“I’m going to try to draw Rommel out. I’m counting on you to put a bullet in his eye.”
“Will do, Marshal. Once that happens, it’s gonna to get pretty hairy down there. You’d best be ready for a fight.”
“Understood. Stand by.”
There was a sudden burst of gunfire from the bell tower. Ten or more rounds were fired in quick succession followed by two unmistakable booms of a shotgun. Vince and Don were trying to hold the roof.
Mason knew that they couldn’t hold out for long in the steeple. If the bell stopped ringing, it would mean he had failed them. His attention was so firmly set on the events happening at the church that he didn’t notice a figure stealthily approaching from behind. By the time he heard the footsteps, it was too late. Powerful hands grabbed him by the shoulders and threw him onto his back. Mason’s rifle was knocked from his grip, and a dark figure fell upon him, pounding with heavy fists.
He struggled to free his pistol, but his attacker was not only relentless, he was also skilled. Then, as quickly as it had started, the beating stopped. The man pulled back, his blanket-covered face barely perceptible in the darkness.
Mason reached for his Supergrade but stopped when he recognized his attacker.
“You!”
“I’m sorry,” Erik mumbled, pulling the blanket up so that it shadowed his disfigured face. “I didn’t know it was you, Marshal.” As before, his words were muffled and difficult to understand. “We came to help.”
Mason leaned over and spat out a mouthful of blood.
“Who came?”
“Six of us. Survivors.”
“You came to fight against the convicts? But why? I thought the townspeople had cast you out.”
“They did, but if the town falls to the lawless ones, we’ll be killed for sport. Just like you, we fight for our survival.”
Mason rubbed his jaw, which was already starting to swell.
“You pack a solid punch.”
“I was a bouncer back in the day. I know how to hurt people.” There was an unmistakable sadness in his voice.
“Do your people have guns?”
“Yes.”
Mason thought for a moment. He had no idea of how much help they could offer, but six more guns firing at the enemy couldn’t hurt.
“Okay, let’s do this.”
“What can we do to help?”
“Get your people in positions where they can do the most damage, and wait for my signal.”
“And then?”
“Let all hell break loose.”
Time was Mason’s worst enemy. He would have preferred a more tactical approach, perhaps picking off the convicts one at a time and then disappearing back into the darkness like a covert assassin. As it was, he had minutes at best before they overran the bell tower, killing the priest, the deputies, and his dog.
He had to draw their attention away from the church, and, more important, Rommel out into the open so that Coon could get a clean shot. The only way to do that was to convince them there were more important things to worry about than the folks holed up at the top of the bell tower.
Before he could adopt a course of action, three sets of headlights approached from the east, stopping a block away from the church. A dozen convicts scrambled to take up positions behind cars facing the new arrivals.
Steve Price and his two grown sons clambered out of the first vehicle and sought cover, hunting rifles in hand. Two more men, unknown to Mason, exited the second car. The third vehicle roared past the other two and drove directly up to the barricade that the convicts had set up with their own cars.
Ava stepped from the car with her hands raised high into the air. Mason felt his gut twist into a knot. What in the hell was she doing?
“Don’t shoot!” she yelled. “I have an offer for Rommel!”
One of the convicts motioned for her to come forward while another ran to the church to inform him of what was happening outside. Within seconds, Ava was surrounded and pushed toward the church. To Mason’s dismay, rather than luring Rommel out, the men ushered her inside.
With most of the convicts’ attention now on Steve Price and his men, it was easy for Mason to shuffle from car to car to get closer to the church. He got near enough to see through one of the large windows that Father Paul had smashed out.
Ava was speaking to Rommel with her back toward Mason. He couldn’t hear what was being said, but her hands were out as she made an impassioned plea. After a brief conversation, Rommel turned to say something to Slim and then swung back and backhanded Ava hard across the face. She went down and didn’t get back up.
Mason had no idea what she had offered, but, whatever it was, Rommel wasn’t buying. What he would do to her next wasn’t clear, but Mason couldn’t stand by and watch it happen. He had to buy everyone some time. Mason did the only thing he could. He started shooting.
His first shot hit a convict standing guard directly in front of the entrance. The man fell back against the church’s massive door, leaving a trail of blood like mucus from a giant banana slug. Mason shifted his aim to several others standing near the church. Four more shots and three more hits, only the last bullet going wide as that man dove for cover. Mason continued to fire until his rifle was out of ammunition, sending convicts scrambling for cover and randomly returning fire in every direction.
The sound of rapid gunfire caused the men facing off with Steve Price to open fire as well. Each side cut loose, sending hundreds of rounds in opposite directions but hitting very little. A group of six convicts surrounded Mason’s position, pinning him down with a sustained barrage of heavy fire. Glass and shrapnel exploded around him, as if they had blasted a cannon loaded with grapeshot.
Maintaining cover behind the car, he held his rifle high in the air with both hands.
“I surrender!”
Everyone stopped firing long enough to see what was going to happen next. Even Rommel and Slim moved to look out the window of the church.
The convicts slowly approached Mason, weapons at the ready. As they got close to him, he stood up and tossed his rifle so that it skittered noisily across the blacktop in front of them. Everyone’s attention briefly shifted to the weapon, and Mason drew his Supergrade and started firing again.
His shots were so rapid that they sounded like pops from an unbroken string of firecrackers. A few of the convicts returned fire, but none were trained well enough to keep a steady hand in the face of death. By the time the Supergrade’s slide locked to the rear, all six convicts who had approached lay bleeding in the street. Mason had taken only a grazing bullet wound to his left shoulder.
He looked over to Rommel whose face betrayed both concern and uncontrolled rage. Suddenly, Rommel’s left eye exploded in a pink puff of blood. He fell backward, out of sight. Coon had taken his shot.
A cacophony of screams erupted. The men inside the church were screaming for help. Steve Price and his men were screaming to advance. The convicts all around the street were screaming as they started taking fire, seemingly from every direction. Most of the bullets missed their targets, but they had the desired effect of turning the street into a true battle zone.
Convicts cowered behind cars or ran off into the night. Perhaps ten remained in the street fight, and Mason knew they wouldn’t last long. He slapped a fresh magazine into the Supergrade and ran for the church. Several bullets whizzed by close enough for him to feel the unmistakable vibration of their passing, but none broke skin. He wasn’t sure if it was enemy or friendly fire, but it didn’t really matter. A bullet was a bullet.
He made it to the door of the church, and, without breaking stride, burst into th
e room. The scene inside was as chaotic as that on the street. Slim knelt beside Rommel, trying desperately to stop the bleeding from the back of his head. Three other convicts were lined up at the windows firing out into the street, exactly as Mason and his deputies had done. Ava lay unconscious in the center of the room where she had fallen.
Mason fired three quick shots as he dove behind one of the pews. The first took the ear off one of the men at the windows. The second and third shots punched holes in the same man’s chest. As Mason hit the floor, the wooden pew splintered, as the two remaining convicts returned fire. To avoid the worst of it, he squatted down and shuffled along the back of the pew. A bullet grazed the top of his head, leaving behind a burning pain and a steady trickle of blood flowing down the side of his face.
When he had progressed about ten feet, Mason rose up just enough to sight over the pew. He took two more quick shots. Both hit the closest man, who was busy reloading his rifle. The last shooter scrambled along the open floor, desperately seeking cover. Mason steadied his aim and shot the convict in the side of his head.
The room fell silent.
Mason stood up and faced Slim. He was holding Rommel’s large revolver out before him like a religious offering. It was aimed at Mason, but he seemed uncertain about what to do next. Without hesitation, Mason shot him in the face.
A barrage of gunfire sounded from upstairs. A fight for the steeple was underway. He dropped out the partially spent magazine and slapped in his last remaining one. Weapon held firmly in front of him, Mason turned and raced up the stairs.
A convict stood at the top of the stairway, but his attention was on the door to the steeple. Without slowing, Mason fired twice, both bullets striking the man in the chest. He fell dead without ever knowing who had shot him.
Mason stopped at the top of the stairs, unaware of a convict standing at the small doorway to the steeple staircase. Seeing his partner drop, the man turned and let loose with a blast from a sawed-off shotgun.
Mason barely had time to drop to the ground before the buckshot tore apart the wall and bannister. Lying on his side, he fired three shots up at the man. The first splintered his femur, and the other two caught him in the gut as he fell. He lay on the ground, moaning and crying from the pain. Mason took one final shot, and the man fell silent.
He scrambled to his feet and rushed down the corridor toward the steeple’s doorway. Sounds of heavy gunfire came from within. He holstered his Supergrade and scooped up the shotgun from the fallen convict. He ejected the empty shell and chambered another. There was no easy way to tell how many rounds were left in the shotgun. He could only hope it would be enough.
Standing to one side, he peeked around the doorway. The spiral staircase was crowded with men queued up like paratroopers preparing to breach an enemy bunker. The man at the top was firing blindly through what little remained of the trapdoor.
Mason fired the shotgun up into the stairwell. A thunderous volley of buckshot pellets spewed out. He pumped round after round, firing as quickly as he could bring the heavy weapon back on target. When the shotgun finally locked open, he took it in his hands like a baseball bat and charged up the stairs, swinging it down upon any who still moved.
When Mason was finally finished, he stumbled to the bottom of the staircase and flopped down with his back against the wall, his feet splayed out into the hallway. The smell of gunpowder and blood mingled like a graveyard aphrodisiac.
He checked his Supergrade. Three rounds remained in the magazine, plus one in the chamber. He set it on his lap and waited. He had inflicted a lot of damage to be sure. Whether it was enough or not, only time would tell. Four rounds left. If any more than that were needed, the fight would be lost.
He closed his eyes, intending only to rest them for an instant.
When Mason finally opened his eyes, a large tongue was lapping the blood from his cheek. He raised his arms and hugged Bowie’s massive head, the dog’s unmistakable breath washing over him. Father Paul was standing behind Bowie, looking down at Mason with a concerned face.
“Thank God you’re alive.”
“Is it over?”
“Yes.”
“Did we win?”
Father Paul looked around at the pools of blood and spatter of gore lining the walls.
“No one won, but we fared better than these unfortunate souls.”
Mason reached out and held tightly to the dog.
“Help me to my feet, boy.”
Bowie stood firm, and Mason used him as a makeshift crutch to get to his feet.
“How are Vince and Don?” he asked, fearing the worst.
“Both alive. You just missed them.”
“And you? Are you hurt?”
Father Paul looked himself over.
“It appears that God has seen fit to spare me yet again.”
Mason suddenly remembered Ava lying unconscious on the floor.
“Ava’s downstairs. She needs attention.”
“Easy there,” Father Paul said, catching Mason as he swayed. “Vince and Don have already taken her to the hospital. I expect that she’ll have a good shiner for a couple of weeks, but otherwise she should be fine. Looking at that gash on your head, the hospital should be your first stop as well.”
Mason took a few steps to test how surefooted he was. The floor didn’t come rushing up to greet him, so he figured he would make it. He left Father Paul to lament over the loss of life while he went to sort things out downstairs. The bodies of Rommel, Slim, and the other convicts lay where they had fallen. Steve Price and his two sons were coming in through the front door. One of the young men had a blood-soaked bandana tied around his calf.
Mason nodded to them.
“I appreciate what you men did.”
All three looked shaken but were holding themselves together for one another if nothing else.
“It became a bloodbath in the end,” said Steve. “I’d be surprised if a single convict is still alive.”
“Probably better that way.” Mason walked past them, patting the youngest of Steve’s sons on the shoulder as he passed.
King Street looked as if it had been the target of a suicide bomber. Dozens of bodies were draped over cars or lying in the street as lifeless contortions. A large group of townspeople was busy with the cleanup, although Erik and the other virus survivors were conspicuously absent. Now that the shooting was over, there were more than enough hands for what had to be done. Fires would be put out. Bodies would be removed. Blood would be hosed from the church walls.
Coon leaned against a nearby car, his hunting rifle propped up beside him. He nodded at Mason.
“That was a good shot.”
“Not really.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I was shooting for the other eye.” He extended a hand, and Mason shook it. “It’s been an honor, Marshal.”
“For me as well.”
Coon took the badge off his shirt and held it out to Mason.
“I think you can find someone more fitting to pin this on.”
Mason reached out and closed Coon’s hand around the badge.
“I doubt that.”
“All right then,” he said, shrugging. Without another word, he picked up his rifle and walked slowly away into the night.
Mason looked around for Chief Blue but couldn’t find him anywhere. He asked several people, but the answer was always the same. No one had seen him since the shootout started.
He keyed his radio.
“Chief Blue, sound off.”
At first there was no reply, and then came several quick pops on the radio.
“We’re coming, Chief. Hold on.” Mason called over a young man who was helping with the cleanup. “You hold this microphone button down and keep talking into the radio.”
“Okay, sir, but what should I say?”
“Sing us a song.”
“A song?”
“Son, we just won a battle. A little music is in order.”
The young man paused for a moment and then began to sing.
Oh, say can you see…
Mason smiled. The national anthem seemed fitting enough.
He quickly gathered a few volunteers to help scout the immediate area. Using the singing to guide them to Chief Blue’s radio, they eventually found him lying behind the counter in an ice cream shop. There was blood everywhere. Two convicts lay dead on the floor, and another was draped over the counter as if helping himself to another scoop.
Mason knelt down to inspect the chief’s wounds. He was conscious and in intense pain.
“You did good.”
The chief blinked in response.
Mason found three bullet wounds, one in his chest, one in his right thigh, and one through the side of his neck. Of the three, the one through the leg looked the most serious. The bullet had nicked the femoral artery, and he was bleeding out.
Mason slid off the chief’s belt and cinched it around his thigh to stem the flow of blood. The bleeding slowed but didn’t completely stop. Chief Blue was having trouble breathing, sucking in air with a gurgling sound, like he was trying to breathe through a wet pillowcase. Mason rolled him onto his side, and the chief’s breathing immediately improved. He held Chief Blue’s hand and leaned in close.
“Chief, I need you to listen to me. You took a bullet to the chest that has most likely pierced a lung. A second bullet passed through your neck, which probably hurts like hell, but doesn’t look serious. Finally, a third bullet opened your right femoral artery. I’ve stopped the bleeding from your leg, but you’ve already lost a lot of blood. Now, I need for you to make a decision, a really tough one.”
Chief Blue stared up at him, tears forming in his eyes.
“I need you to decide whether you want to live or die. If you want to live, you’re going to have to fight for it. If you’re willing to die the hero you are right here on this floor, I’ll stay with you until you pass. You just let me know if you’ve got anything left in you.”
Chief Blue squeezed Mason’s hand.
“Okay, then. Let’s do it.”
He turned to the men who had helped him find the chief.
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