by Mike Mullin
My dread increased as we approached Elmwood Cemetery outside of Warren. It occupied a low hill on our left, so we could see the tops of a few grave markers and tree stumps above the berm.
As Mayor Petty led our column past the entrance to the cemetery, I caught a flash of motion from the corner of my eye. A dark figure rose from behind a monument, and suddenly there were dozens of people popping up from every hollow, tree stump, and stone marker on the hill above us. I screamed a warning, but my voice was drowned out by the roar of incoming gunfire.
Chapter 3
A woman a few steps ahead of me was hit. Cyndi Reitmeyer, I remembered, even though I’d only spoken to her twice. Everything slowed, and I watched in horror as the top of her skull pirouetted lazily away, trailing torn bits of her knit hat and bloody strands of molasses-colored hair.
Before I could bring my rifle to bear, someone slammed into my right shoulder, hurling me to the edge of the road. I yelled a protest but shut up when I realized I’d been pushed into the only safe space— so tight against the snow berm that the attackers couldn’t get an angle down to shoot me.
Aunt Caroline and Uncle Paul were crouched nearby. Ed was at my shoulder—he’d thrown me against the berm, maybe saved my life. Mayor Petty was screaming, “Up and over!” and gesturing at the top of the berm.
“Idiot,” I yelled. “We need to flank them. Come on!”
Uncle Paul nodded, and I started elbow-crawling back the way we’d come. Uncle Paul, Aunt Caroline, and Ed followed me. The chatter of gunfire was continuous; chips of ice showered us as bullets struck the ice above our heads.
The road had filled with the newly dead and dying. Blood coated the ice, seeping toward both sides of the road. The air itself seemed alive with screams of pain, the acrid stink of gunpowder, and the sickly stench of blood.
I glanced over my shoulder. We’d split into four groups: One tried to climb directly toward the attackers. Mayor Petty was urging them on at pistol-point. Another crawled along the base of the snow berm, following me and Uncle Paul. A third group was running in panic, their numbers thinned steadily by gunfire from above. The fourth group lay bleeding in the road.
As we crawled out of the immediate area of the ambush, I caught Uncle Paul’s ankle and yelled, “Up and flank them?”
Instead of replying, he turned and started clawing his way up the snow bank.
“Up!” I bellowed, following him. Ed, Aunt Caroline, and dozens of others started up alongside us.
At the top I flopped into the snow alongside Uncle Paul and tried to click off my rifle’s safety. My thumb slid over the lever twice. My fingers were shaking, and my vision had narrowed as if I were looking out from the end of a dark tunnel. I dragged my thumb along the smooth metal of the rifle, concentrating, and managed to bump the lever to single shot. I only had one magazine, and it wasn’t full. Twenty-three shots in all.
The next two minutes were a cacophony of noise, terror, and adrenaline. From the direction of the road, the ambushers were behind good cover—gravestones, tree stumps, the brick gateposts, and the two gatehouses, but that did nothing to protect them from us on their flank. They were totally focused on killing people in Mayor Petty’s group as fast as they could reach the top of the snow berm.
I aimed at a guy peeking up over the top of a gravestone and pulled the trigger. A moment later he disap-peared—but I had no idea whether I’d hit him or someone else had.
Some of the ambushers turned toward us. I threw myself forward and to one side, rolling behind a tree stump. I heard a resonant thunk, and the stump vibrated against my head. The world lurched around me in a herky-jerky syncopation, counterpoint to the screams, the pop of gunfire, and the reek of powder.
I peeked around the side of my stump and shot again. More and more of us were reaching the top of the snow berm behind me, flanking and overwhelming the ambush-ers. I scrambled away from my stump, taking cover behind a stone monument and firing. Soon the ambushers began to flee, and we advanced, pushing them back. A few of the people in Mayor Petty’s group made it to the edge of the cemetery, sheltering behind the gatehouses. It looked like we would rout the rest of the ambushers.
“I’m going to see if I can do anything for the wounded,” Aunt Caroline yelled. She slid down the snow berm and ran toward the nearest of the dozens of people who lay bleeding in the road. I moved forward, ducking behind a stump, scanning for targets.
Under the constant chatter of gunfire, I heard the low growl of an engine. I looked for the source of the sound. Two pickups drove side by side, coming down the hill at the outskirts of occupied Warren. A column of men with rifles jogged behind the trucks. Each truck had a belt-fed machine gun mounted to the roof of the cab. Aunt Caroline, Mayor Petty, and at least a hundred others were still on the road.
As I watched in horror, both machine guns opened fire.
Chapter 4
I shot at the closest truck, firing as fast as I could pull the trigger. The two guys manning the machine gun jerked spastically and fell. My ammo ran dry. I dropped the now-useless rifle from my shaking hands.
The second truck moved in front of the first, hugging the right side of the road, tight against the snow berm. I scrambled to the top of the berm as it approached, keeping on my belly. Ed slid up beside me—I had no idea where he’d come from. Rivulets of blood dripped down the shaft of his broomstick, staining the snow with a trail of livid droplets.
The gunners on the second truck were spraying bullets across the middle of the road. Mayor Petty went down screaming. Aunt Caroline was trying to drag an injured man up the berm. No way would she get over the top in time.
I froze. My vision narrowed to a black-rimmed tunnel, centered on Aunt Caroline. She jerked spastically, thrown backward by the slugs tearing through her midsection. Her scream was audible even over the chaotic shouts and gunfire, as loud in my ears as if it were the only noise in a quiet cemetery, rather than merely one more wail among the chorus. I felt it as much as heard it—piercing me, opening my field of vision, and unfreezing my legs.
The truck was almost past my position on the berm. I threw myself off it, jumping toward the gunners.
I stretched out, elbow up as if I were doing a taekwondo high block, aiming for the side of the closest guy’s head. I hit him perfectly, my elbow connecting with his temple with a crack that was audible even over the gunfire. We went down in the bed of the pickup, our limbs thrashing and tangling.
I rolled, looking up just in time to see the other gunner draw a pistol and aim it at my head.
Chapter 5
A shadow passed over me as the gunner’s hand tensed on his pistol. Ed soared over us in a flying leap, his broom handle held below him like a hawk’s talons. More than a foot of bloody broom handle sprouted from between the gunner’s ribs, driven through by Ed’s falling weight. The gunner dropped. Hot blood spattered my face, and the sharp end of the stake thunked into the truck bed beside my neck. I roared wordlessly, more from surprise than terror.
I threw the twitching weight of the man off me, rolling onto my knees. Ed was lifting the machine gun from its mounting on the cab of the pickup.
Bullets whanged around us as the column of men behind the trucks fired. The driver of the pickup thrust his arm out the window, trying to bring a pistol to bear on Ed. I lurched forward and grabbed the driver’s wrist in both hands, hauling it backward against the window frame. His elbow broke with a crunch, and the pistol slipped from his hand into the road.
Ed had freed the machine gun from its mounting. He turned it around, braced it against the back of the cab, and opened up on the men behind the truck.
The rear window of the truck shattered from the gun’s recoil. Thousands of pebbles of tempered glass rained down in a tinkling sheet. Ed adjusted the machine gun, bracing it against the strip of metal above the window, and opened fire again.
Men died. Some fell quietly, becoming inert piles of bloodied flesh and clothing. Others screamed, falling into writhing h
eaps of agony. Those who didn’t fall under the Ed’s scything gun scattered, running back the way they had come.
Ed’s ammo ran dry, but by then our side had taken full control of the other truck and machine gun. The fight was over. I slid out of the bed of the truck, collapsed to my knees, and vomited onto the frozen road.
Chapter 6
I hadn’t seen Uncle Paul since the beginning of the fight. Not far from me, someone was frantically working on Mayor Petty’s right leg, cinching a belt around his thigh—an improvised tourniquet. Blood pulsed from half a dozen wounds spread across both of his legs.
I pushed myself upright, catching sight of Uncle Paul as I rose. He was about fifty feet off, kneeling by Aunt Caroline. Uncle Paul was cradling her head in one hand with his other pressed to her stomach. Her face was nestled against his coat.
“Alex,” Aunt Caroline said as I approached,
“you’re okay.” She forced a wan, bloodless smile.
“How are . . .” I noticed the tears streaming down Uncle Paul’s face and the blood welling between his fingers.
“Can’t feel my legs,” Aunt Caroline replied. “Paul says they’re fine. His ears turn red when he lies.”
Uncle Paul fixed his stare on me. “We need to get her to Dr. McCarthy. Now.” His voice was ragged.
“I’ll get a truck.” I ran back to the pickup Ed and I had liberated. The cab was empty, but the truck was still running. Ed was helping two other guys lift Mayor Petty’s considerable bulk. I grabbed Petty’s shoulder, and we slid him into the bed of the truck.
“Drive,” I told Ed. “I’ll help load. We need to pick up Aunt Caroline and get back to Dr. McCarthy. Fast.”
Ed nodded and vaulted out of the bed.
I ran ahead of the truck with three others. We loaded the injured into the bed and dragged the dead to the sides of the road while Ed inched the truck forward. By the time we got to Aunt Caroline, the bed was full. People lay practically atop each other, and the floor was awash in blood. We laid Aunt Caroline on the open tailgate, and Uncle Paul crouched next to her, holding on to her with one hand and the side rail of the truck with the other. I helped a woman who’d been shot in the foot hobble into the cab and squeezed in beside her. Ed goosed the gas, and we raced back toward the farm.
I was out of the cab, sprinting to get Dr. McCarthy, even before the truck rolled to a stop. I found him on the leeward side of the partial stockade wall. A large fire had been built there, and five pots of water were suspended above it on a wire. The tables from Uncle Paul’s kitchen and dining room were beside the fire, one clear, the other stacked high with blankets, bandages, towels, and medical instruments.
“How many injured?” Dr. McCarthy barked.
“Sixteen on this truck,” I gasped. “More coming on the other truck and on foot.”
“Truck? Never mind. Run to the house. Get Belinda. And round up anyone who’s steady enough to help.”
I turned toward the house. Dr. McCarthy was already gone, running the other way, toward the truck.
Belinda, Alyssa, and Max were in the living room, caring for convalescents from the last disastrous fight between Stockton and Warren.
Alyssa gasped as she caught sight of me. “What happened?”
I glanced down—my clothing was caked with blood. Some of the blood had already dried and started to flake off; some of the blood was still fresh, glistening in the firelight. “It’s not my blood. Dr. McCarthy needs help. Sixteen injured. Badly More coming.”
They dropped what they were doing. Belinda ran past me with Alyssa at her heels. I grabbed Max’s arm as he tried to pass by “Max—”
“Let go! I can help too.”
“Your mother is out there. She’s hurt.”
Max hesitated, looking at me over his shoulder. “Is it—how bad?”
“It’s not good. She’s been shot.”
“I’ve gotta go.” He tugged on my arm, but I tightened my grip.
“You’ve got to hold it together. Help Dr. McCarthy and Belinda. Can you—”
“I’ve got it.” He turned, fixing a determined gaze on me.
I let him go, and he left at a run. I dashed up the stairs to the girls’ room, entering without knocking.
Darla wobbled to her feet. “Alex, Christ—”
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” I said. “The blood’s not mine. Rebecca, Dr. McCarthy needs help outside. Anna, you and Darla stay here and take care of the people downstairs.” I leaned in as if to kiss Darla’s ear and whispered, “Keep Anna here. Aunt Caroline’s hurt. Bad.” Darla nodded. Everyone leapt into motion, and I went to look for Ben.
I found him in the exact same place he’d been that morning, reading the exact same book. “Ben!” I yelled. He didn’t even look up. “Ben!” I finally had to walk into the room and grab the book. My glove left a bloody smear on the page.
“You are covered in blood, Lieutenant,” Ben finally said.
“It’s not mine,” I said for at least the third time. And what was up with calling me Lieutenant? I didn’t have time to ask. “Can you—”
“I presume the attempt to retake Warren failed?”
“Miserably,” I said, but Ben just kept talking.
“You should have used misdirection or surprise. An attack on Stockton or from an unexpected—”
“I know, I know!” I shouted, but Ben kept right on talking. “Shut up for a second, would you?”
Ben started moaning and rocking back and forth in his chair. I cursed myself for an idiot—yelling at Ben was never helpful. “Can you help Dr. McCarthy?” I asked.
“Ben is not qualified as a field medic,” he replied, still rocking.
“Right. Sorry I yelled.” I turned to go.
“Lieutenant!”
I turned back. Ben was still now.
“Stockton’s leader will expect you to spend time regrouping. If you attack their base in Stockton now, you might take them by surprise.”
“I’ve got to go help Dr. McCarthy,” I said as I left.
The field hospital outside was a hive of frenzied activity. Dozens of those too old or young to fight had descended on the hospital, helping to unload the truck, bandage wounds, and comfort the injured. Belinda had triaged the injured into three groups: those who needed medical care immediately, those who might be able to wait, and the two unfortunates who’d died on the way back to the farm.
Aunt Caroline was in the second group. Belinda said that since she hadn’t bled out already, she probably wouldn’t in the next few minutes. Uncle Paul stayed with Caroline, his hand pressed to her belly as if he could hold her together by pure force of will.
We had three trucks now: the two we had just captured and one I had brought back from Iowa. All three raced back and forth to the battlefield, picking up survivors. Ed drove one of them. A few hours before, I wouldn’t have trusted him with a captured truck. I would have assumed he’d take off, maybe return to the flenser gang. Now, I didn’t give it a second thought.
Max rushed to do whatever Dr. McCarthy asked, stopping only during the rare lulls to gaze longingly at the blanket where his mom lay. We ran to fetch more thread for stitching wounds. We refilled the pots hanging over the fire and kept the fire stoked. We washed patients’ wounds. We held their hands. We unloaded the trucks when they pulled up with more wounded. Three more people died, and Max and I moved their corpses off the table to clear the way for those who might yet be saved.
More injured came, at first on the three trucks, but after about two hours, the walking wounded started to show up. Dr. McCarthy moved in a mechanical blur, plunging his bloody hands into nearly scalding water between each patient, racing to stabilize them so they could be passed off to Belinda to be stitched up, or passed off to Max and me to be laid out with the rest of the corpses. I didn’t think nurses had usually stitched wounds in the old world, the pre-volcano world, but Belinda was good at it, her hands fast and sure.
Almost three hours passed before Dr. McCarthy had time t
o examine Aunt Caroline. Her skin was yellow and bloodless. Max, Uncle Paul, Alyssa, and I lifted her as gently as we could. Max whispered over and over again, “You’re going to be okay, Mom. You’re going to be okay.”
It sounded like he was trying to convince himself. Aunt Caroline gasped loudly as we set her down.
Dr. McCarthy used a pair of shears to cut her clothing away from her stomach. Two crusty, puckered wounds marred the bone-white skin just above her waist. Blood had pooled in her belly button, so that the wounds looked something like a screaming face. Dr. McCarthy had me help roll her onto her side. Her back was unmarked, other than a huge, ugly bruise spreading along her spine.
Dr. McCarthy tapped on her knees—hard—with his fingers. I had no idea why. He turned to Uncle Paul, gesturing toward the fence with his head. “We need to talk— over there, maybe.”
Aunt Caroline hadn’t moved or done anything but moan since we’d moved her to the table. But when Dr. McCarthy started to move away, her hand shot out, clasping his arm. “No. Tell him here. I need to know too.”
Dr. McCarthy said, “Should Max—”
“He can stay too.”
Dr. McCarthy sighed and gathered himself. “It’s not good. Two bullets. No exit wound. A huge contusion along the spine. They missed your abdominal aorta somehow, or you’d have bled out already. But the bad news is that both bullets are still in there. Since you have no autonomic response, one or both of them must be lodged in your spine.”
“I’m paralyzed.”
Dr. McCarthy nodded once.
“I can move my arms. It could be worse.”
A strangled cry escaped Dr. McCarthy’s mouth, quickly choked off.
“It is worse, isn’t it.”
“Yes. If I had a modern operating room—if I were a trauma surgeon, if I had a full support team, maybe. But . . .” “I’m going to die.” Aunt Caroline said it flatly, with quiet assurance, like she’d known it all along. Max made a choking sound and turned away. Uncle Paul clenched his wife’s shoulder, his knuckles white.