Blood of the Dogs_Book I_Annihilation

by Richard Cosme

  They both jumped into the truck, Weasel driving. As it started up, the muscular pulse of the huge engine reverberating off the garage walls, I went out the garage doors and ducked to the right side, rifle ready, thirty round clip full. Facing the front gate, the house and garage behind me, I could see four ladders already up. It would be the same in the back.

  They started coming over then, not easily because the barrier was compressed by the ladders and the thistle and razor wire came up through rungs, snagging clothing and skin. I fired short ammo-conserving bursts with the assault rifle at as many of the front men as possible, jamming up the traffic flow. But it was like one of those video games on the computer. The arc was too big for me to cover all of their incursions. Within a few seconds two of them made it over the barrier, jumping to the ground. They had good sight lines on me, the truck, and the man in the cage.

  The sight of the truck stopped them in their tracks.

  “Get the fuck out of here, Weasel,” I screamed.

  The truck lurched from the garage, the biggest, ugliest moving object anyone had laid eyes upon for thirty-five years. For a brief moment all the firing stopped. The Messengers were paralyzed by the awesome oddity that rolled into the front yard. Then they all turned their rifles on the truck, which had turned left, toward the mine free escape route. The man on the front of the truck was hit by about thirty rounds before the vehicle had moved more than a few meters.

  “So much for respecting brothers in arms,” said Stevie’s voice over the comm set. “We’re gone, Mac. Take care of everyone. See you on the other side.”

  The truck rumbled toward the barrier. On the passenger side, Stevie’s rifle was spraying anything that moved. I could see little sparks where the bullets of the enemy soldiers hit the armor and careened harmlessly away. The soldiers were screaming like animals, braying, blatting, baaing and clucking, near apoplexy from the monstrous machine that lumbered through their pitiful resistance.

  The truck hit the wire barrier, compressing it like chicken wire, its thick tires invulnerable to the razor edges. The truck gained speed and shot across the field. All the Messengers were firing at its tailgate, completely ignoring my presence at the front of the compound. I lost sight of the truck and slipped back into the house and headed for the basement. On the way down my comm set picked up Stevie’s screams and the shots from within the cab. They were screams of excitement. Both of them were safe.

  His voice was beginning to fade as they moved beyond the range of the comm sets, when I heard him yell, “Over there, Weasel. It’s The Babe. To your right. Yeah. Run the fucker down.” A few seconds’ silence, then, “Shit. He’s fast. You missed him. Go back. Go back.”

  Then the voices faded as they moved beyond the capacity of the signal. Weasel hadn’t turned around.

  • • • •

  I could smell the ethanol when I opened the door to the basement. We had held back a couple of gallons. Merlin and Sarah were splashing it around inside the almost completely empty armory room while Duke sat outside, looking very uncomfortable, edgy from all the action. We had saved the fuel to ignite the concoction of explosives we had in the basement—several grenades, three kegs of gunpowder, a few hundred rounds of ammo—and two large drums of liquid Weasel had retrieved from a paint factory. They were labeled with all kinds of warnings, most of which contained the words, “hazardous,” “flammable,” and “explosive.”

  The armory was stocked with a dozen M 16s and several pistols, dozens of empty clips and empty ammo boxes. There were also six wooden crates, the kind used to transport assault rifles. They were sealed—and empty. It looked like a good haul for someone who was attempting to outfit an army. In a far corner, under a shelf, sitting in a little puddle of ethanol, was a tiny receiver.

  I stepped into the doorway of the armory. Stevie and Sarah were waiting. Duke was in the tunnel, beyond the fumes. “They’re gone,” I said. “Made it out OK.”

  “We heard,” Sarah replied. “Sounds like they almost had an encounter with The Babe. Wish Weasel could have gone back.”

  “I’m glad he didn’t,” I said. “I want them safe.”

  “Betcha if he was alone in that truck, Weasel would have turned around,” Merlin said. He was probably right. But the plan was for all of us to survive. He wasn’t going to risk Stevie.

  “You two ready?” I asked.

  They were both strapping on weapons and checking ammo. They shook their heads in affirmation.

  “Run it by me one more time.”

  “We each take a separate tunnel leading out back. Mac in the middle. Merlin and Duke on the left. Me on the right,” Sarah said.

  “When we get near the end,” Merlin continued, “me and Sarah blow the middle of our tunnels with a grenade, causing a cave in between us and the basement.” The cave-in would protect each of us from the blow back of the basement explosion. We had no intention of leaving the house for the attackers. What we couldn’t carry would be destroyed, along with any Messengers we could attract into the house.

  “Then each of you neutralizes the booby trap at the exit and waits for my signal before going out,” I continued.

  The plan called for me to wait for as many Messengers as possible before I blew the basement, using a little battery powered remote that would set off a spark in the receiver at the other end—the one in the pool of ethanol. When the time was right, I would head for the other end, seal the middle with a grenade and then push the button that would ignite the ethanol. When that happened, all of us would escape from our respective tunnels in the confusion. Just how much confusion there was would be dependent upon the volatility of the two drums of solvent from the paint factory.

  “Let’s go,” I said. We opened three tunnel doors.

  Sarah hugged Merlin and bent down to squeeze Duke. He lapped at her face. Turning to me, she pulled my face down to hers and whispered, “Be careful. I love you.”

  “Me too,” I replied.

  Sarah turned and looked around, her eyes moving up toward the house above us, our home for nearly ten years. I knew what she was feeling. It represented the happiest times of our lives. It would be kindling soon. So much work. Driven away by the stalkers, not allowed to make a life, create a family, live in peace.

  Each of us moved to our tunnel entrance. I looked over to Sarah. “It’s the people,” I said. “They’re what made it good. Not the house itself.”

  She half smiled, mouthed the words, I know. Thanks.

  Then each of us grabbed our sheet metal shields to protect us from our own grenade blasts and ducked into our own tunnels, like trapdoor spiders retreating into their sanctuaries.

  I went last, watching Duke follow Merlin before I closed the door to our home for the final time.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  We each closed the tunnel door behind us, added protection against the blast I would soon trigger. None of us had a prediction of its power. Enough to burn down the compound we were sure. Beyond that, we had no idea. The drums of Weasel’s chemicals were the x factor.

  I could hear Sarah and Merlin breathing in my ear. The comm sets worked fine in the confined environment.

  “My God.”

  It was Sarah. Twenty, maybe thirty meters away. Tons of earth between us. I knew what she meant. The depth of the darkness was profound, humbling. I didn’t bother with the night goggles. There was no available light for them to draw upon. Besides, there was nothing to see. It was a long narrow dirt tube that held each of us. A few 4x4’s spaced along the walls and ceilings. Nothing else. No life. No paintings on the wall. Just a long, dark, damp…grave.

  “It’s all right,” I said. “We won’t be here too long. Use your flashlight if it starts to get to you.”

  “It’s already on,” Sarah said. “Let’s go to work.”

  “You two blow your tunnels. I’ll wait here.”

  A few minutes later, the length of time it took them to crawl within a few meters of the outside exit, they both checked in.
I remained by the door that led back into the basement, listening for sounds of the Messengers in the house. Nothing yet.

  “Blow it in,” I said, imagining each of them rolling a grenade down their tunnel, back towards the basement, then crouching behind their shields. I waited in my position, tunnel side of the basement door.

  Two muffled explsions followed. I felt the vibrations as well as heard the sound.

  “Did it work?” I asked.

  “Like a charm,” Sarah replied.

  “Perfect,” said Merlin. “Freaked Duke’s shit pretty good, though.”

  “It shouldn’t be too long now,” I told them. “The explosions should start bringing them down.”

  From the other side of the door to the basement, sounds from within the house begin filter to my ears. Yells and yips, breaking glass, thumps of furniture being destroyed. They were trashing the place. The destruction reminded me of the houses Sarah and I had seen before we found this pristine one ten years ago. This was what happened thirty five years ago to the homes we had rejected.

  They found the door in the kitchen that led down to the basement. Footsteps clunked down the stairs. “Yo, down here. A store room. Rifles, powder. Shit, man, they got fucking lights. Bring The Babe down.”

  Perfect.

  “Sarah, Merlin. Check this. They’re bringing The Babe into the basement. Hang on a couple of minutes. I may get to char broil the fat fuck.”

  “Wish I could press that button,” Merlin said.

  “I’ll put your name on it.”

  More footsteps coming down. They had found the armory. Just enough in there to whet their appetites. I heard others exploring the rest of the basement, looking for more to scavenge.

  “Where’s The Babe?” someone asked.

  “Outside,” came the reply. “Checking to see if he can find another truck. Made a big impression on his ass.”

  “Right,” a laugh. “Almost too big. Get him down here. I found some good shit.”

  “Hey. Hey,” another voice, close to my door. “I got a bunch of doors over here. They’re all over the place. Bet they got shit stashed in other rooms.”

  “Watch your ass,” shouted another. “Those assholes may be behind those doors with a gun pointed at your face.”

  I heard the sounds of weapons snapped to readiness, maybe twenty men down here now, and began scrambling down the tunnel. I had to move fast, before they began opening tunnel doors and leaving the trap we had so carefully set. A few meters down, I pulled a grenade, popped the pin and rolled it behind me toward the basement door. Then I crawled like hell, dragging the machine gun, my assault rifle smacking my chest with each meter’s progress, working on distance between me and the blast.

  I felt the detonation before I heard it, a change in air pressure, a gentle push before the big shove. I threw myself on the dirt floor of the tunnel, covered my head. The sound was surprisingly soft, a muffled thump followed by a rush of earthy wind and bits of shrapnel that nipped at my feet and clothing. Nothing pierced flesh. There was some dust, but not much. The tunnels were always damp.

  I turned on to my back and sat up, pointing the flashlight toward the basement. A wall of dirt hid the door. I was safe from the next blast. The big one.

  “You OK, Mac?” It was Sarah.

  “I feel like a fucking bullet,” I said. “I was a bit close. Lucky the goddam thing didn’t send me flying down the tunnel like it was a rifle barrel. Hang on to your butts. I’m blowing the basement.”

  “What about The Babe? He in there?”

  “They found the tunnel doors. Doesn’t make any difference now. I gotta blow it.”

  I pulled the remote and pressed the button, igniting a spark in the armory room. We reasoned later, months after it was all over and we had inspected the site, that the basement explosion was what led them to the outside tunnel exits.

  The blast must have been gargantuan. In the tunnels the earth vibrated as it transferred the energy from the shock wave. Clumps of dirt fell upon us. The rumble of the blast filled our ears. But the walls and ceilings held.

  Inside the basement, the explosion sought a release from its confinement. The drums of chemicals expelled a massive amount of energy into the confined space of the basement. Triggered by a spark, a couple of gallons of ethanol, a few pounds of gun powder and some spare ammo, the drums of chemicals unleashed a gargantuan explosion.

  The house was very well constructed. The concrete walls were too substantial for the force of the blast to breech. The ceiling of the basement was doubly reinforced with two by eights. To exit through the ceiling, the force of the explosion had to puncture the ceiling and the floor to the first story. In the fraction of a second that followed its release, the explosion found more accessible paths.

  The single door that led to the kitchen wasn’t enough to vent the explosion’s fury. It sought other exits, found the doors to the tunnels, the five subterranean conduits we had not sealed with our grenades, and shredded the doors, paltry little guardians, hurling its fury down the other five tunnels, finally finding release at the exits, far beyond the compound walls.

  Two of those five tunnels had exterior doors. The force of the explosion, now over a hundred meters from its source, blew the doors off, sending them flying another thirty meters, and finally dissapated in the open air. In the other three tunnels, hidden in gullies or small pockets of trees or bushes, wind and dirt, an angry roar and black smoke marked the exit of the explosion that had originated in the basement.

  The booby traps in all those tunnels were triggered when the doors were ejected, sealing them from the outside. The Messengers that remained on the battleground outside the walls rushed to the tunnel exits that the muscle of the explosion had so clearly marked for them. When they found no entry, they looked for more.

  Inside the house, a tick of the clock beyond the scouring of the tunnels, the blast located a weakness in the ceiling, wiggled through and burst into the main level of the house, fire and smoke, wind and debris annihilating in seconds what had been our home for a decade. In the process, every Messenger that was in the house was sent to hell.

  From my tunnel, which had become the true, perfect re-creation of an Edgar Allen Poe story, it felt like the end of the world. And, lucky me, I had pre-purchased my burial plot.

  “That,” said Merlin’s voice, hushed, frightened, “was the fucking hand of God telling us to straighten up.”

  “Sarah, you OK?” I asked.

  “I’d really like to see some sunshine,” she said shakily. “Can we please get out of here, Mac?”

  “Me and Duke second that,” Merlin said.

  “You two take off,” I replied. “I’ll be just a couple of minutes behind you. I’ve got to dismantle the booby trap at the exit. When it’s clear, take off. I’ll meet you down at Fox Valley.”

  I began crawling toward the exit. The booby trap would take me a couple of minutes. It should have been done before I blew the tunnel, but the arrival of the Messengers in the basement changed the schedule. My tunnel came out in the middle of a small blackberry patch. Its door was treated lumber, covered with dirt and brush to appear as a natural part of the landscape. On either side of me, Sarah and Merlin would exit under the protection of trees and bushes.

  Sarah’s voice came to me over the comm set. “I’m out, but I got a problem. The area is swarming with soldiers. From all the smoke hanging in the air, I’d say the blast alerted them to the tunnel system.”

  “How many?” I asked.

  “Maybe five or ten. Should I go back in and wait them out?”

  “You’ve got no options in the tunnel,” I said. “Please don’t go back in. Merlin, what’s your situation?”

  “I’m out, me and Duke. In a thick stand of honeysuckle bushes. No one over here yet. What should we do?”

  “Get out,” I said. “You and Duke head for Weasel and Stevie if you’ve got an opening. I’m closer to Sarah. I’ll cover her.”

  “Can’t do that, M
ac,” he said. “We stay til you’re both out. I’m waiting here for instructions.”

  “All right,” I said. “Thanks. Give me a couple of minutes and I’ll be out.”

  Close to the end, I shined the flashlight up to the trap, a wire stretched across the entrance about a foot down, one end in the wood frame, the other in the pin of a grenade. Anyone entering would trigger it when they got a couple of feet inside the tunnel.

  Before I could get to it I heard footsteps on the wooden trapdoor followed by the sound of hands scraping away the dirt. “Is that one of you two?” I asked.

  “I’m still right outside my tunnel,” Sarah said.

  “Me too,” Merlin replied.

  The door began to swing open, trickling sunlight into my tomb. The light dimmed as a helmeted head peered into the darkness, remaining a few inches above the trip wire. He was backlit, and I could only see his profile, not his face. I was ten feet from him, but I didn’t think he could see me with his eyes adjusted to sunlight. I dropped the HK machine gun, pulled the Glock and snapped three shots at his head, hitting home with all three, shattering his helmet, pulverizing what was inside.

  He disappeared immediately, unseen clan warriors yanking his corpse back by his feet, replaced by another soldier who jumped feet first into the tunnel, snapping the wire of the booby trap. Three second delay. At the same moment I perceived his muzzle flashes, I put two shots into him, threw the Glock over my shoulder and planned to turn and scramble backward, hoping to put some distance between myself and the grenade blast that was about to come.

  But something punched me hard in the shoulder, throwing me back. Then the blast came. The explosion was a circle, and I was only a small portion of it. Part of the release went straight outside; the rest remained in the tunnel. A flash of light, the pressure and sound of the explosion, the shrapnel…then complete darkness again.

  In the second before I lost consciousness, I realized that the discharge of the grenade had sealed my exit. I was trapped in my own tunnel. My escape hatch now a sepulcher, a tubular tomb with me as the only occupant. I fought the primal panic, imagining the air was already stale, the ceiling cracked and ready to collapse, burying me permanently in tons of dirt, like those 20th cen mobsters I had read about who were sealed in the cement foundations at the construction sites of skyscrapers. Buried alive.