River of Night

by John Ringo

  Wrong clothes.

  And better guns.

  * * *

  Risky was standing next to the second Suburban when she heard the shots.

  “Where did that come from?” she snapped, dropping her right hand to her rifle’s grip. “Anyone see anything?”

  She watched Durante grab a radio but before he could make the call, movement in the grocery revealed Tom and Worf stepping out.

  She followed Katrin’s pointing arm when the ’tween pointed out the window at a small speeding figure being chased first by one, and then three adult men. The running shape resolved into a small girl in blue jeans. Risky watched the runner cover the last twenty-five meters, the girl’s braids snapping like short bullwhips in her wake.

  And then the little girl ran straight to Risky and grabbed her by the waist.

  “Don’t let them touch me!” she wailed.

  * * *

  Tom’s head was on a swivel. Every minute an additional armed fireman, or whatever they were, was joining the armed gathering a couple of short blocks away. There was a lot of gesturing and pointing. One of them had a radio.

  “Everyone behind the vehicles,” he ordered briskly. “Drivers start the engines. No one shoots.”

  He turned to Risky.

  “What’s going on?” he demanded.

  Risky was squatting on her heels, trying to talk to the incoherent little girl. The girl’s face and collar was covered in blood.

  “Is she infected?” Smith asked, alarmed.

  “Shh, shh little one,” said Risky, crooning to the sobbing child. “I’ll protect you. What’s wrong? Why do you run?”

  The little girl didn’t release the adult, but buried her face in Risky’s hair, bloodying it in the process.

  “Shhhh. Look at me.” Risky took the girl by the shoulders and examined her closely, checking her eyes and hands for the telltale tremors of H7D3. Seeing none, she tried again.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “They’re going to take me away!” the girl replied, still sobbing.

  “What?” asked Risky, suddenly intent. “Who?”

  “The bad firemen! They killed everyone and came back to take me. The big one said I smell nice, but he’s mean!”

  A loud yell carried from down the block.

  “Hey you. In the cars. Give us the girl!”

  Risky looked directly at Tom. Her eyes looked like something a gazelle might see, just as a lioness closed the distance.

  * * *

  Hank held the radio a little farther from his ear.

  “What do you mean, you don’t have her?” came Biggs’s voice. “Why the fuck not!?”

  “There’s more people,” the new Gleaner said, stammering. “Strangers. They got her!”

  “What?!” the radio blared. “Who? Never mind! I’m on my way!”

  This was not according to plan.

  Maybe if Hank got the girl back…

  “Hey, you!” he yelled. “In the cars. Give us the girl!”

  * * *

  Tom looked at Risky once more.

  Given the set of her jaw, it seemed unlikely that she was going to relinquish the girl without a fight, or at least a very convincing explanation. The kid was still clinging to Risky, who moved her around the SUV to shelter behind the front wheel.

  “Kap, how many?” he asked, without looking up.

  “Seven,” came the reply. “Eight now. Nine. They all have longs.”

  Tom considered just loading the trucks and running away.

  But this was the first organized group that they had seen since New York. Information was worth more than gold.

  “Send someone over,” he said, yelling back up the street. “No guns. We don’t want any mistakes.”

  A voice very different from the first roared back.

  “Fuck that shit. She belongs to me!”

  A taller, thicker figure began stumping towards the bank survivors.

  * * *

  Tom could see even more men appearing and starting to filter to the sides, taking position behind cars and dumpsters.

  “Kap,” he ordered. “On me. Durante, put together a firing line. Risky, Worf, watch the sides. Everyone else keep your head down. We’re gonna try to talk our way out of this.”

  “The girl’s not for giving back,” Risky said flatly.

  “She isn’t worth our lives,” Tom replied tersely, his eyes on the group of men. “No time now, take position.”

  He could see that their position was untenable. The bank survivors’ vehicles were the extent of their cover and they were severely outnumbered. Tom’s eyes flicked back and forth, weighing options, and then refocused on the approaching strangers. At this point, the options were to talk it out or start a drama in the middle of the street.

  He flicked his eyes back towards the nearest group. The biggest was clutching the side of his head. He was also yelling at a shorter man, presumably his subordinate, judging from the amount of cursing and cuffing.

  Okay.

  Tom would try to smooth things over.

  The big one in the middle was bleeding heavily from under a bandage that he held to the side of his head. He seemed pretty upset about it. The bright red stains continued along a well-equipped equipment harness and further down the side of his fireman’s coat.

  His hands were empty, but he bore both a rifle and a pistol.

  “Hello,” began Tom, mildly. “My name is—”

  “Don’t fucking care, prick,” the bleeding man snarled out of a face covered in prison ink. He advanced a step. “Gimme the girl now! She fucking bit my ear off and no one does that!”

  “And what do you do that she needed to bite ear?” Risky said, suddenly standing next to Tom, quivering in anger. “Big strong man couldn’t keep terrible scary girl from attacking him?”

  “Uh, Risky, would you…” Tom began to say, trying to keep the impending violence from actually igniting.

  “Shut up, bitch, or you are next!”

  * * *

  Durante had shaken the two Cosa Nova men into a line, their rifles shouldered at the low ready but out of sight behind the SUVs. He glanced over at Worf, who had been listening to the exchange.

  The Guardsman drew one finger across his throat.

  Durante recognized the signal.

  In reply Durante flashed back his favorite, the extended middle finger covered by the opposing palm.

  Meaning, “Cover me, we’re about to get fucked.”

  Worf just looked mystified.

  Right, Smith’s little classes hadn’t gotten to advanced hand and arm signals yet.

  Durante looked back towards the nervous men lined up behind the angry bleeding shouter.

  They wouldn’t be a problem.

  He evaluated the dozen plus guns that were a short block away. He could also see movement just ahead of their flanks. Kaplan was one car over, bent halfway over, but tautly examining the evolving tactical picture. Even more men were filtering in from the sides.

  He glanced over at Gravy and shook his head.

  They were really exposed here.

  “Tom,” Durante said conversationally, “we need to get a move on.”

  * * *

  Vinnie was excited. This was going to be a chance to show the new boss that he was a good guy. That he was dependable. He fiddled with his rifle out of nervousness.

  His magazine dropped out of his magwell and clattered loudly, just beneath the bumper.

  * * *

  Hank was excited. He was standing right up front, with the boss. With the important people. The other side had some guns but so far there was just yelling.

  He heard a loud clatter of metal and a curved magazine of bullets rattled into view, next to the SUV. He raised his rifle out of instinct and aimed under the car.

  * * *

  Biggs heard the clatter and looked under the truck, seeing a rifle magazine and the barrel of an M4. He registered one of his men aiming at an unseen threat. He dropped his ear
bandage and drove his hand towards his holstered pistol.

  * * *

  Eva was fuming that Biggs, the idiot, wouldn’t answer his god-damn radio. As Khorbish plopped down beside her and aimed through his own rifle scope, Eva watched the confrontation unfold. The small group of people weren’t backing down. If everything went to hell, Biggs was going to be left holding the bag, all by himself.

  Out in the open.

  Eva’s eyes widened in appreciation.

  “Hey, Khorbish, how do you feel about a promotion?” she said, nodding towards the pending confrontation. “That asshole is about to get us into a gunfight, and there he is, right in the middle of the road.”

  Khorbish looked at her uncomprehendingly for a moment, and then smiled nastily. He reset his cheek weld and aimed in.

  “On my go,” Eva said. “We gotta make sure that negotiations break down at the right moment, no?” Then she smiled a little and aimed at the tall stranger in front of Biggs, sliding the safety to the fire position. She took a deep breath, let about half trickle out through her nose and permitted the front sight to sharpen against the blurry tan outlines of the target’s chest. As soon as she saw sudden movement, she completed the trigger stroke.

  * * *

  Durante heard the clatter. Knew exactly what it was. Knew exactly what was going to happen.

  He’d carefully maintained the lowest profile he could, exposing no more than a part of his cranial and one eye. Even as the first inbound round cracked, Durante snapped his rifle up and starting servicing targets, dropping the first man to move and smoothly pivoting outwards and picking up as many hits as he could before hell cut loose.

  In the first second he had sent rounds through the first three heads, swinging right to left.

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw Tom stagger and then Risky yanked the boss backwards.

  * * *

  Somehow, Biggs wasn’t hit in the initial fusillade. He got his pistol up and shot over the suddenly prone man who had been arguing with him. His pistol bullet dug into the black macadam several yards away. He began to aim the pistol again but he saw movement to his left.

  As he turned, he felt a solid punch to his back, accompanied by sharp lance of pain.

  Confused, Biggs turned his head back to the nearest SUV in time to watch a rifle barrel foreshorten. The muzzle flash yel—

  * * *

  Panicked by the incoming fire, and desperate to fire back, Vinnie finally reseated his magazine and stood to fire. He began yanking the trigger, randomly shooting at the buildings and the flashes which he could see about a block away. His aggression was faultless. Unfortunately, his tactical acumen was not.

  Vinnie was fully upright and got off several shots before he absorbed three rounds nearly simultaneously. His armor stopped the two rifle rounds, which left nothing more significant than shallow craters, but a shotgun pellet creased the skin over his collar bone, creating intense pain and a nonlethal bloody gash.

  “What the fuck?!”

  Vinnie Mouse Sacks sank to one knee, looking for the source of the sudden burning pain in his neck and shoulder. Unfortunately, this left his head above the SUV’s hood. His skull intercepted a fourth round and he dropped with limp finality.

  Fat Ralph gaped at the body of his friend, but ducked lower, demonstrating somewhat better tactical judgment.

  * * *

  Tom felt the bullet impact on his chestplate in a sort of clinical way. He continued to raise his rifle but someone grabbed the carry handle on the back of his plate carrier and violently tugged him backwards. Reflexively he reacted by pushing with his legs in the same direction, jackknifing in the direction of the pull. As though he were in slow motion, he could hear individual rounds impacting against the SUVs, one every few moments. As soon as he was in cover, Risky began pulling at his armor, desperate to assess his injury.

  He shook himself and twisted left and right. No pain, no heat. The armor had kept the round out.

  “I’m fine,” he insisted. “No penetration. Take a position!”

  “Are you sure?” Risky said, pausing her fevered tearing at his velcro closures. Seeing his calm eyes, she inexplicably flared in sudden anger. “Fine!”

  She left him and crawled to the next wheel over.

  Tom glanced under the truck, but all the nearer attackers were down, along with the screamer, who was missing most of the back of his skull.

  Worf, Astroga and Gravy were in view, all prone, angled behind the vehicles. Their rifles popped in syncopated time, but their lack of rhythm didn’t reduce the effectiveness of their fire. After the initial blast of incoming fire, relatively few bullets were still hitting their vehicles. Kaplan had paused shooting, like Tom, and was evaluating the battle.

  Even so, it was time to move. They had to get off the X, and right now.

  “Mount up!” Tom yelled as loudly as he could. He double-checked himself for injuries, but couldn’t see any blood. “Get in and drive! GO!”

  Over his shoulder he saw Risky pushing their own kids and the rescuee into the first Suburban. One of its tires hissed as the run-flat compound tried to plug multiple leaks.

  “Kap!” he yelled, waving his arm to get the shooter’s attention. “Drive! GO! I’ll cover.”

  Kaplan gave him an exasperated look but dropped his rifle on its sling and swung behind the wheel as Tom continued to fire on their attackers a block away. Judging from the number of muzzle flashes that winked across his front and sides, the volume of fire should have been really heavy. Yet, most of the rounds must have been very badly aimed, or they would all be dead by now.

  The first Suburban made a tight turn and scraped past a stop sign, shedding a rear view mirror as Kaplan punched the truck out of the ambush.

  Ralph was trying to shove the limp bulk of his dead friend into the backseat, but couldn’t get the leverage he needed. Screaming from the interior greeted his bloody efforts as gray and yellow brain matter smeared on the upholstery.

  “Leave it, he’s gone!” Tom ordered. “Get in and shoot!”

  With a horrified look at the ruin of Vinnie’s head, Ralph let go of the body and closed the door on the terrified rear passengers. He jumped into the front passenger seat of the truck as Tom finished his mag dump and hopped behind the wheel of the big SUV. Worf continued shooting from an open window, risking the exposure in order to keep rounds moving downrange.

  “Gravy, GO!” Tom yelled at Durante. “Mount up and follow me!”

  Durante was laying down final suppressive fire as fast as he could but glanced up at Tom’s desperate yell.

  Tom shifted into reverse, mashed the gasoline pedal and the big engine roared in low gear as the fat tires drove the truck backwards. He accelerated backwards, alternately looking over his shoulder at their escape route and then back over the hood towards their last SUV. He saw Durante stagger as he got into the red Durango, but nonetheless slam the driver’s door shut. Moments later, the Dodge began backing up as fast as Durante could push it, before spinning around in a violent turn and accelerating again.

  Tom’s eyes flicked back to the rear window as his own truck approached fifty miles an hour. He kept his hands light on the wheel in order to avoid over controlling the big truck. A single twitch would cost him steering authority and then roll the vehicle. He turned his head forward in time to see Durante, leaning into the Dodge’s steering wheel, catch up to the first two trucks.

  The Suburban’s windshield caught another round, and one of the kids screamed anew.

  * * *

  Dave Durante knew that he had taken the round in a bad place. He felt the searing icy pain of the initial impact as the lucky shot caught him just under the lip of his armor plate, entering his lower back two inches from his spine. He felt his left leg go numb, but was close enough to the Dodge to lever himself inside by main strength.

  “Get your seatbelts on!” he commanded his passengers. Emily Bloome turned to click the belt on her charge and then herself. Her eyes were hu
ge in Gravy’s rear view mirror.

  Combat adrenaline had gotten him into the car and now it got them off the X. He pinned the accelerator to the floor, smoking the tires as he backed up as fast as he could. At a wide spot in the next intersection Gravy smoothly pulled the car through a J turn, spinning the steering wheel first one way and then reversing it, simultaneously popping the automatic transmission into drive.

  A wave of pain swept through his body as he straightened out.

  He was bleeding badly, a hot sour sensation boiling in his abdomen. Looking down, he saw that his lap was red with blood. A few more rounds splattered against the sheet metal, but he could see the edge of town. They were almost clear.

  But instead of elation, Durante felt a wave of pain and nausea that seemed to tighten his skin all over his body. With startling suddenness his vision began to blur, graying around the edges.

  He leaned onto the wheel and tried to steer smoothly but over corrected. He reversed his turn, and over compensated again. Looking up, Durante saw that he was going to strike a guard rail. He stabbed the brake and jerked the wheel, but too late.

  Blackness.

  * * *

  Eva stopped shooting and kept her head down. As return fire tapered, she was in greater danger of catching a ricochet courtesy of the atrocious marksmanship of the Gleaners foot soldiers. She counted on the other Gleaners to reflexively return fire and continue until either they ran out of ammunition or the strangers managed to run away.

  She heard engines roar and she peeked around her cover.

  The red SUV was last to back away, and as she watched, the driver managed a skillful reverse, shifted into forward and sped forward.

  The Gleaners could barely hit a vehicle at rest. Shooting at the trucks now was just an exercise in turning ammunition into noise.

  “Cease fire!” she yelled. “Cease fire! Cease fire!”

  She turned to Khorbish.

  “Get the rest of these asses to stop shooting—they’re just wasting ammo at this point!”

  Khorbish nodded and started yelling and cuffing the nearest shooters.

  Still in sight, the red SUV followed the bigger trucks. All three vehicles were approaching freeway speeds. She watched the convoy pass the edge of the town proper when the last truck began to weave a bit. Without warning it crunched against a guardrail and pirouetted into the ditch about a quarter mile from the fight.