“Let’s see…must be Derek, Slim, and…I don’t know who else,” Scotty noted, with a shrug of his shoulders.
“Slim and Derek huh, well, the two of ’em know what they’re doing. Keep your eyes up on the mountain and let me know if anything changes,” Niel said.
The next ten minutes passed quickly, as Niel pushed the pickup as hard as he dared. They charged down straightaways and slid around near impossible corners, ultimately bringing them to the northern outpost’s perimeter.
“We’re here,” Niel said, pointing to the lights of the station, not more than a mile straight ahead.
“Looks like things are…” Scotty began, before a fireball rose high in the air, illuminating the terrain for more than a mile around.
“Geeeze,” Niel barked, just as the shock wave and sound from the explosion reached their truck. They weaved slightly, while Niel hit the accelerator and reached under the seat for a much needed flare gun.
“Fertilizer mines?” Scotty shouted, his adrenalin already pumping wildly.
“Had to be,” Niel acknowledged. “Get ready to fire this thing,” he said, handing the odd shaped pistol to his little brother.
The roadway was cluttered with a dozen vehicles, angled in a maze-like fashion across the blacktop. They were used as a crude barrier against speeding marauders who may have breached The Ward’s initial security measures, thus forcing them to slow down. The sound of intense gunfire now filled their surroundings, as Niel expertly maneuvered the fixed obstacles and raced on.
“Now Scotty, let ’er fly,” Niel shouted.
Leaning from his window, Scotty pointed the flare gun skyward and pulled the trigger. A loud BANG exploded from the gun’s chamber, launching a glowing cartridge into the night sky. At its zenith, the shell burst into an arc of bright reds that could be seen for miles. The truck made a final sprint for the battle before sliding sideways and coming to an abrupt halt.
“You go left and I’ll go right,” Scotty yelled, above the battle’s chaos.
The sound of a heavy machine gun nearly drowned out their final words, as they jumped from the truck and bolted for the front line. At the barricade, desperate defenders, already shaken from mere minutes of carnage, welcomed them. Fifty yards out, a demolished truck was burning and sending billowing clouds of dark smoke into an even darker sky. A body lay slightly closer, also engulfed in a searing heat, the skin and fat popping as the corpse was incinerated.
Niel slammed hard into a row of sandbags below the tower and looked at what was drawing the machine-gun’s fire. “Crap…oh man, we’re gonna need more help than Clark can send,” he yelled. Rolling to his right, Niel lunged and had started up the steps of the tower, when the thump of the Bradley’s cannon lifted the fight to a whole new level. Exploding rounds ripped into the structure above his head, shattering the ladder and throwing Niel to the ground. From his vantage point he watched the heavy rounds march up the tower until they zeroed in on the 30 cal’s position, obliterating it.
In an instant, Scotty was pulling Niel to his feet. “Come on…we’ve got to move. Get those two,” he screamed, pointing to the couple manning the electronics, “and I’ll see about the rest. We’ve got to fall back.”
“Okay…okay. I’ll meet you at the truck. There’s nothing we can do against that tank, at least not here.”
Hunkered over, Niel tried to keep his balance as he dashed to the couple manning the entry beam. They were peering over the edge of their defenses when Niel jumped in beside them.
“Good job with the mines – stopped that truck cold,” Niel uttered huskily.
“Thanks, but what about that thing?” the gentleman asked, nodding down the road at the slowly advancing Bradley.
“I don’t know, but there’s nothing here to stop it. Get to our truck and pile in the back. We’ll make a run for it.”
“Gotcha, but we do have one more mine. It didn’t go off when we set off the others.”
“What? We’ve got one more – how far out?”
“Just left of where that body is burning,” the older fellow noted.
Niel hugged the sandbags and leered over the edge, trying to estimate the distance from the unexploded mine to the approaching armored vehicle.
“How do we detonate it?” Niel asked, dropping to a knee behind the barricade.
“We don’t…at least not from here. The other detonations must have broken the electrical connection between here and there.”
“So, what are you saying? We have to set it off by hand?”
“In a way, yes. It’s ammonium nitrate…a bullet will do the trick.”
“We have to shoot it,” Niel grunted. He lifted his head, again exposing himself slightly for another peek.
Scotty was suddenly with them, wheezing to catch his breath. “Come on…what’s taking you?”
“We’re trying to decide how we stop that thing,” Niel hissed.
“Well, the beam will slow it down but we’ve got to move,” Scotty squawked, almost in disbelief.
“You don’t understand,” the older warrior replied. “We’ve got another bomb.”
“You’re kidding me…set that sucker off and let’s make for home.”
“It’s not that easy, little brother. The detonator is broken. We’ll need to shoot it to set it off.”
“Great. Okay…I guess it’s me and you,” Scotty said, tapping at Niel’s chest.
“Guess so. You folks get to the truck – keys are in it. If we don’t make it, get to the other checkpoints and warn them. Circle back to The Alamo and warn Clark what’s coming,” Niel ordered.
“Good luck, boys. Stay to your left. It’s 50 yards out and the drum’s lid is just above ground level.”
Niel popped above their protective barrier a final time and estimated the Bradley’s distance. “We’ve only got a couple of seconds. There’s no way to hit that mine from here.”
Scotty thought for a second and replied, “But what about up there?” He pointed to the remains of the tower, which still rose above the station.
“Good thought but how do we get up there?” Niel asked.
“We don’t…I do.”
Before Niel could stop him, Scotty had thrown his rifle over his back and was scaling the tottering structure. “Scotty, you’ll be exposed. Let’s find another way.”
“Swing to the left, draw their attention away,” Scotty shouted in return.
Niel dove over the sandbags and without thinking sprinted far to his left, firing his assault rifle as he went. Immediately a salvo of machine-gun fire ripped at the ground around his feet, forcing him into a low-lying depression. He waited a moment and then rose again, veering well to the left, still firing against an impossible target. For a second time, automatic weapon fire chased him down, narrowly missing and sending him to cover.
“Come on, Scotty. I can’t do this all night,” he bawled.
Suddenly the sound of a 30-caliber machine gun barked out a rebuttal to the advancing monster’s deadly upheaval. Niel raised his head to see the Bradley aligned with the burning truck and ricochets dancing around the location of the last remaining mine. Cannon fire immediately answered Scotty’s invitation, cutting into the tower’s only substantial supports…but not before one, final eruption ripped through the night.
As the tower rocked back and fell to the ground, the mine’s explosive power heaved the BFV sideways and covered the armor with burning debris. The tracks churned to a slow stop, and the hard rubber treads were set ablaze. Dark smoke swirled above the burning beast, but it was far from dead. A renewed burst of both cannon and machine-gun fire raked the outpost, decimating the protective structures and leaving little possibility of life.
Niel ran for all he was worth, rounding the outpost’s buildings, trying desperately to get to Scotty. Well back from where the tower had stood, a pile of burning sandbags littered the ground. Blood and grisly spatter dripped and hung from twisted metal shards, with no apparent sign of life.
�
�Scotty…Scotty…” Niel cried, ignoring the crash of bullets all around him. On his knees, he ripped at the tower’s remains, tossing debris aside at a frantic pace. A limb, shattered almost beyond recognition, rolled from beneath Niel’s hands, and in an instant he recognized Derek’s watch. He pushed the grotesque object aside and furthered his search. Where…dear God, where is he?
In that moment, Niel realized the noise had stopped. The guns had ceased; only the crackling of popping embers and the shouting of men, a short distance away, were evident.
“Scotty,” Niel whispered. “Help me…come on little brother, help me find you.”
Suddenly, others, who had dropped beside him, began rummaging through the carnage. Together they hurriedly uncovered what was left of Slim and Derek; a morbid reminder of the brutality of war…but there was still no sign of Scotty.
“Niel, we can’t wait. They’re coming…they’re coming,” the woman survivalist cautioned, while tugging at Niel’s shoulder.
“He’s here. He’s got to be here,” he replied, his voice rife with emotion.
“Hey…hey…I’ve got him,” someone blurted out from across the street.
The group hustled, with their heads down and rifles at the ready, to one of the men hovering over a motionless figure.
“Is he dead?” one of the women asked.
“Don’t know, but he’s in one piece.”
Niel rolled Scotty from his side to his back, and placed his cheek near his brother’s face. The faintest wisp of moist, warm breath caressed Niel’s whiskers and he knew his brother was alive. Without the slightest hesitation, he hoisted Scotty over his shoulder and headed for their truck.
“Let’s get out of here,” Niel said, the weight he bore evident in his voice.
Circling around him, the guards created a protective barrier as they moved to make their escape. The pickup was as they’d left it, and within seconds Scotty was safely stowed in the bed and the survivors were on their way.
“Where to?” the male survivalist asked from the passenger seat.
For a second, Niel did not answer. His mind was coping with Scotty’s injuries and the possibility of losing him. When he finally recognized he was being questioned, Niel nodded his intentions and pointed to the road ahead. “The outposts…we’ve got to warn them and make our stand at The Alamo.”
Chapter 45
An intensely acrid smell hung in the air where Clayton had given his life and Cory exacted revenge. Harvesters; mangled, burning, and dying, littered the ground between headstones, a scene reminiscent of the most horrific of terrorist attacks ever perpetrated on man. Assailants, with their limbs and senses still intact, scurried from one writhing hulk to the next, kicking dirt onto those that had a chance of surviving and putting a bullet into the rest.
Red was among the latter, his flaming hair and head, which had been blown from his body, were literally ablaze with the crackling sound of charcoaling flesh. Smoke swirled around those trying to provide relief, but the stench was so thick and sickening they were soon forced to abandon any lifesaving hopes.
Finn walked among the wounded, firing indiscriminately into his followers who could no longer further his plans. At Red’s smoldering skull, he looked down, placed the sole of his boot atop the orb, as one might a soccer ball before kicking a penalty goal. He looked about angrily, rolling Red’s head back and forth with his foot. Outrage flared from his nostrils and fury from his eyes, as he assessed their current situation. Finally overcome with enough hatred to see the battle through, Finn kicked the severed cranium, sending it to lie against Red’s headless corpse.
“Alright you band of cutthroats, listen up,” he shouted, with an insanely deafening ring to his call.
The Harvester talked and waved his force away from the devastating scene, signaling for them to steady their nerves and mentally rejoin the fight. At a distance from the billowing smoke, Finn struggled to clear his nose of the caustic smell of death. He plugged one nostril and then the other, snorting blackened snot at his feet. Pulling a small canteen from his hip, he downed a generous gulp before splashing some on his face. The water cooled his skin but not his temper, which was further aroused when he ran a hand through what should have been his hair, but rather was a stubble of singed keratin. Outraged, Finn slipped the same hand over his face, finding his eyebrows and lashes had suffered the same fate.
Madness suddenly possessed the leader, who fired his rifle into the air and howled obscenities at the moon. For a second, he was lost in the absurdity of the moment; his Harvesters shredded on the battlefield, their scent pungent in the air, and his face and head left burned and hairless.
The Harvesters gathered around him and awaited their orders. A few had wandered away from the fight, seeking refuge apart from anyone wielding weapons of such mass destruction. Their plight, should the war go in Juanita’s favor, would be far worse than being burned or dismembered by a Whitcomb grenade. Those remaining watched in silent awe, some coughing and spitting to clear their lungs, but not a word was said…not until Finn stopped, bent at the waist, and began to laugh. It was a rich, deep, maniacal laugh – the type reserved for deserted hallways of the criminally insane.
Finn carried on until tears dripped from his cheeks. “Isn’t this just lovely?” he shouted. “Here we’ve come for a Ward BBQ and we end up getting roasted – it’s the damnedest thing,” he bellowed, again bending over to laugh. A few of the Harvesters joined in, and before long they were all hooping and hollering, as their friends reached a ‘well-done’ not far away.
Looking about, Finn suddenly realized the mole was nowhere to be seen. He pushed through his ranks, asking for help in his search. “Where is he? Where’s Juanita’s lap dog?” he yelled, his rage rekindled by the killer’s absence.
From the crowd, some yelled amidst the confusion, “He’s dead…he must be dead.”
Finn considered the suggestion for a second, but then quickly responded, “He threw me to the ground before the blast…he had to survive.” Muffled speculation wafted through the horde, only to be silenced by Finn’s renewed call for blood. “It’s no matter…we’re late, boys. Let’s get some dessert!”
* * *
Crazy buggers are going to get me killed, the mole thought, viewing the chaos from a short distance away. From behind a deeply etched marker, he watched and nursed a badly burned shoulder. Lucky for him, he’d seen the grenade on its inbound arc and turned away in time to have Clayton’s body shield him from the blast’s shrapnel and flames. A splattering of the fiercely hot mixture had caught his shoulder and taken him down. While the Harvesters had run for their lives, he skirted among the injured, retrieving canteens to cool his infirmity.
They’re on their own. He had paved the way, taken most of the risks and was not going to follow the Harvesters into an early grave. He’d lived and survived on the stealth and cunning of his own making, and he would continue to fight The Ward on his terms.
Satisfied that he had done all he could for his seared shoulder, he checked his weapons, including the knife still fresh with Clayton’s blood. He had killed the gangly consort with as much thought and remorse as a butcher taking a cleaver to a chicken. Still, something within pulled at him, albeit not as strongly as the urge to slaughter the lot of them, but yet a twinge of humanity bubbled somewhere inside him…and he hated it.
He watched the Harvester Force move out, estimating their numbers still adequate to obliterate The Ward. Give them some time, he mused, knowing the battle’s turbulence would help him slip safely back onto campus. He’d use them, as they had used him over the past year, sacrificing precious blood for the greater good.
Trailing the last of Finn’s troops, the mole skulked from one place of shelter to the next. Where do I start? he questioned lustfully, imagining which of The Ward’s women he would take first. There may not be time now, but soon he’d have his way with all of those who were unlucky enough to survive. A list of names and faces ran through his mind, as he ducked b
ehind another towering gravestone. Allison? Yeah, she’d do…but Christine…she’s the prize, he dreamed.
Just then, a bluster of renewed gunfire snapped him from his lascivious thoughts and pushed him to action. Cutting away from the melee, he crept to the cemetery’s border and waited. As he suspected, The Ward had reinforced the security points but not amassed on the perimeter. Perfect, he thought, knowing a blind spot existed, which he had exploited before. To his right, nearly a football field away, bullets from more than a hundred guns underscored the morning’s first major incursion.
Patience, something he had acquired and of which he was a master, held him in place. “Wait for it…wait for it,” he whispered, deep in his throat. Okay, the thought prompting him from his place of hiding and propelling him across the main road. He ran hunched over, but with the speed of a cat on the heels of a mouse. Almost there…just…just a few more steps – made it!
Pressing himself flat against a two-story building, he looked at the climb ahead of him. Over the course of many months he had discreetly chiseled small handholds, which were not readily visible in the ruddy brick but still enough to support his weight. Hoisting his rifle to avoid his tender shoulder, he fixed the weapon against his back and eased himself to the first position…and then the next, until he was making good time up the wall’s surface. He paused only once, as the pain from his shoulder brought tears to his eyes, yet it was short lived. Up he went until he rolled over the roof’s edge and lay exhausted on his back.
Seconds seemed like minutes, the drone of combat painting a picture of what must be playing out on the ground below. Finally able to breathe without gasping, he crawled to the southern rim and peeked over the edge. They’re still without power, he surmised. From his vantage point, he observed what he could see of the conflict. Men and women were being shuttled from non-embattled positions to reinforce the bunker, which appeared to be hanging by will and little else. The Ward members were outgunned, outnumbered, and nearly out of time.
The Lasting Hunger Page 28
