The rampart over the drawbridge was quickly evacuated, the defenders bunching on both sides.
All except for Hickok.
The gunman was still standing above the drawbridge when a shell struck the wooden structure dead center. The drawbridge was exceptionally sturdy; the Founder of the Home had insisted the bridge be four feet thick, and had told those constructing it to use the stoutest wood available. Consequently, although the west wall shook and the upper third of the drawbridge was blown to smithereens, the rest of the structure survived the first hit.
Hickok felt the rampart under his moccasined feet buckle and heave.
He grabbed for the vertical lip of the wall and held fast until the quaking ceased.
The air was literally choked with smoke, dust, and minute wood fragments.
Hickok lurched to his left, his speed impaired by his injured leg.
Spartacus appeared out of the grayish-white smoke. “What are you trying to do? Get yourself killed?”
“Thought I’d get a breath of fresh air before lunch,” Hickok quipped, then coughed as some of the smoke got into his lungs.
The two Warriors moved away from the vicinity of the drawbridge.
A fourth detonation wracked the west wall of the Home, another hit on the drawbridge.
Hickok crouched, shielding his face from the shards of wood propelled by the force of the explosion. His ears were ringing. The enemy was obviously going for the drawbridge in the hope of breaching the compound’s defenses. Once the drawbridge was gone, the Civilized Zone troops would still need to ford the inner moat. But with the drawbridge gone, the defenders on the west wall would be subject to gunfire from outside the wall and below it, if the soldiers could achieve a foothold.
“The firing has stopped,” Spartacus noted.
Hickok flattened on the rampart and peered over the inner lip. Strands of smoke billowed around the drawbridge, partially obscuring it. He waited impatiently for the smoke to be dispelled by the breeze. How much of the drawbridge was still standing?
In another moment, he got his answer.
The smoke dissipated, revealing the realization of his worst fears; except for a three-foot section at the very bottom, attached to the enormous hinges, the drawbridge was gone!
Blast!
Hickok rose to his knees.
The west wall vibrated as yet another explosion jolted the rampart. This time the enemy gunner had aimed at a section of the upper wall 20 yards from the vacant gap where the drawbridge had once stood.
Screams and cries of agony arose from injured defenders.
More and more smoke covered the west wall.
“I’ll go check!” Spartacus volunteered, and ran off.
Hickok stood, gazing toward the forest to the west.
The soldiers hadn’t moved; they were formed into their ranks on either side of the dirt mound.
So!
Whatever they were using, it was apparent Brutus intended to subject the Home to a bombardment before launching his final assault.
What was that?
Hickok twisted, listening. He could hear explosions coming from every direction now. The other walls were under attack! He thought of Sherry, his wife, and forced the image from his mind. He had to concentrate on the matter at hand; too many lives depended on his judgment.
Spartacus hurried up. “Three hurt,” he announced. “I’m having them taken down the stairs.”
“Take everyone down the stairs,” Hickok ordered.
“And leave the west rampart undefended?” Spartacus asked in surprise.
“Do it,” Hickok stated.
Spartacus nodded and left.
Hickok moved to the stairs and descended to the inner bank. He stared up at the rampart, debating. Except for the demolished drawbridge, the stairs from the western rampart to the ground provided the only means of crossing the moat. Huge timbers had been imbedded in the bottom of the moat to support the stairs. It might be possible for the defenders to destroy the stairs, but why should they if they could turn the stairs into a strategic advantage?
Spartacus was supervising the evacuation of the west wall. The defenders moved in an orderly fashion down the stairs and gathered behind Hickok. Three of them, two men and a woman, were carried across the compound to C Block to be treated by the Family Healers. Another blast shattered a ten-foot section of wall before the evacuation was complete, but none of the defenders were injured.
“Are you the last one?” Hickok inquired as Spartacus came down and joined him.
“Yes,” Spartacus answered, then added, “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
Hickok faced the 66 defenders at his disposal. He pointed up at the west wall. “I don’t reckon we can hold the wall with the drawbridge gone. And I don’t see any sense to our standing up there getting our fool heads blown off waiting for the soldiers to attack.” He paused. Every eye was fixed on him. “I want a skirmish line formed about ten yards from the moat,” he informed them. “There isn’t much cover, but we won’t need much anyway. When those troopers come over the wall, they’ll be sittin’ ducks during the time it takes ’em to get through the barbed wire, over the parapet, and onto the rampart. That’s when you hit those clowns with everything you’ve got. Any questions?”
No one spoke up.
“Okay.” Hickok smiled at them. “Don’t look so worried! It’ll be a piece of cake!” he assured them.
“Form a line!” Spartacus interjected. “Keep about four feet between you and the next person. Hold your fire until Hickok gives the command.”
The defenders began forming their line.
Another shell struck the west rampart. Other blasts, muted by the distance, sounded from the north, east, and south walls.
“Do you have matches with you?” Hickok asked Spartacus.
Spartacus nodded.
“Good. Then you’ll be responsible for igniting the moat if we can’t hold them,” Hickok advised him.
“Should I await your signal?” Spartacus inquired.
“I’m not gonna have time for one if the fightin’ is in full swing,” Hickok said. “I’ll leave it up to you. If they start to ford the moat, get to the gas cans.”
“I’ll handle it,” Spartacus vowed.
The defenders had formed their skirmish line.
Hickok moved away from the west wall as another round hit home.
Brutus was conducting his barrage in a leisurely manner, to judge by the spacing between rounds, or else they were low on shells for whatever type of artillery they were using. Then again, maybe Brutus was deliberately extending the barrage as long as possible, intending to further agitate the defenders’ nerves and weaken their resolve.
Yes, sir.
If he ever got another chance, he was going to damn welt make sure that Brutus acquired a new nostril… right in the center of the prick’s forehead!
Chapter Sixteen
Day three of the seige.
One hour after the barrage began.
“It’s stopped!” Sherry declared.
The east wall had sustained hit after hit, and 11 of the 69 defenders had been wounded by hurtling shrapnel or chunks of brick. A wide gap had been blown out of the southern quarter of the east wall.
The three Warriors in charge of the wall stood near the gap, their anxious eyes on the cleared field beyond.
“They’ll be coming now,” Crockett remarked. He had exchanged his Remington for a Beretta AR-70, converted to fully automatic by the Family Gunsmiths. His buckskins were coated with dust.
“I never thought I would see the day where our Home was under an attack like this,” commented Samson, his camouflage outfit also caked with dirt. His Bushmaster Auto Pistols on his hips were fully loaded.
Sherry was thinking about Hickok. They had spent a few precious hours in their cabin the night before, and she had clung to him, covering every inch of his body with her lips, wishing the night would never end. She was terrified of losing him, the only man
she had ever truly loved. Life without her flamboyant gunman was unthinkable. She wanted to be at his side now, instead of being on the east wall, her brown blouse and green pants as grimy as her companions, a M.A.C. 10 cradled in her tense hands.
“What are they waiting for?” Samson asked, interrupting her reverie.
“For the smoke to clear,” Crockett replied.
The tendrils of smoke were almost gone from the eastern field.
“Are the ropes all in place?” Crockett inquired, looking at the towering Samson.
“Yes,” Samson responded. “One rope every twenty feet.”
Sherry nervously licked her lips. The ropes were their only means of descending from the eastern rampart. Only the west wall had stairs leading up to the rampart; all of the other walls were manned by ascending the stairs on the west wall and following the rampart around to the appropriate post. Ropes with improvised grapling hooks had been placed along the east, north, and south walls, affording the defenders a ready avenue of escape if their positions became untenable. Unfortunately, at the inner base of each wall was the encircling moat. Defenders retreating from their posts would be extremely vulnerable as they attempted to navigate the moat to the compound beyond.
“Here they come!” Crockett suddenly exclaimed.
A great shout arose from the ranks of the 500 soldiers lined up 150
yards from the east wall. They surged forward, rushing toward the east wall, dozens of them holding assault ladders.
“They’ll try for this breach,” Samson mentioned, hefting his Bushmaster, his long hair swaying in the wind.
Crockett raised his right hand above his head. “On my command!” he shouted. Most of the defenders were crouched below the lip of the wall.
The troopers were racing full speed for the wall, some of them firing as they ran, ineffectual shots, the bullets striking the wall or missing entirely.
“Hold your fire!” Crockett yelled.
Only 40 yards separated the leading soldiers from the wall.
“Hold!” Crockett repeated.
Sherry felt a cold sweat break out all over her body. She thought of her family, safe in far-off Canada.
Then 30 yards.
“Hold!”
Then 20 yards.
“Fire!” Crockett screamed.
The defenders rose up and fired into the mass of charging men in green fatigues.
The front rows of troopers were torn to ribbons by the initial volley from the east wall. Soldiers twitched and jerked as round after round tore their bodies apart. Dozens dropped in their tracks. But the rest came on.
Crockett moved to the left, to the north, directing and goading the defenders.
The din was deafening.
Sherry saw a dense cluster of soldiers closing on the section of wall below her position. Samson was right. The troopers were concentrating on the breach in the wall. Even with the top portion gone, 15 feet of wall remained. The soldiers would have to use the ladders.
And use them they did.
Four ladders were thrown up against the wall below the breach.
Soldiers started to climb upward while their comrades provided covering fire.
Sherry took a step forward, but before she could enter the fray and rake the troopers below, Samson reached the edge of the wall.
Resembling a magnificent titan, Samson stood in the middle of the breach, ignoring the gunfire from the enemy on the ground, and cut loose with his Bushmaster, catching the troopers on the ladders in a hail of lead, blasting them from the ladders and checking the assault.
Sherry glanced along the wall. Everywhere, defenders and troopers were embroiled in life-or-death struggles. So far, the defenders had managed to prevent any of the troopers from reaching the top of the wall.
Samson stepped back from the breach. “Reloading!” he shouted.
Sherry took his place.
The soldiers below had regrouped and were frantically mounting the ladders again. Some of them aimed at the blonde woman on the wall, their M-16’s chattering as they fired.
Sherry could hear peculiar buzzing noises. Her left shoulder jerked backward as something slammed into her. She experienced a numbing sensation, but no pain. Undaunted, she angled the M.A.C. 10 over the wall and pointed it at the troopers milling below. She squeezed the trigger and held on tight as the gun bucked in her hands.
One of the soldiers was almost to the top of a ladder. Her burst caught him in the face, and his eyes and nose disappeared in a crimson geyser.
His arms flung outwards, he toppled backward from the ladder, landing on several of his buddies below.
Sherry swung the M.A.C. 10 in a wide arc.
Four, five, six troopers were knocked to the ground as their forms were perforated by the slugs.
“Reloaded!” Samson bellowed, and shouldered her aside, his Bushmaster belching death and destruction.
Sherry ducked behind the parapet, her left shoulder stinging. She glanced at it. The fabric of her brown blouse was torn, and a rivulet of blood was pouring from the wound. She was surprised by the absence of pain.
A horrified scream attracted her attention.
About 15 yards to the north, three troopers had reached the top of the wall. One of them was hung up in the cicular strands of barbed wire attached to the top of the wall, but the other two had circumvented the barbed wire and reached the rampart, firing their M-16’s at the defenders.
Even as Sherry watched, a woman was struck in the chest; she screeched as she was hurled from the rampart by the impact, her body tumbling end over end until it splashed into the moat 20 feet below.
Sherry rose and ran toward the soldiers. They were facing to the north and didn’t hear her approach. For a moment she hesitated pulling the trigger; she had never shot anyone in the back before. A training session with Hickok flashed through her mind. One of the Family had told her Hickok was capable of killing anyone, anytime, anywhere, and for no reason whatsoever. She had questioned him about the allegation. After he finished laughing, he told her part of the statement was true. He could kill, and would kill, anyone, anytime, and anywhere, if they posed a threat to his loved ones or himself. He denied killing for the sake of killing. But, as he took care to explain, killing to protect the ones you loved, to defend your Family and your Home, was justified. And, when it came time for the killing, he said it didn’t matter how you did it, just so you got the job done. “Get the job done,” he had advised her, “or all of those who depend on you will suffer because of your failure.” For once, he hadn’t bothered to use his phony Wild West lingo.
Get the job done.
Sherry let the two soldiers have it in the back. Her bullets smashed into them, stitching patterns across their shoulders, a string of bright red dots, and they pitched onto their stomachs on the rampart.
The one hung up in the barbed wire stilt had his M-16 in his hands. He twisted and aimed the barrel at the blonde woman.
Sherry whirled and squeezed the trigger on her M.A.C.
Nothing happened.
The gun was empty!
She saw the trooper smile as he realized her predicament, and his finger tightened on the trigger of his M-16.
Sherry tensed, expecting to be riddled by bullets.
The trooper’s smiling visage suddenly exploded as the right side of his face sprayed outwards.
Crockett ran up to her, his Beretta smoking. He gripped her right shoulder. “Are you all right? You look pale.”
“I’m fine,” she mumbled.
“What? I can’t hear you.”
“I’m fine!” she said louder.
The east wall was now a writhing mass of defenders and troopers. At least a dozen of the soldiers had reached the top and were engaged in hand-to-hand combat with the defenders.
“We can’t hold the wall!” Crockett shouted to Sherry. “There are too many of them!”
Sherry hastily replaced the empty magazine in her M.A.C. 10.
Crockett shot a soldi
er endeavoring to clamber over the edge of the rampart. “We’ll have to fall back!” he directed her. “Get as many as you can down the ropes and across the moat to the trees. The other walls are probably in the same shape we are, so it won’t do any good to retreat along the other ramparts! Move!”
Sherry nodded and ran off, downing another trooper as she did. She found herself doubting the wisdom of Crockett’s decision. The other walls might be holding their own; to abandon this wall would put the others in jeopardy. Still, how could she presume to doubt his command? She was a novice Warrior, new to her position, and Crockett was her leader, the boss of her Triad, of Zulu Triad. And now was not the time to squabble over his strategy.
A soldier loomed in front of her, frantically struggling to eject a spent magazine from his M-16.
Sherry cut him in half with the M.A.C. 10 and reached a group of seven defenders involved with pushing ladders from the wall and shooting at the mass of troopers below the wall. “Get down!” she yelled at them. “Use the rope and get to the ground! Hurry!”
One of them, a tall man, eyed her quizically for a second, then ran toward the nearest rope. The others followed on his heels.
Sherry took their post at the wall, risked a hasty look-see over the parapet, and drew back.
The soldiers were packed all along the base of the east wall, five or six deep in some spots. Dozens of ladders were inclined against the wall.
Crockett wasn’t kidding.
They wouldn’t be able to hold the wall.
Sherry fired a few rounds at the troopers below, hoping to stall their ascent. She ran further north, telling everyone she met to climb down the ropes. The defenders had temporarily repulsed the soldiers; all of the enemy who had attained the rampart were dead.
But the ones below were eager to take their place.
Crockett approached her, skirting fallen figures as he neared. “Everyone is on their way down!” he told her. “Samson and I will hold them up here.
Get below with the rest!”
“My place is with you!” Sherry retorted.
“That’s an order!”
Sherry reluctantly turned toward the closest rope, attached by its sturdy grappling hook to the lip of the rampart. She didn’t relish deserting her fellow Warriors.
Denver Run Page 14
