The Fall of Polite

by Sam Kench

  ‘There’s one,’ Lance said inside Buella, pointing to a four-door in a parking lot that appeared from the outside to be in decent shape.

  ‘Let’s look for something larger. Hold more people,’ Probey said, ‘more economical.’

  They drove a winding pattern through the town for the better part of the day until they passed by a large cargo conversion van driving in the opposite direction.

  Lance smiled and watched it in the rear-view, ‘Ooh!’

  ‘Take this left, round the next block up and get ahead of them.’ Probey said to Lance, then he picked up a radio handset and spoke to Peter in the other vehicle, ‘We’re taking that van.’

  ‘Good call.’ Peter responded into the radio.

  ‘I know it’s a good call. I don’t need you telling me my business, Peter. We’re circling around the front, you flip a bitch and catch up behind them. Don’t get too close until you see us block the street.’ Probey set the radio down.

  ‘Got it.’ Peter hit the brakes and set about a six-point turn in the two lane road.

  Probey snatched the radio back up, ‘Oh, and if we have to shoot them, try not to damage the van if it can be avoided.’ Probey put the radio down and took the safety off his rifle. ‘That goes for you lot too,’ he chirped into the back seat, feeling powerful.

  As Lance circled around to the front of the conversion van via a parallel street, Probey looked to Eamon in the rear-view. ‘Eamon?’

  Eamon met Probey’s eyes in the mirror.

  ‘I can see you’re itching for more bloodshed, but I’m gonna see about recruiting whoever’s all in there first.’

  Eamon stared like a stone statue.

  ‘That means hold your fire unless they don’t… or unless I give the go-ahead.’

  Eamon continued to practice his statue impression.

  ‘We on the same level here, Eamon?’

  ‘I got it.’ Eamon’s voice was hoarse, like his vocal chords had been crying and screaming in equal measure ever since the retirement home.

  Lance made two left turns (the second of which was more of a drift), and stopped sideways in the street just past the intersection. The conversion van skidded to a stop, and after a second, began to reverse. Peter came up from behind and closed to within ten feet of the van’s bumper.

  All three vehicles were motionless, exhaust funneling out of their tail pipes. Eamon heard music playing inside the van over the humming engines. It sounded foreign, French or German he thought, heavy techno. Probey threw his rifle strap over his shoulder and stood up through the roof of the jeep.

  As Probey gained elevation the sliding doors on both sides of the van flew open. The heavy electronic music flowed out of the vehicle and down both ends of the street that was starting to feel more like an alleyway. Two men leaned out of the van with assault rifles in hand. They wore black tac-vests over blue collared shirts. Hard plastic caps covered their elbows and knees. Thin polymer helmets were strapped to their heads. “SJI SECURITY” was printed in white block letters across their vests. One leant out each side of the van facing opposite directions.

  ‘You guys picked the wrong fucking van.’ Said the father in the backseat behind Peter.

  The security men opened fully automatic fire on both vehicles. Probey dropped back into Buella as bullets ricocheted off the side and roof. Probey slammed into the passenger seat and took a knock to the mouth from his bouncing rifle. His top teeth sunk into his bottom lip and drew blood.

  Buella’s glass was extra thick, and Lance had reinforced whole body of the vehicle to military standards per Probey’s request. The windows cracked but stopped bullets from entering, at least for the time being.

  The other posse vehicle wasn’t as lucky. Gunfire tore through the car’s windshield with little resistance. Peter took one in the arm before ducking beside Georgie who had gotten low the second the van doors opened. Bullets chewed through the seats above them and tore apart the factory dad in the backseat. His son slid onto the floor between the seats and yelled for his dad to do the same as he was showered in his father’s blood.

  ‘Buella, you’ll be okay, baby! I’ll fix you up!’ Shouted Lance, muted by gunfire.

  ‘Kill these fuckers!’ shouted Probey, not daring to be the first to exit the vehicle.

  Eamon’s door was on the outside edge of the conflict. He stepped out, keeping low behind Buella.

  GEORGIE THREW OPEN the car door and stepped out. He crouched behind the door as bullets dented the opposite side. He knew that if the shooters were closer or using higher caliber ammunition, their shots would have made it through the layered metal. He left his long-gun slung over his shoulder and drew his six-shot Webley.

  EAMON MANEUVERED TO THE EDGE of the jeep. He flinched away as one of the jeep’s headlights exploded into shards of plastic and glass. He heard the gunfire halt and thought to make his play while they reloaded. Eamon popped up over the top of the jeep and took aim, a bit too far for his shotgun to strike true.

  ‘Shit,’ he muttered.

  The security guard on his side pulled back into the van and began to reload. As he left Eamon’s view, a different guard took his place with a full magazine and picked up where the firing had left off. Eamon dropped back down behind Buella and slid to the ground behind the tire.

  ‘These guys are well trained!’ Probey shouted from inside Buella, staying below the window, knowing it wouldn’t hold out against many more direct hits. The reinforced metal would last longer than the bullet-resistant glass. ‘Alternating fire, they’re good!’ Probey caught a glimpse of the driver of the van, still sitting at the wheel, relaxed, confident in his associates, bobbing his head to the fast paced electronic music and raising the volume as if to score the chaos.

  Eamon put his shoulder to the ground and tried to see if he could get an angle on the shooter from under the jeep, but no such angle was present. The wound he had sustained at the retirement home pinged with pain, like a blip on a radar, and reminded him of Beth. The bandage over it needed changing, and could probably do with an extra pass of disinfectant for good measure.

  REALIZING HIS PLAN to wait for them to reload had been nullified, Georgie switched tactics. He opened fire on his own car.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing?!’ Peter asked, clutching his arm wound and lying by the pedals.

  Georgie fired at the hinges holding the door to the car. After the hinges had been bent and warped, he holstered his gun and grabbed onto the door firmly with both hands. He put his foot against the car and yanked as hard as he could.

  PROBEY CLIMBED between the seats into the back of Buella with Michael. ‘Why aren’t you out there?!’

  ‘What the fuck am I gonna do?!’ Michael flailed with his handgun.

  The tactically trained men in the van made another switch, the original two returning to fire. The one firing toward Buella shot out the two front facing tires.

  Eamon made a leap from Buella to a truck parked on the side of the street during the security guard switch. Eamon got into cover against the truck’s grill as the gunfire swept towards his new location. The shooter's aim traced a series of bullet holes through the snow in a tight arc.

  GEORGIE TIPPED BACK as the car’s door came free from its foundation. He got to a crouched standing position and held the door against his side like a riot shield as it took direct gunfire. Each bullet slamming into his metal protection nearly knocked him off his feet. He knew the door wouldn’t last long as cover, even at this range. There was a finite number of hits the shield could sustain and that number was rapidly decreasing.

  Georgie moved as quickly as he could across the street and onto the sidewalk, a hailstorm hammering against his mobile cover. He made it to the entrance of a barbershop with an apartment above it. He kicked open the door and disappeared inside, leaving the mangled car door on the sidewalk.

  EAMON WATCHED Georgie enter the barbershop from the opposite sidewalk, and wondered whether his relocation was tactical or cowardly.

&
nbsp; ‘Get out there!’ Probey shouted as he shoved Michael toward the door. Michael climbed out and leaned against the side of the jeep where Eamon had done the same a moment ago. He reached over the top of the jeep and blind fired his handgun in the general direction of the conversion van. The security guard was unshaken. The shooter couldn't even hear the puny pops from Michael's handgun over the thundering of his fully automatic assault rifle.

  EAMON SLID along the side of the vehicle he used as cover. The truck was at the head of a line of vehicles parallel parked along the street. He recognized that if he could advance two vehicle-lengths down the line, he would be parallel to the conversion van and could fire directly in through the open door. With the gunfire still directed at Buella, Eamon scrambled forward.

  The security guard swept his rifle in a wide arc and took aim at the lumberjack.

  Eamon dropped to the ground and slid across the icy sidewalk as bullets passed overhead. He got behind the next car in line and sat with his back against the tire, his heavy breath steaming.

  ‘KEEP MOVING!’ Probey shouted as he climbed over Lance and out of the jeep.

  Lance blubbered something inaudible while tears streamed down from under his sunglasses.

  Michael reloaded his handgun and made an effort to actually take aim. He leaned across the back of the jeep and lined up a shot at the security guard whose aim was directed at Eamon. Michael squeezed off a couple of shots. The first shot hit the guard in the vest, the others went high.

  The SJI guard nearly fell out of the van but grabbed onto the plastic interior handle of the van and caught himself. The vest did its job well.

  EAMON SEIZED THE OPPORTUNITY to advance down the sidewalk another car-length. He bolted forward and again dove to the ground and slid the rest of the way into cover. He was pretty sure he hadn't been noticed.

  The vest-struck guard tried to fire his assault rifle one handed at Michael while hanging half-way-out of the van by the handle but the recoil overpowered his aim by a country mile and he did more damage to the clouds than anything on the ground. He succeeded nonetheless in scaring Michael back down into cover.

  Eamon stood up and laid his gun across the roof of his car-cover. He aimed into the van from a parallel position as the guard pulled himself back to an upright standing position in the van. The guard resumed controlled fire toward Buella. Eamon sent a blast of buckshot across the street and into the guard’s side. The guard’s stomach was perforated and blood ran down below his tac-vest.

  The SJI guard twisted to a sitting position inside the van facing Eamon, and fired back at him, adrenaline keeping him going for the time being. The other guard who he was alternating fire with shot back at Eamon as well. Eamon ducked down behind the car. The windows above him were blown to pieces and sent glass raining onto him.

  Michael made an attempt to push forward while the gunfire was focused on Eamon. The standing guard firing at Eamon caught Michael in his periphery and turned. He unloaded eight shots into Michael’s stomach and chest. Michael fell to his back on the freshly bloodied snow. He coughed blood up into his eyes and failed to take another breath.

  PETER TOSSED one of the guns taken from Paul's farmhouse into the backseat. The gun bounced off the shredded upholstery and clattered to the floor between the pimply teen and his dead father. ‘Get out there and avenge your pa!’ Peter shouted in a false “strong” voice while quivering below the steering wheel.

  The teen did as instructed and stepped out of the vehicle with the safety still on his newly acquired firearm. He made it less than three feet before being riddled with holes.

  THE SJI TEAM swapped firing positions again.

  Eamon used the stock of his shotgun to knock the wing mirror off the car he hid behind. He used its reflection to look across the street. The guard he had shot was now kneeling and was in no way out of the fight. He was still laying into the side of the car with automatic gunfire.

  A window above the barbershop across the street shattered and Georgie appeared in it with his rifle. Crack! The security guard firing at Peter’s car was gut-shot by Georgie, just below his vest. The guard fell from the van and landed face-first in the street. He struggled to push himself up, blood leaking from his stomach like a hole in a dyke as Georgie yanked the bolt on his rifle and chambered a new shell. He fired a shot straight down into the guard’s head that burrowed through his helmet and an inch into the pavement below.

  The conversion van's driver watched this happen in the mirror. He stopped nodding to the music now that one of his own was down. In truth he had expected his well-trained buddies to take this lot out in a flash. The fact that they hadn't was worrying. He had expected a load of chum, but found a couple of barracudas squirming around in the bucket.

  Georgie yanked the rifle’s bolt back. He returned his good eye to the scope. The roof of the van precluded him from seeing the upper half of any of the men inside. He shifted his aim to the driver who was now rummaging through the glove compartment. Georgie waited for him to lift his head, then fired a shot straight through his ear. The driver and passenger-side windows shattered simultaneously with the driver’s skull in between.

  Eamon looked around the side of the car and made eye contact with Georgie who pointed down to the van with a single finger, then returned his wide eye to his scope.

  There were four men left inside the van and now they were really starting to get nervous.

  Probey gave a salute up toward Georgie. The show of respect went unnoticed, but his old friend's tactical positioning gave Probey the confidence to throw himself into the fray. He trusted Georgie's covering fire with his life.

  Probey strafed to his right and fired at the van. The wounded guard stopped firing at Eamon and turned toward Probey. Before the SJI man could fire again, Eamon popped up and delivered another blast of buckshot into his torso that put him down for good. His tac-vest looked like a couch cushion chewed up by a mongrel dog.

  Eamon racked his shotgun and fired again through the open door of the van. One of the guards had his leg blown out from under him and slammed onto his back with his top half hanging out of the van on Georgie’s side of the street.

  In 1/3 of a second, Georgie found the guard’s face in his scope and pulled the trigger. A small hole replaced the bridge of the guard’s nose and a larger hole replaced the entire back of his head.

  As Georgie yanked back on his bolt he watched the guard’s dead body be pulled back into the van. Both of the conversion van’s doors slid closed and all firing ceased. Georgie left the chamber open and slid new shells into his rifle one at a time.

  Eamon stood up and looked at the van with his shotgun leveled.

  Peter peaked up above the steering wheel but couldn’t see anything through the spiderwebbed windshield. He ducked back down to wait out the silence, unsure of who was alive or dead.

  Eamon stared at the closed, windowless door. He waited.

  THE VAN’S DOORS OPENED, just a few inches, and something was dropped to the ground on each side. The doors quickly returned closed. Two low hissing sounds escaped into the air and smoke rose to surround the van.

  Georgie watched the door of the van until the smoke grenades fully obscured his vision and his scope viewed nothing but off-white haze. He pulled away from the window and backed up into the apartment.

  The grenades melted the snow around them and continued to pump solid white smoke until the entire street was consumed. Eamon held his hand in front of his face and moved it further away until he could no longer see it. His eyes had a draw distance of just a few inches. He waved his hand and felt the smoke waft but it was dense enough to remain a solid cloud against his movement.

  Eamon’s ears pricked up at the sound of the van doors opening. He quickly turned and fired in the direction of the van. He pumped his shotgun and listened for a shout of pain, but heard none. Either his shot had killed instantly or had missed entirely.

  Gunfire erupted and demolished the second floor window that Georgie ha
d fired through. Inside the upstairs apartment, Georgie took a seat on the couch and removed his shoes. He rubbed his bad foot.

  Probey took quiet sideways steps towards the van. He walked with bent knees, his gun leading the way. There was a loud metal clink as his gun barrel bumped into the front of the van.

  One of the remaining SJI guards spun on his heels and fired. A bullet whizzed straight over Probey’s shoulder. He dropped to his back and fired between his legs up toward his assailant.

  Eamon watched the muzzle flashes dance across the smoke, like strobe lights in an all-orange disco.

  One of Probey’s shots struck true and the security guard yelled out. Probey listened to his fleeing footsteps head around to the back of the van. He had wounded but not killed. He stayed flat on his back and inched his way underneath the van’s bumper

  Peter shut his eyes in the smoke filled car and tried to quiet his breathing.

  GEORGIE STEPPED OUT of the barbershop and onto the sidewalk. His rifle hung from its strap off his shoulder and his boots hung by their laces from the pinky finger of his non-dominant hand. He had the fingers of both hands wrapped tightly around his revolver. He stepped silently into the street and in the direction of the van, his bare feet numbing against the snow. He listened carefully for footsteps, and heard a pair heading towards him. He lifted his gun, keeping it tight against to his chest.

  The footsteps neared, then turned and continued past him. They were slow and making an effort to be quiet. Georgie caught up behind the footsteps, bullet casings smushing deeper into the snow under his bare feet. He reached out and filled his hand with a collar. A voice called out that wasn’t Probey’s, so Georgie shoved his Webley forward until it met a patch of hair, then pulled the trigger. For a moment, timed to a thunderous blast, a flash of red shone through the smoke, then the white overtook and removed all visibility.