by Myke Cole
“Sally, we’ve got—”
“Don’t you interrupt me! I remember you when you was jus’ a kid ’n’ you went runnin’ into—”
“Sally!” Mankiller yelled.
“C’mon, Sally.” Yakecan put a placating hand on the old wood carver’s elbow. “You don’ wanna be scrapping with the law. Ollie told us what’s goin’ on with you and Denise. I promise that we’re going to—”
Sally shook his hand off. “This is serious, damn it! Now, I know we’ve gotten into it before, but this time she—”
“Sally.” Mankiller wasn’t yelling this time, but the tone in her voice cut through the conversation. Sally trailed off and looked at Mankiller’s eyes, which were ranging over her shoulder, looking at something behind her. “You still got that Winchester? You shot a bear with it once, right?”
Over Sally’s shoulder, Mankiller spotted two men moving at a crouch between houses. Their white and gray snowsuits blended with the landscape as well as clothing could, and they held similarly colored weapons at the low ready.
“More ’n once.” Sally nodded.
“It loaded?” Mankiller asked as Yakecan followed her gaze to the two men just before they weaved between buildings and disappeared from view.
“Always.” Sally finally turned, but the men were gone. She took a step in that direction.
Quick as a striking snake, Mankiller reached out and touched her shoulder, gently enough not to hurt her but firmly enough to keep her from taking another step. “Your house is in the other direction, Sally. Go get your rifle and stay inside.”
“Sheriff, I . . .” Sally turned back to her.
“Do it,” Mankiller said, and her tone shut Sally up. The old woodcarver nodded once and took off running.
“You see anyone on your way, you tell ’em to do the same,” Mankiller called after her.
Mankiller made sure a round was in the chamber of the Ruger and brought the gun up to the low ready. It was longer and heavier than the C7 she’d carried in Afghanistan, but the sweet spot on her shoulder welcomed it like an old friend. “You ready?” she whispered to Yakecan.
“Guess we ain’t goin’ to the mayor,” Yakecan said, checking the chamber on his 870.
“Mayor’ll find out on his own soon enough,” Mankiller said, and set off. It had been years since she’d carried a long gun against a human opponent. The Ruger was familiar enough from years of hunting, but even ground-stalking big game like bears lacked the same kind of throat-closing tension. The Army had trained her to recognize it, to learn to live with it. Eventually, it had become an old friend. Like riding a bicycle, she never truly forgot it, and she found herself visually partitioning turns around house corners into pie slices, taking them a sideways-scrabbling step at a time, ready to pull the trigger the moment anyone appeared in her sights. She leaned from her waist, advancing at a slow walk, her rock-solid gait keeping her hands as steady as possible. Running around might look good in the movies, but even a gun with as much kick as Early Bird’s Alaskan would be useless if she didn’t hit what she aimed at.
Yakecan dropped back behind her, covering her as she moved, then advancing as soon as she stopped and brought her weapon up. The leapfrogging dance was second nature to anyone who’d been downrange, and Yakecan had done it day in, day out with the other soldiers in his squad in tougher conditions than these. “Moving,” “covering,” they whispered to one another as they went, handing off roles as smoothly as if they were telepathically linked.
They moved past the propane storage dump and the generator park, its chain-link perimeter blue with frost. This was as close as the hamlet of under five hundred square kilometers got to a bad neighborhood. They passed Bob Crosshill’s purple-sided double-wide. The trapper was home, and Mankiller could see him peeking from behind the curtain, motioning his wife away from the window with one meaty hand. Mankiller spared him a glance, hefted her rifle, and mouthed, Get your gun.
She moved on, rolling out onto the snow-covered track that wound its way to Highway 6, the one connection between the hamlet and civilization. She scanned the ground for footprints, wasn’t surprised by their absence. The wind off the lake obscured tracks here even in the height of summer. If there was so much as a dusting of snowfall, it was hopeless.
Who were these armed interlopers? What did they want? What the hell were they doing all the way out here? She pushed the questions out of her mind. Whoever they were, they were armed and in her town. They’d answer for that, no matter who the hell they were. She’d settle the score here and then go find her grandfather. He’d know what to do. He always did.
She paused, scanning the horizon. Nothing but the low tops of the houses, silver stovepipes belching warm white smoke into the air. Word must have spread. The hamlet was dead silent, the streets deserted. Of course, in Fort Resolution, that was hardly notable.
Yakecan sidled up alongside, whispered, “Where you think they went?”
Mankiller shook her head, looked again. She had just seen them come around . . .
Gunshots. Yelling.
Mankiller took off running, heard Yakecan’s sigh as he realized he’d have to beat feet to keep up with her.
“Shoot you in your fuckin’ ass!” she heard Sally bellow.
Mankiller put on speed. Somehow, the bastards had circled around and come from behind her, past Sally’s house. If she hadn’t told the old wood carver to go home and load up, they’d probably be at the municipal building by now.
“Come around my house, you fuckers!” Another shot.
Mankiller had been careless. That, or these guys were very good. She hoped it was the former.
She raced past the Loon, the hamlet’s one bar, and rolled the corner, getting up on her sights as she came. The world shrank to the Alaskan’s front sight post, everything in the background receding into a blur that identified itself only as target and not-target.
The blur that was Sally was bent over on her porch, blurry arm clamped to her blurry stomach, sinking to her knees.
Two white blurs were pointing black blurs up at her. The enemy.
Mankiller stopped, lined up center mass, let her finger take the slack out of the Alaskan’s trigger. “Police! Drop your weapons, right now!”
Yakecan was shouting beside her, but his voice was only a low buzz. Mankiller had dropped into the zone, what some of her battle buddies had called “bullet time,” back in the craggy hell that was the Korengal Valley. The world went gray, her vision tightening even further, until even the target vanished, and the sight post was all, glowing like a diamond.
Time slowed. The enemy didn’t answer, he merely turned, and the black blur that was his weapon rose. He looked to Mankiller like a marionette spinning in a jar of molasses, languid and clumsy, taking forever.
The trigger was already tight against the spring. She nudged it a millimeter back, not anticipating, letting it do what triggers did in their own good time.
This trigger’s own good time turned out to be instant. Bang.
The Alaskan punched her shoulder and Mankiller was working the bolt before the smoke even cleared, not knowing if she’d hit her target, not knowing what the other bad guy was doing. It didn’t matter. If she was going to win, she had to push through.
The spent brass spun away and the next round slid home. Mankiller’s focus never wavered from the front sight post, never allowed the rest of the world to clarify around her. Instead, she swung the muzzle to where she’d seen the other gray-white blur of the enemy, heard Yakecan’s 870 boom twice in rapid succession.
More smoke, a shout. Boots crunching on snow. She took a shuffling step to her right. Her last shot would have told an enemy where she stood. Movement, no matter how small, would reduce the chances of a lucky shot fired into smoke hitting her. She stayed on her sights, staring into the cloud of spent propellant, as if by her will she could make it
clear.
The moment stretched out, an eternity to Mankiller, her gut churning as she stared into the swirling gray that might be pierced any second by a bullet speeding straight between her eyes.
But when the smoke finally broke apart, the blurry gray-white shape of the remaining enemy was receding, boots pounding on the frost-covered ground. Mankiller lined up her shot, tensed her finger. The blur whipped around the vinyl-sided corner of Denise Unka’s single-story ranch and vanished.
Mankiller exhaled, brought her weapon down to the low ready, moving her finger off the trigger and indexing it above the guard. The world came into focus as her eyes moved away from the sights. Her head swam for a moment, and then line and color crowded her senses, all the sharper and more wonderful for its brief absence. A slight pain throbbed in the side of her neck from where the muscle had cramped.
She kept her eyes on the corner of Denise’s house. Ready for the enemy to come back. “You okay?” she asked Yakecan.
Yakecan panted. “I think I hit him.”
“You think?” Mankiller permitted herself a glance all around them. Apart from Sally groaning on her front porch, there was no one.
“Take overwatch,” Mankiller said.
“Where you goin’?” Yakecan came back up on his sights, backing up as Mankiller trotted toward Sally’s house.
“Sally’s gutshot. Need to make sure she won’t bleed out.”
“What the fuck, Sheriff? What’re we gonna do?”
“First thing, we get Sally back to the station.”
“Not the health center?”
“Hell, no. You’re goin’ to the center and tell Nurse McNeely to come to the station, but first she’s gotta go home and grab a rifle.”
“The station ain’t a hospital, boss. We don’t have—”
Mankiller whirled on Yakecan, anger curdling in the back of her throat. “Stop fuckin’ arguin’ with me, Joe. How many bad guys you see rope out of that helo? Six? Seven? I bet there’s twenty on there at least. You think after we gunned down one of their people and sent the other packin’, they’re jus’ gonna cut their losses and go home? We got more enemy inbound. Station’s the easiest place to turtle ’til we can figure out how to get comms with the outside.”
Yakecan nodded. “Yeah. Sorry, Sheriff.”
Mankiller dismissed the apology with a shake of her head and sprinted the rest of the way to Sally’s side. “Hey, lady. You doin’ okay?”
“They fuckin’ shot me!” Sally shrieked. She was slumped against the wall of her house, hands soaked with blood, clamped over her abdomen. Her face was nearly as white as the snow that blanketed her stoop.
“Yeah.” Mankiller tried to keep cheerful. Morale could make the difference between hanging on and slipping into the black. “They sure did. Lemme take a look?”
Sally moved her hands to reveal a ragged hole in her abdomen. Mankiller leaned in close on the pretense of examining the wound, but got what she really wanted, the odor. Sally’s gut smelled like an open sewer. The bullet had surely perforated her bowels. If she didn’t bleed out or die of shock, the peritonitis would probably take her.
“Am I gonna die?” Sally asked as Mankiller forced the sour look from her face and smiled.
“Stop being such a baby,” Mankiller said. “You got Kerlix or gauze or whatever?”
“Clean towel,” Sally moaned.
“That’ll have to do. Joe! Get in there and grab a clean towel or a shirt or something.”
Yakecan nodded and raced into the house.
Mankiller stood. “Sit tight, Sally. I want you to hold your jacket over the hole. Push as hard as you can.”
She went to the side of the man she’d shot. The .375 round had caught him just above his body armor, shattering his sternum. The bone had sent the bullet careering out of his shoulder. Bone fragments must have pierced his heart.
He was definitely military. The snowsuit, mask, goggles, armor, and tac vest were all top-of-the-line. He carried an MP5 submachine gun loaded with 9mm rounds. Perfect for close-quarters combat, the weapon of choice among commandos. She rifled through his pockets, looking for a wallet, an ID badge, anything that might help her understand who he was or why he was here.
The man didn’t have a scrap of paper on him. No dog tags, either. Mankiller would have liked to have stripped the body to check for tattoos, but it would have to wait. Even if the enemy didn’t return, Sally wouldn’t last.
“Got a clean T-shirt!” Yakecan shouted triumphantly from the door, holding a ball of white cloth over his head.
“Good for you! Don’t jus’ stand there! Stick it in the damn hole!” Mankiller stood and trotted back over to them.
“Sorry, Sally,” Yakecan was saying as he pried her hands away from the wound.
“This is goin’ to hurt like hell, but it’s the only way I can keep you safe enough to get you back to the station, okay?” Mankiller asked.
Sally gave no response. Her eyes were focused but staring over Mankiller’s shoulder at nothing. Her breathing was coming in shallow, rapid gasps. Sweat stood out on her forehead despite the cold.
Mankiller snatched the shirt from Yakecan and stuffed it into the hole in Sally’s gut, packing it in as tightly as she could manage, praying she didn’t do any further damage to the organs inside. The shirt was instantly soaked with blood, and the smell was powerful enough to make Yakecan wrinkle his nose, but Sally showed no more reaction than a slight groan. They were losing her.
“Sally? Listen to me. We’re getting you someplace safe. I need you to stay awake. Can you do that?”
Sally nodded weakly.
Mankiller looped one of Sally’s arms around her shoulders. Yakecan grabbed the other without having to be asked. Sally got her legs under her, stumbled weakly, but her feet were moving at least, and that meant there was some hope.
“What about the body?” Yakecan jerked his head toward the enemy Mankiller had shot.
“We’ll come back.”
“No, I mean, his gear. If more bad guys are coming, shouldn’t we?”
“He’s got a go-bag and an MP5. We got bigger and better guns in the station. Priority one is stabilizin’ Sally. Priority two is gettin’ comms up. We need help and we need it right now.”
Sally was small and light in full health. Wounded, she seemed even lighter. She barely slowed Mankiller and Yakecan as they raced back to the station, weapons dangling in their slings, each bump against their hips reminding them of how vulnerable they were should the enemy return.
The enemy didn’t return. Instead, it was Bob Crosshill, finally scaring up the guts to quit his house and see what the fuss was all about. He held his fowling gun, a double-barreled antique that was only slightly better suited for scaring criminals than it was for shooting birds. “Jesus, Sheriff. What the hell happened?”
“Bobby, go back to that dead bad guy and strip his gear, then you come meet me at the station and tell everyone you meet along the way. You got me?”
“I . . .” Crosshill’s mouth worked, his eyes wide, fixed on Sally’s wound.
“Everybody, with guns, at the station, Bobby. You got me?”
“Yeah, Sheriff.” Crosshill finally looked up at her. “I got you.”
“Go,” Mankiller said, and Crosshill took off running.
Calmut met them coming up the steps. “Jesus. Sally! You okay?”
Sally gave no answer, chin bumping her chest, eyes finally shut.
“Comms?” Mankiller asked, shouldering him out of the way.
“Freddie’s over at the municipal building, but he said nothin’s wrong.”
“Nothin’s wrong? What the hell does that mean?”
“Nothin’s wrong with the antennae or the systems. Mast’s up, good signal. Comms shouldn’t be down.”
Which meant they were being jammed. Mankiller felt a si
ck terror in her gut. Fort Resolution wasn’t an incidental target. Whoever these people were, they were here on purpose.
“Why the hell aren’t you takin’ her to the health center?” Calmut asked.
“Ollie, I need you to shut the fuck up and do what I tell you,” Mankiller said. “Go get the nurse and bring her here. Armed, please. I want the whole town here with guns, yesterday.”
“Yeah, but—”
“Ollie, get it fuckin’ done right now. I am not playin’ with you.”
“Okay, Sheriff, I’m goin’.” Calmut ran as fast as his skinny legs would carry him. Mankiller noted the .357 bumping in its holster against his hip with some satisfaction. At least he had listened to her in that one thing.
They shouldered their way into the station, the heat hitting them like a wall. Mankiller could feel her pores opening under the heavy parka.
They pushed back into the station’s main room and kicked the pelican case of medical supplies off the gray cot that sat outside the cell door. They lay Sally on her back on the narrow stretch of fabric stretched tight between aluminum rods, more stretcher than bed. Her skin had gone gray, her eyelids and lips the sick purple of a fresh bruise. She was breathing, but only just, and Mankiller didn’t bother to try and wake her. Sally needed care beyond what Mankiller would be able to give her now. She needed to be medevaced to Yellowknife and soon.
“We don’ get comms up, we’re gonna lose her,” Yakecan said.
“Thank you, Captain Obvious,” Mankiller said through gritted teeth.
“What now?” Yakecan asked.
“Now we go grab the mayor and then the rest of the town, get ’em back here.”
“You so sure more bad guys are comin’?”
“If they aren’t, I’ll be happy as hell to look stupid.”
Yakecan nodded, checked the action on his 870, looked back up. “That was good shootin’, Sheriff. You did that guy right.”
“Yeah,” Mankiller said, embarrassed. That guy wasn’t the first man she’d ever shot, but he was probably the closest to her when the round had left the muzzle. She was surprised at how little she felt after the act. Not sad, not frightened, not elated. It was a speed bump, little more than the stirring of air, a thing to be contemplated and dealt with further down the line. She looked up at Yakecan, noted the drifting, dreamy look on his face. There was no bemused smile, no trace of anger. He was scared bad.
