Most of what had been Private Sherman ceased to exist when the high explosive grenade hit the mounted SAW on top of the Toyota’s cabin. The explosion tore the wild-haired woman in the driver’s seat into two pieces. Most of the torso was propelled out of the door while the hips and legs remained anchored inside by the seat belt. Sherman had been less than a foot away from the point of impact when the grenade struck the machinegun. Parts of him plopped into the bed of the truck next to him, splattering the bed’s sole occupant with gore.
For the second time that day, blood and human tissue sprayed Arlo. Cursing, he swiped at his face with both sleeves, then bent over to recover the radio he had dropped in the blast. The leader of the marauder army had to pull a disgusting piece of a human thigh away to reach the walkie and raised up, intending to shout a command for the troops to converge on his position. Just as he pushed the send button, he looked over to the same place that Sherman had last looked. His mind registered the sight of a man behind a fence, and then it caught the puff of smoke.
The Ford exploded into a ball of flame. Arlo was blown backward with his legs on fire. The incendiary shell used a viscous flammable liquid that stuck to whatever it hit. Arlo was sitting upright with his legs splayed, dazed and still burning when one of the women under his command found him and beat out the flames with her shirt.
The Major leaned over the fence until he could see the next truck in line. It was a Humvee, and a man was standing in the turret on top. The man’s dreadlocks spilled out from under a military-style helmet, and he wore an outlandish pair of sunglasses that had thick, orange frames. The garish marauder stood behind another SAW mounted on a proper tripod. He saw the Major at the same time the Major saw him. He would have been able to shoot the retired officer if he had already chambered his weapon. With that not being the case, he frantically yanked back on the charging handle and yelled a warning to his buddies in the vehicle below him.
The Squad Automatic Weapon is a reliable fighting tool. Once the first round is chambered, it functions exceptionally well. If it had any flaws, it is the fact that sometimes, not often, the thing can be fussy about getting that first cartridge chambered. When that happened, the operator must open the action, clear the breach and ensure the first shell in the belt or the magazine is positioned correctly. That operation takes no more than one second if it is performed by a competent operator.
The man in the sunglasses was experiencing just such a malfunction when he tried to chamber his weapon. He was an experienced soldier, and might have quickly gotten the machinegun back into battery. Trouble was; he didn’t have a second because the Major pulled the trigger on his RBG for the third time that day and the high explosive shell hit the hummer at the spot between the windshield and the gun turret.
The resulting explosion devastated the Humvee; shredding the windshield as well as the two marauders riding in the front seats. The concussion from the blast shot pieces of glass and metal throughout the vehicle, impaling anything in their path, including the legs of the SAW operator.
The Major could see the man in the sunglasses was hurt, but he was still in the turret and still dangerous even though he was screaming in pain, so the retired Army officer shifted his aim and sent the incendiary shell through the hole that his first shot had opened in the windshield. Flames erupted upward and around the machine gun operator, and his screams took on a new level of panic and pain. He scrambled out of the turret onto the roof of the hummer with his legs and lower torso aflame and began rolling around, trying to extinguish the fire.
The Major could not see the other trucks lined up behind the hummer because of the trees and a slight bend in the road. He quickly kicked two pickets from the privacy fence and leaned out, looking east. He could see men running in his direction with rifles pointing his way. There were at least ten other trucks lined up with their engines running. The Major did a quick evaluation of what he saw and was reasonably sure that there were no more machine guns in evidence. He looked back to the flaming hummer to see the SAW in the turret engulfed in flames. He judged the intensity of the blaze with an expert eye and determined the heat of the fire would render the weapon useless.
Assured that the enemy could no longer use the machine guns against his friends, the Major turned back to the east and leveled his weapon. The next shell up in the rotation was another high explosive cartridge, and he sent it into the windshield of the next truck in line. It detonated and sent the Dodge truck jumping six feet into the air before crashing back down on its side. Three figures from the truck’s bed went bouncing and skidding across the road.
The explosion of the Dodge made most of the men on foot leap for cover. Three of them decided to crouch behind a hedgerow which offered a bit of concealment but no real protection. The Major aimed his last incendiary shell at the hedge and pulled the trigger. The lifelong Army warrior waited just long enough to see the three men now doing a macabre dance of pain and horror as they burned alive in the street. Their brethren watched them in a state of shock, unable to do anything for them.
“Okay, Bob,” the Major said to himself, “Now get your ass back to your truck.” He ran back to the fence on the other side of the house and was pleased to see there was a gate with a latch. One less barrier to climb over. He eased it open and slipped through.
✽✽✽
Marcus held one of the three walkie radios that Dan had given him and tried to see what was happening on his street. He was crouched down in the attic of a two-story house on the southwest corner of Shields and Fowler. From this vantage point, he was able to see down both streets and also look east.
Marcus, the leader of the small group of survivors, had given one of his radios to Dee, a tall, slim African-American woman who had served two hitches in the Marines. She had big eyes and wore her hair in an old-fashioned afro style. Most of the people in Marcus’ group valued her as an experienced combat soldier. Marcus had put her in charge of directing the defense against the marauders who were trying to get at them from the east by hopping over fences and coming through the backyards in that direction. She had armed four shooters with bolt action rifles, all of which Marcus had equipped with excellent optic scopes. Her four snipers had all been hunters before the world fell apart and knew how to hit a target from a considerable distance. It had taken little time for them to apply that experience to seek out crouching raiders and put a bullet into their heads.
So far, the snipers, supported by the other six people under Dee’s direction, had kept the intending infiltrators at bay. From her perch in another attic in the middle of the block, she observed the movements of the marauders through the slats of the attic louvres. She had been amazed that no one had yet figured out that the defenders had a spotter in this location because it should have been obvious. In any event, she decided to press her luck and continue calling out targets to her snipers.
In several of the yards displayed below her, she observed dead bodies sprawled. By her count, they had shot and killed twelve people who had attempted to attack their position. The others had seen the destruction and were now pinned down, unable to flee or move forward.
Movement in a back yard caught her attention. Dee brought the binoculars to her eyes and studied the scene. A dead woman was lying next to an empty dog house. Behind the body, Dee spotted a big, wooden storage shed with the door slightly ajar. With her expensive binoculars (which had cost nothing because they had looted them from the big sporting goods store on the day before) the former Marine could make out one of the marauders peering through the crack in the door.
Dee raised the walkie to her lips and pressed the send button. “Santos, you copy?”
Santos was a sixty-two-year-old auto mechanic who had lived on this block for forty years. He was the third person in Marcus’ group to have a radio. He was also a lifelong hunter and their best shot. Santos had a sun-browned face, a startling white beard and a full head of hair.
“What you got, Dee?”
“White hou
se to the south, right next to where the Banners used to live. See it?”
The reply from the older man was raspy, the result of a lifetime of smoking cigarettes. “Got it.”
“The shed in the back yard. Got a man peeking through the door.”
“Okay, wait one.”
There was a pause as Santos acquired the target in his scope. The shot sounded out, and Dee caught sight of the bullet impacting on the door, just to the left of the slit. At first, she thought Santos had missed, but a second later the man staggered out of the shed with blood pumping from his chest. He managed four steps before collapsing next to the dead woman’s body.
“Bingo!”
Dee grinned at Santos’ comment. It was his sixth opportunity to say ‘Bingo’ in this battle. Dee wondered if the dead man and woman in the yard below had been romantically linked before they decided that attacking this block was a good idea.
Marcus heard the first explosion and used his binoculars to try to determine where it came from. Then there was a second and a third. Smoke was now rising from the area where the line of vehicles had retreated. Marcus grinned and clicked the radio “Dee, be advised our friends are here. Pass the word to everyone; the cavalry has arrived.”
Dee had two teenaged messengers who were waiting behind her near the ladder leading into the attic. She sent them to spread the word that things were going to change very quickly now.
Chapter 11
Pops heard the explosion and slipped the Bronco into reverse. I grasped the M-240 in a firm grip and readied myself. Here we go!
Pops laid rubber in reverse, streaking southward down Fowler Avenue. The cars on the side of the road flashed by as I scanned the scene in front of me looking for targets. As we passed through the intersection of Ashlan and Fowler, I got a glimpse of a tall cinder block fence on my right. There were six people with their backs to me using it for cover, firing their rifles over it. I didn’t even think. I shifted the weapon in that direction and fired. The stream of bullets walked from left to right and the M-240 did what it was designed to do. I caught all six of them with the deadly rain of .308 ammunition. In a flash, six human beings ceased to exist.
Then we started taking fire. Bullets slammed into us from all sides except the rear. Pops yelled something to me, and everything around me shifted into high gear. I thought we were crashing, but it turned out it was only Pops swinging the Bronco into a U-turn, putting the front of the vehicle facing south and leaving me and my weapon pointing behind us now. I knew Pops was protecting me, but I also knew we needed my gun pouring lead at the people around us.
Bullets continued to slam into us. I heard the windshield shatter, and steam started spraying out in front of us when the enemy fire hit the radiator. I could make out the engines roaring as Pops tried to back us out of harm’s way, but the truck wouldn’t move.
“Everybody out, Now!” Buck yelled. He kicked the door open and jumped out with his M4 firing. The retired Marine was carrying the RBG slung across his back along with a bag of shells for it. He sent a barrage of bullets from his M4 to the south and then disappeared from view. I heard a bullet smashing into the side window right by my head, and it registered that I had been one inch away from being dead. I had no time for further reflection because another bullet slammed into the front of the Bronco and continued on through part of the hood, through the passenger front seat and right into the side of my leg.
I screamed in pain and grabbed my thigh. Blood gushed, and I tried to stem the flow by wrapping my hands around it. Meanwhile, bullets continued to hit the vehicle all around me. I heard Buck’s rifle firing back at our attackers, and the knowledge that he was out there and still alive was encouraging. I called out for Pops but heard nothing back. I fought down the urge to cry out again and did a quick assessment of my situation.
I was in a vehicle that was being targeted by our enemy. An enemy sniper had shot me in the leg and blood was continuing to pour out of me. I had to get free of the Bronco, but first I had to stem the blood flow. I spotted the three red nylon bags that I had used to carry the magazines for my weapon. I grabbed one and dumped out the mags, then wrapped it twice around my wound as tightly as I could. The pain almost made me pass out. As it was, I found myself leaning out of the tailgate and vomiting.
“Virgil, get out of the truck. Run for it; we’ll keep their heads down.” I was relieved to recognize Pops’ voice. He wasn’t dead after all.
I returned my focus to my leg and stripped my trouser belt free, using it to hold the bag around my wound. The blood was still seeping but not as much. With that taken care of, I grabbed the M-240, shouldered two more packs of magazines and dropped the tailgate.
Two bullets hit on either side of me as I staggered out under the weight of the heavy weapon and the bags. I thought Pops’ voice had come from the left side of the street, so I headed in that direction. There was an M4 firing on full auto near me and another on the opposite side of the street. I assumed that was Pops and Buck trying to keep the enemy’s heads down until I could get to safety. I glimpsed a brick porch off to the side of the road and dashed toward it. I got halfway there before a bullet hit me high in the hip and knocked me down.
I now found myself sprawled out in the middle of Fowler Avenue and hurting from two excruciating bullet wounds. The thought flashed through my head that I was only sixteen and how had the world gotten so crazy? But I also recognized that I needed to get out of the road or the enemy was going to shoot me a third time. I tested my legs and was pleased to feel them working under me. I raised up, grabbed the M-240 and ran for it. One of the magazine sacks fell but I didn’t go back for it, there was plenty of ammunition in the other shoulder pack.
I made it to the raised porch and put it between myself and the rifle fire as bullets peppered it from the south. I reached behind myself and felt my hip region. I could feel the pain in my right buttock. It was long and shallow indicating a graze right across my ass. The wound was painful but not debilitating. The injury to my leg was far more severe.
“Virgil? Are you okay?” Pops was shouting over the sounds of battle. I knew I had to get his mind off of me and back into the fight.
“I’m good, Pops. I’m okay!”
With that said, I propped the gun on one of the porch steps and searched for targets. I scanned the scene in front like Buck had taught me. A slight wisp of smoke was drifting from an open window on a red house that was half a block away. I watched it for a second and observed another wisp of smoke. Yep, someone was sniping at us from that window. I trained my sights on the target and fired off a string.
The walls around the window disintegrated, and I waited to see if any more shots would come from that location. None did, so I shifted my focus more to the south. People in that direction were shooting at us, then turning around to fire in the other direction. Marcus’ people were continuing to snipe at them from the south, but these enemy soldiers were too far away from them. There were only the three of us here, but our presence had flanked the marauders and was now making them defend themselves from two directions. The Major had called this one correctly. Now, if we could only survive long enough for the rest of the plan to work, we might come out of this whole thing alive.
I tightened the belt around my leg again, concerned at the amount of wetness on my trouser leg. Scanning the area, I could make out two people ducked down behind an older Chevy truck. They were leaning over the tailgate, using it as cover from which to shoot at us. The steel of the pickup was thicker than the newer models, and it would stop the .556 bullets that Pops and Buck were shooting. But the M-240 and its .308 rounds were made for this type of situation. I took aim and squeezed off the remaining bullets in my mag. The tailgate fractured and flew in different directions, causing the people behind it to do a macabre jig as the bullets pierced their bodies.
My little group and I were not doing that poorly, I thought. It seemed as if all three of us had good cover and, as far as I knew, only I had been hit. I heard
Pops and Buck both switch from full auto to single shots. They each had seven magazines holding thirty rounds each. Their initial full auto barrages had certainly eaten up a few of those mags, and they were now wisely conserving ammunition. The marauders were still all around us, though; as the Major had warned, they had dug in, and most were behind good cover. But I was still able to get to a few of them by using the M-240 to chew away at the doors and vehicles they were hiding behind. It seemed to me, however, that we were at a stalemate now. They couldn’t get through our cover with the weapons they had, and we were in the same situation.
At least that was the way it seemed.
A powerful explosion hit the front of a big house on the corner. We had been taking fire from that house from at least three rifles. The porch there was also brick and was reinforced with a concrete backing. Even the M-240 couldn’t get past it.
But I had forgotten about Buck and his grenade launcher. The explosion obliterated the porch and everyone who had been on it.
I felt like cheering. The amount of gunfire directed at us diminished immediately. I didn’t know if that was because most of it had been coming from the now-smoking porch or because the other marauders didn’t want to risk exposing their location for fear of Buck blowing them into little pieces.
Buck yelled over to us. “I’m gonna move up. Give me cover.”
I raked the stream of bullets from my gun along the line of little houses on the east side of the street, demolishing windows, fences, and mailboxes. Pops fired a few shots on the opposite side of the road, and Buck dashed forward past two houses and ducked behind an adobe wall. Several shots tried to reach him from a second story window but I unloaded on the place, and the shooting stopped. I could hear screams of pain over the other sounds of battle.
Virgil's War- The Diseased World Page 18
