Lines in Shadow: Walking in the Rain

by William Allen

  With the constant chatter and bang of the gunfire just around the corner, Scott wasted no time trying to talk over the roar and used hand signals instead. His men caught on immediately and gathered by the broken door, hunkered down, and got their breathing under control before Scott called for the dynamic entry.

  As much as he wanted a quick peek, Scott settled for kneeling by the cracked door and examining the door jamb for tripwires and boobytraps. He’d never had to deal with them, that was Nick and Mark’s war, but their tutelage helped him zero in on what to look for. Bombs made for a nasty surprise and could ruin your whole life, what was left of it.

  Nothing that he could see, even using the little dental mirror, so either the door wasn’t rigged or the design was something new. He was going to be gambling his life, and the lives of his men, on it being the former and not the latter. Then, the medium machine guns on the Humvees opened up, and everyone swung into motion.

  The roar of the M240 machine guns cut through the air like a saw blade, overpowering the chatter of the lighter arms and giving them the signal. Since the door opened out, Keith flung in it open and darted inside, spinning right as Ben poured through on his heels, swiveling left. Mike and Scott brought up the rear and Scott registered the familiar pop, pop, pop of gunfire as Ben engaged a pair of targets just emerging from the inner set of swinging doors leading to the main sales floor. Everybody had their sectors to cover and Scott assumed a crouch, facing the stairs when he caught sight of a pair of camouflaged clad legs descending the steps. He hesitated, briefly wondering if a friendly might have gotten trapped in the building, and then realized the camo didn’t match what the Guard wore.

  Unwilling to risk getting bogged down and giving up his advantage, Scott triggered his own weapon, the heavier bang, bang of the big PTR-91 hammering out a pair of bullets that impacted mid-thigh. Not waiting on Mike, Scott sprinted for the stairs, passing the collapsing soldier on the third step as the wounded man toppled forward on the steep steps.

  Scott had already rounded the first landing, all the while keeping the heavy rifle braced against his shoulder and ready to fire. Mike, trying to keep on his boss’s tail, put two rounds into the shrieking man’s head as he climbed up the stairs past him in pursuit.

  Scott clocked another target as he reached the steps to the second-floor landing as a helmeted head popped out from around the corner. Bang. Scott rewarded the man’s curiosity with a fresh hole in the head, punching out a crater where his nose used to be. No pause, no hesitation, as he stroked the trigger. Again, with his momentum flowing, Scott didn’t slow as he hit the landing, turning to the left, and he sighted on another camo-clad enemy soldier. This fighter never moved, apparently engrossed in the view through his scope of what looked to be a bipod mounted rifle, facing out into the street. That lack of situational awareness proved instantly fatal, as three big .308 Winchester rounds stitched up the back and side of the sniper, punching through body armor at a range of less than thirty feet.

  Not seeing anybody else, Scott backed up a step and performed a rapid magazine change, then barked over his shoulder to his partner.

  “Hold here. Clear your immediate space but then hunker down and cover me. Still one more floor,” he said, his voice straining to be heard over the cacophony of the gunfight going on outside.

  Mike nodded, knowing that Scott was trying to roll up the enemy even as he broke the rules. Rules taught to him by Scott. Clearing a floor single-handedly was a recipe for disaster, but this operation was turning into way more than they expected. These weren’t starving, desperate marauders. Not with that kind of hardware. For example, the sniper rifle lying next to the cooling corpse looked like something Mike read about online, and McMillan Tac-50s retailed for over $5,000 without the fancy scope and suppressor used to outfit this one.

  “Got it, boss. I’ll cover your back from here.”

  No one was going to catch Scott from behind, not if Mike had a say in the matter. The short, powerfully built kid might not be a Marine or a full-time soldier, but he did have training, and heart. Scott never doubted him for a second.

  Taking the narrow treaded steps two at a time, Scott continued his headlong sprint up the stairs with a long-legged stride. As he powered around the last landing before reaching the third floor, he felt more than saw an object bouncing down the steps, nearly to his feet. He knew at that instant his race was run, and he was likely going to be a loser today.

  “Grenade!” Scott roared out the warning and pushed his burning, overstressed thighs for one more burst of speed, pushing off from the stairs and diving onto the third floor in a tremendous belly flop that caused his diaphragm to spasm. Ignoring the tearing pain in his legs and now lancing through his chest, Scott used his forward moment to slide across the polished wood floor until he came crashing into the far wall. By this time, his rifle was up again and he was firing, firing, firing. His first target close enough to that the rifle left a tattoo of powder burns on his chest as the rounds pounded into his body. Swinging the rifle quickly, even as the first man was falling, he acquired two more targets down the long hallway. Two figures jerked and twitched as he emptied the rest of his magazine into them.

  The boom of the grenade exploding downstairs covered the sound of his rasping, labored breath as he used shaking hands to fumble a fresh magazine into the rifle. The rest of the third floor, the residence level of the building, still needed to be cleared. He stayed down and decided this was a good time to do a little bellycrawl down the hall and towards the Fetterman’s living room.

  The first man he passed was already dead, a gaping hole in his neck the size of an orange the most obvious cause of death. This man, too, wore the distinctive camouflage uniform, something with more blue in the mix than Scott was accustomed to seeing. He was armed with a standard looking M4 and MOLLE gear that he decided to check out later.

  Still low crawling along the floor, he was somewhat surprised to find the second man still alive, but not doing all that great. He wore soft body armor, but the .308 proved hot enough to penetrate, judging from the about of blood he was seeing. A 30 caliber hole in the upper left chest could do that, Scott knew. Probably survive if he got treatment, his training told him.

  Seeing his eyes, Scott figured the wounded man knew the score, as he didn’t even try resisting, focused instead on applying pressure to the wound with an already sodden field dressing. The M4 was left alone, and the man didn’t even look at the weapon as Scott used his left hand, right hand still wrapped around the pistol grip of his own rifle, to slide the short barreled carbine out of the bleeding man’s reach.

  “How many more up here?” Scott managed to growl, his throat suddenly dry and his parched tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth.

  “I…I’m the last one. I really…need some help here,” the man managed to say, and Scott noticed his lips were starting to turn an unflattering shape of blue.

  “Mister…,” Scott started, then paused, getting his emotions under control. It was the adrenaline, he told himself, the chemical cocktail in his blood that made him want to rip this guy’s head off and shit down his neck.

  “Alright. Just stay here and try not to bleed out. I need to check the other rooms. Then we can talk about getting your wound checked out. Or not.”

  The man nodded ever so slightly, as if lacking the energy to do more. Rising to his knees, Scott fished out the small dental mirror he’d used earlier and peeked around the corner. With the curtains removed from the windows, light spilled into the living room and other than some gear scattered out on the floor, the rest of the room looked untouched from the last visit, when he thought Mrs. Fetterman was trying to kill him with the load of personal effects she was determined to carry with them to her husband’s brother’s house out in the country. Now, he had to worry about other threats in the house.

  Take it slow and easy, Scott reminded himself. As the shooting outside began to die down, the wildlife management officer realized the battle might b
e won, but the killing might not be finished just yet. Slow and easy. Mere seconds ago, their situation seemed to call for speed and dynamic action but now, Scott was determined to finish this clearance by the book and with great care. He’d gambled and won by blitzing the stairs, but a screw-up here could cost him everything. He would make it home tonight after all.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “Scott, what the hell?”

  The words caught him off guard, but Scott figured the lieutenant would eventually come looking for him. Securing a high-value target while neutralizing the sniper’s nest that killed two Guardsmen after claiming at least four defenders inside the Community Center meant Scott’s team had been in the middle of the action. Scott felt like he should be embarrassed by his situation, but he just couldn’t muster the energy.

  Now, Conners found the tall former Marine stretched out on a blanket, stripped down to his underwear, with his legs raised up on a pair of gear bags and icepacks on his thighs and quadriceps.

  “Strained my quads, Lieutenant. Cramped up and tweaked them a bit. Nothing major. Just getting too old for this crap is all. Yalonda said I’d be good as new.”

  “Well, hell, grandpa, I guess you tripped over your walker. You going to be able to move out soon?”

  Scott went to sit up, but Conners waved him back down.

  “Relax. Not right this second. Say, fifteen minutes?”

  “I’m there, LT. Hey,” Scott paused, his voice dropping, trying to think how to express what he wanted to say. “I’m sorry about Henderson and Stolke. We hit the building as soon as you opened up, but they were already engaging your guys before we arrived.”

  Scott knew his men couldn’t have done anything more, or done it any faster. Hell, he was lucky the hamstrings were just tweaked or he could have been sidelined a lot longer. Or forever. The facts didn’t change his feelings of responsibility, or guilt.

  “Shit, Scott, we all know that. And look what you did to yourself. At least they didn’t get a chance to fire those AT-4s before you showed up.”

  Conners looked away, blinking rapidly before he turned back to address Scott again.

  “Truth is, you and your boys probably saved us from losing half our guys out there. I know we worried about snipers and spotters in these buildings, but we had no idea they would be coming with this kind of ordnance. This…smells like a trap. Or a nightmare.”

  Scott mumbled something under his breath even as he blanched at the news. He was aware they’d recovered some kind of rockets upstairs, but he wasn’t up to inspecting the haul at the moment. AT-4s?

  “Those guys aren’t some raggedy-ass militia, LT. You’ve got that right. Their equipment is just too good. And they weren’t acting like this all was on-the-job training. What the hell is going on?”

  Conners sank down to one knee, his cupped hands rubbing furiously at his face before he continued.

  “Well, let’s just say this confirms the stories we’ve been hearing. Accusations about this co-called Recovery Committee, and their rotten DHS agents working with the thugs and raiders. Cooperating to destabilize certain regions of the country targeted by the Feds. We’ll know more once your prisoner gets out of surgery, but we already know there’s a real, solid link. If nothing else, the camo matches the reports I’ve seen. Homeland Security Direct Action Teams, out there spreading the joy.”

  Scott didn’t want to believe it. He was a patriot and supported this country, and the Constitution. He knew there were some politicians out there who had no compunction about using their position for personal gain. Those were the crooks, and both parties had their share. Hell, he’d already helped hang some.

  What he feared more, though, were the true believers. On the right and left wing, these extremists seemed willing to do anything before the lights went out to further their own agendas for the future of America. They really thought by limiting the freedoms of Americans, whether by controlling guns or invading the privacy of all citizens to monitor their behavior, that the federal government could protect the people.

  Then when the lights went out, concepts like decency and morality went out the window. Scott had seen some bad shit in his fifteen years as a game warden, and before that as a Marine, but nothing prepared him for the sights he’d seen in the last four months. Heck, the memory of the bodies he recovered at what was now called the First Battle of Saw Creek still haunted his sleep, fighting for airtime with his nightmares in that far-away jungle. His faith in the people of his country was shaken, but he still clung to the ideals of that once made his country great.

  But in recent weeks, Scott had begun to hear rumors. Word spread by the Guard troops who knew a guy who knew a guy who had heard something. Nothing substantiated, but all sounding too real. And then there were the stories circulating about something that had happened just across the border in Oklahoma. Some atrocity too big to cover up. What it was, no one would come out and say, but speculation ran rampant. Oklahoma National Guard troops, supported and augmented by some of their own Arkansas National Guard soldiers, had taken back control of the training facilities at Camp Gruber. Whatever else, the reality was a bloody fight resulting in a number of flag draped body bags being transported back home to Fort Chaffee.

  “So you really think he’s DHS, part of one of those strike teams we’ve heard about?” Scott asked, not sure he wanted to hear the answer but needing the information anyway.

  “Yeah, I do. Further, if you weren’t in here laying on your ass, you’d see some of the skinnies outside were armed with armory fresh M4s and rebarreled and refurbished M16s. Not many, but enough to make my neck itch.”

  Scott stirred again. He was finally recovered enough to feel embarrassed by his body breaking down. He ran and worked hard to stay in peak shape, for his age, but what he’d been asking his forty-five-year-old muscles and joints to do exceeded his limits. That they might have crippled up at twenty-something wasn’t something he gave much thought. He’d gotten the job done, but at the cost of his body taking a time-out. He resolved to do more in the future. Maybe take up yoga, he thought.

  “Well, shit,” Scott muttered. “What’s the plan now?”

  “We can’t be sure our radios haven’t been compromised. You know we got that notification by courier about the SINCGARS system, and now I am taking it even more seriously. Nothing about what we found here goes out over the radio. We killed a mess of insurgents attacking the town, and that’s it. So Nick is gathering up all the weapons, ammunition and other gear left by the skinnies, and we will split it with the townies. They get all the AKs and other Russian surplus and all the hunting arms, while we take most of the government-issue weapons back to the farms. However, I’ve already told him to hand over a dozen of the better M4s for the security team guarding the Community Center. It won’t replace the fighters they lost, but it will mean something to these men.”

  “How many is in a ‘mess’, LT? Is that a ‘new math’ term?” Scott asked, trying to lighten the officer’s dark mood. Scott wasn’t great at the interpersonal, chit-chat stuff that passed for conversations these days, but he did have a sense of humor.

  “Scott, we’re all in a mess,” Conners deadpanned, and the big game warden groaned, but this time in disgust. Conners might now be an officer, but he was no gentleman when it came to his terrible puns. However, Scott was glad to hear the LT was still able to make jokes, even lame ones.

  “Seriously, we put the numbers of dead attackers at just over one hundred fifty,” Conners clarified, once again all business.

  “On three buses? That’s awfully tight.”

  “Yeah, which is one of the reasons why the boys started calling them skinnies. They tore out the seats and just jammed the bodies inside. Those things weren’t fit for hauling hogs now.

  “Funny thing is, I have a feeling whoever set this up meant for those skinnies to get cut down, no matter what else happened. Their plan was apparently to charge right in and take over the center. No cover, and not even a token attempt at
a flanking maneuver, other than what we saw here. No, they were cannon fodder and bait, for the guys in this building to do the real killing.”

  Scott nodded, his face somber.

  “When we saw them eat that kid at the camps, my men just used the most appropriate term they could think of: zombies. They really aren’t human anymore. I guess the ones in charge decided to use them up before winter.”

  Conners paused, considering the former Marine’s words. Scott had been a civilian for a long time, but the past fifteen years in law enforcement meant his bullshit detector still worked. And his sense of things lined up neatly with the young officer’s own thoughts.

  “Zombies seems fair, too. Anyway, as soon as the bodies are piled, the loot collected, and the buses towed, then you and I and one of the Humvees will be taking a trip to see Captain Devayne. The rest of your team will head back with Nick.”

  “Buses a total loss?” Scott asked, his practical side showing.

  “Swiss cheese,” agreed Scott. “They were already old and beat to shit before we hammered them with the M240s. The engines were at least forty-years-old and poorly maintained.”

  “So, going to see Captain Devayne,” mused Scott.

  “Yes?”

  “I was just thinking, LT. You never take me anywhere nice.”

  Conners managed a halfhearted chuckle at Scott’s jab, but the older man could tell the younger officer’s heart really wasn’t in it. He’d lost men under his command before, despite the relative new ‘shine’ on his lieutenant’s bars and still, it never got easier. Like Scott, he was undoubtedly going over the decisions he’d made that ultimately resulted in the deaths of two of his soldiers.

  “Well, get geared up when Yalonda releases you and we will go from there. And you might want to know, I talked to Mike about what happened. He said you were running up the stairs faster than he could keep up, and Mike is in pretty good shape, you know?”