Lifting her rifle again, Crystal peered through the scope, watching intently as the group continued forward. The silver haired man with the grizzly beard wore his long hair pulled back and tied off with a red bandana. He wore a biker’s black leather jacket, blue jeans and cowboy boots. Under his unzipped coat, she could see he wore a Misfits concert T-shirt.
She consulted her watch. It was just after four. So much for attacking under the cover of night. These boys sure had some brass balls.
A moment later, as if by her command, the first explosive went off, kicking dirt and sand twenty feet into the air. The sound of the blast was quite deafening and Crystal’s ears rung as chucks of dirt rained back down to the ground.
“Son-of-a-bitch,” she said. Still looking through the scope, she closed her eyes just as the second explosion flashed and a moment later the boom came. She swore she felt the concussion, even though she was two hundred yards away.
As the next minutes ticked away in resounding silence, Crystal looked through the scope for signs of movement. Through the cloud of snow and dirt debris, she thought she could detect movement, but she wasn’t sure. Suddenly, though, she heard cries of pain, the moaning sound of the dying.
Randy’s team was waiting for her signal to move in, but instead, she continued to watch through her scope. Some of the cloudiness dissipated and she started to see the carnage. Men and women lay dead or dying, some missing legs or arms, while others held in their insides. Their screams were horrible, now, as those who were unconscious woke to the pain. Part of her wanted to end their misery, to shoot them in the head and just end the suffering. The other part of her, though, pushed down her feelings and bided time.
As the minutes ticked away, some of the screams of pain and horror began to diminish as those that remained alive succumbed to their wounds. Crystal focused her attention on the brunette woman who was still alive. Both of her legs were shredded by the blast and a piece of fence jutted out of her left cheek. She kept trying to pull herself into a sitting position but could not hold herself up. Her face contorted into a mask of fear and pain. The veins on her neck stood out like cords each time she screamed.
Crystal rubbed the pad of her finger back and forth across the trigger. Her patience would soon pay off. No sooner had she took her finger off the trigger, she spotted movement beyond the dying woman and she swung her scope to focus on the source. Two men, dressed in woodland camo were belly crawling toward the woman. Either they were stupid enough to think the camo would conceal them, or they were just brave.
“My money’s on stupid,” Crystal said.
She sighted in on the second man, the one furthest from the woman. He was thin, his cheeks looked like they were sunken into the sides of his face. He wore a Cabela’s cap pulled down over his greasy black hair. When he stopped crawling and looked up at his companion, Crystal fired. A millisecond later, his head snapped back, then fell forward. Blood spurted from his neck in an arch and bubbled out between his dead lips.
Working the bolt, Crystal ejected the spent casing and jacked another round into the chamber. Now she set her sight on the other man. Mid-forties, overweight, Duck Dynasty beard. He’d managed to make it within arm’s reach of the woman before rolling away and trying to suck in his gut to get him closer to the ground. She had no idea what he planned to do when he reached the woman—perhaps console her, or maybe try to drag her to safety—but that didn’t matter now. Lining up the crosshairs, she took her bead, held her breath and then shot him in the forehead.
Suddenly, before she could chamber another round, a burst of gunfire hit the roof like a bunch of angry bees. She ducked back behind the bag of feed she’d been using as a rifle rest. A few more shots knicked off the roofline, none close enough to her to really do any damage, but they knew where she was now and she’d have to move. Policing up her gear, angry she’d been discovered after drawing in only two, she rolled to the edge of the roof and started down the ladder. Within minutes, she would be in her next hide. Behind her, it sounded like all hell broke loose.
* * *
After the first explosion, Randy and his team took defilade in a reinforced position and watched as the first group of 59er’s met their demise. He’d been in a firefight before so he was no stranger to the killing, but he’d never witnessed the carnage of an incendiary device. Later, he would swear he heard a sucking sound just before the explosion, hell, he even felt it suck at the air around him. Then suddenly, the hot blast and concussion pushed back his face, sending him falling backward onto his ass.
“Holy shit!” Don shouted. He was right behind Randy and he, too, felt the heat.
The second explosion sent them all down to the dirt. Someone yelled, “Incoming,” and no sooner clumps of snow and dirt rained down on them. Just to the right of Randy, a boot slammed down, charred and blackened, smoke steaming off the destroyed leather. He quickly kicked it away, but he couldn’t help wondering if there was a foot still in it.
If there is, I’m going to puke, Randy thought.
Thick smoke and particles of dirt drifted toward them, making it difficult to see and breath. Rubbing his eyes trying to clear them, Randy slid forward and poked his head around the side of the truck. At first, he couldn’t see anything through the veil of debris. He coughed and spat a thick wad of phlegm onto the ground. It felt like he had sand in his mouth.
Everything seemed suddenly too quiet and he realized that his ears felt all stuffed, like they did when he’d flown in an airplane. Either that or the explosion deafened him. He hoped it was only temporary. Clearing his eyes again with the back of his hands, he now saw the bodies, six or eight in his immediate sight line, all torn up, limbs severed and lying scattered on the ground.
He felt his stomach cinch and he gagged, but thankfully, nothing came up.
“Randy, what’s going on over there?” Don asked.
Looking back, he saw Don’s pale face poking up from the hole. Behind him, Sarah and Ellie, the twin sisters, were clenching their guns with white-knuckle ferocity.
“They’re all blown to shit.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“What did you say?”
“I said ‘Jesus Christ’, damn it.”
“Stay there, Don, you don’t want to see this if you don’t have to.”
“I don’t have to.”
“What?”
“I don’t have to!” Don shouted.
Putting a hand over his forehead to cover his eyes from the dust, he looked toward the main barn, about one hundred yards away. Crystal lay prone, about midway on the roof, her rifle propped on a bag of feed. It looked like she was also assessing the damage. He continued to watch her for a minute, expecting her to give him a signal to move in.
“What now?” Don asked, from behind, making Randy jump.
“Jesus, Don, I told you to stay back there.”
“Aren’t we supposed to move up to intercept the next wave?”
“We’re waiting for a signal from Crystal.”
“Gotcha.”
Leaning back against the truck, his head jerked at the report of the rifle. He looked up at Crystal and saw the slight movement of her chambering another round. As she set up her next shot—he didn’t know how he knew that, but he did—Randy looked again toward the graveyard of body parts right as the second shot sounded. Just then, the world lit up again, bright flashes of orange-red fire as the bastards returned fire at Crystal.
“Shit,” was all he said as he stood and shouldered the AK-47 and started to return fire.
* * *
“My God,” Justin said as he watched Randy, Don and the twins—Sarah and Ellie—fall under withering fire. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to hold back tears.
Looking through the scope on the Mini-14, he got a bead on the middle-aged man in overalls that massacred his friends with an M249 and put two shots through his heart. Even as his body was falling, Justin shot the woman to his left, then the man right behind her, with a rapid dou
ble tap to the chest.
Boldly, the second wave of Alvin’s army charged their lines. They had no discipline or organization. They walked in groups of four or five, clustered together, firing from the hip. From his hide atop the ranch quarters, Justin fired into their numbers, punishing them, but they kept coming, as though their numbers were infinite.
* * *
“Fire, fire, fire!” Sam shouted. Standing, she fired a burst of rounds from her carbine. “Fire, God damn it!”
Beside her, Kat shouted, “There are friendlies out there!”
Grabbing the collar of her lover’s coat, Sam said, “They’re gone, Kat, they’re fucking gone! Now fire that weapon or we’re going to die!”
Rising from cover, Kat screamed, “Get some, mother fuckers! Get some!” and emptied her magazine.
* * *
The middle was falling. Like machines, they penetrated the first two lines of fighting positions, although they suffered heavy casualties. Their superior numbers and automatic weapons gave them an advantage, one that was difficult to overcome.
After seeing his lines break, Matt folded in his flanks, collapsed his defenses, and succeeded in pushing them back. They regained some of the lost ground, and eventually, the enemy retreated, but it was a short reprieve.
* * *
It was dark now and the night had gotten colder. A preternatural silence blanketed the night, as the stars blanketed the sky. Shivering, Wesley huddled closer to Joshua, trying to keep warm. More than twenty minutes had passed without gunfire.
“Do you think it’s over?” Joshua asked.
“I don’t know,” Wesley said.
He’d been wanting to talk to someone, any one of the adults, but he was too frightened to leave the hole. They’d both huddled in the ground after the first explosion. Wesley’s legs were starting to cramp and the cold wasn’t helping.
“I have to pee,” Joshua said.
“Me, too.”
“Now is probably a good time, right?”
“I think so.”
They remained in the hole, waiting for the other one to make the first move. Finally, Joshua stood up and almost lost his balance. “Whoa, my legs feel weird.”
Wesley stood now, grateful to finally be able to stretch his legs. With his back to his friend, he unzipped his pants and relieved himself, making sure to pee outside of the hole. “That’s good,” he said.
“I’m surprised I didn’t drown in my own piss,” Joshua said and they both laughed.
After a while, they both sat in the hole again. It was a bit warmer in there and they felt safer out of the line of sight.
“I want this to be over,” Joshua said. He looked at Wesley, and tried to wipe away the tears in his eyes. “I can’t take that shooting again. I swear, if they start shooting again I’m going to go crazy.”
“I’m scared, too,” Wesley said.
They were silent again, embarrassed by their fear.
“Do you hear that?” Joshua asked.
“Hear what?”
“Listen.”
Wesley cocked his head and concentrated. At first he heard nothing but the night sounds, and then he did hear something, like a train engine in the distance, but growing closer, getting louder.
“What the hell is that?” Joshua asked, his voice oozing fear.
“I don’t know,” Wesley said, just as a pair of lights pierced the darkness.
Gunfire erupted again, as the engine sound grew louder. Joshua covered his ears and squeezed his eye shut. Wesley stood and looked on, frozen, as though the headlights of the truck pinned him against the night.
It was big, like one of those twenty-foot moving trucks. The damn thing was ploughing through the lines, running down folks. The engine was screaming now as the driver floored it, going for broke. Muzzle flashes, like camera flashes, dizzying. Bullets puckering the windshield, some finding their mark. Suddenly, the truck veered to the left, the driver dead, losing control, but still moving fast.
Joshua screamed when the truck tore into the barn. It sounded like another explosion. There were no flames, at least not at first. Men and women converging on the truck, firing through the rear door, no doubt expecting a swarm of crazies to come pouring out. Slowly, they ceased fire. As Wesley watched, he spotted Matt moving toward the truck, perhaps to throw open the door, but stopped when the gunfire started again, and someone screamed.
Although just a boy, Wesley realized the truck was just a distraction, a decoy, a trick to get them looking one way, while the mean men snuck up behind. He couldn’t keep track of what was happening; the night was lit up like the fourth of July. People were running and screaming and dying. He wondered, for a moment, if he will die now.
Out of the night, a woman appeared, he thought her name was Crystal.
“Come with me now,” she said, breathlessly. “Come quickly.”
She threw down her gun—a black rifle with a scope—and hauled Joshua out of the hole. Together they were running, into the night, away from the fighting, away. Away.
* * *
Matt watched in horror as the truck sped in his directions, its headlights like two lances, cutting through the night. The sound of the engine was loud as the driver slammed the pedal to the floor. The men and women in the fighting positions toward the front opened fire on the vehicle, but it was already roaring past them, loud as a freight train.
To his right, Ian started to fire, yelling, “Take out the driver!” All around them now, small arms fired at the truck, a barrage of bullets from every direction. Matt raised his SKS and fired ten rounds in quick succession. The windshield of the truck exploded with pock-marks and a web of white cracks. Suddenly, the truck veered toward the left, smashing into the barn, taking out a portion of the wall before finally coming to a halt.
The night smelled of cordite and carbon monoxide. Thick plumes of horrible smoke and dry dust floated through the air, making it difficult to see or breathe. A small group was converging on the truck and had almost reached it. Remembering the truck that smashed through the boundaries of Randall Oaks was filled with crazies, Matt yelled for them to hold on, but his voice was lost among the others.
Someone had already pulled open the rear door. To his surprise, the cargo container was empty. The truck was no Trojan horse after all.
“Jesus Christ,” Ian said, turning to Matt. “I thought for sure it would be filled with them foul creatures.”
Nodding his head, Matt said, “Something’s not right about this. What was the point of this?”
Gunfire suddenly kicked up behind them, startling Matt. Someone yelled, “Ambush!” and everyone turned in the direction of the farmhouse. Bullets buzzed past Matt and Ian and both men started to turn and separate. As Matt dove left, hitting the dirt hard, he heard Ian cry out in pain, “I’m hit, I’m fucking hit!”
On his stomach, Matt turned to see the direction of attack. They had used the distraction of the truck to send a group around their left flank. He saw five or six men and women firing at them from the direction of the ranch quarters. Ignoring Ian for the moment, Matt reloaded the SKS, fumbling with the stripper clip, but finally managed jam in ten more rounds. He opened fire, targeting the woman on the left, closest to the ranch. She dropped her weapon and grasped at her neck where the round tore a gaping hole. She spun left and then fell to the ground.
Others were also returning fire now, and he saw the attackers fold one by one. Sam and Kat called a ceasefire. Together, they left their positions and moved off in the direction of the attackers to make sure they were dead and not others were waiting in ambush.
Taking advantage of quiet moment, Matt went to check Ian. He was slumped against one large wheel of the truck. His rifle was on his knees and one hand covered a bleeding wound on his shoulder. His face was pale and clammy. Dirt or grime was streaked across his forehead where he’d wiped at his sweat.
Hunkering down beside him, Matt asked, “Are you hit anywhere else?”
Ian shook his h
ead. “My fucking shoulder is blown out.”
“Let me look.”
Matt pulled Ian’s had away from the wound. “I’m going to have to take off the jacket. It’s going to hurt a bit.”
Ian nodded—talking took too much energy—but Matt could see the fear in his friend’s eyes. Matt took hold of the flap of the jacket and pulled it back and around the shoulder in one quick movement. Ian screamed and his body jerked forward as if he were going to try to stand, but then he slumped back against the tire as he lost consciousness for a moment.
Matt leaned in to examine the wound. The flesh looked like a set of puckered fish lips. Blood dribbled from the one corner, not as much as he expected. Now he pulled Ian’s shoulder forward so that he could get a look at the back. He sighed with relief when he saw the exit wound. The bullet had passed through which was a good thing. If the bullet had lodged in the bone or muscle, they would have had to go in and remove it for risk of infection.
“How bad it is, brother?” Ian asked. His face was still pale, but he looked like he had a little more energy.
“You’ll be fine. Bullet went through. We need to get this clean and bandaged and you’ll be ready to get back in there.”
“Did we get them?”
Matt nodded. “We did, but I’m sure they’ll be back.” Standing now, he said, “Let’s get you inside before they do.”
As he helped his friend into the main house to get patched up, Matt was afraid. He thought that was something he’d gotten used to—living in fear. He’d been through so much, stared down death many times. He’d been through war before, but somehow, this was different and he didn’t know why. He just had a bad feeling that he might not make it through this night.
Regeneration (Mad Swine Book 3) Page 18
