Apocalypse Law 4

by John Grit

  Capt. Donovan walked in.

  Deni stood in a brace.

  “At ease, Sergeant.” Donovan’s eyes took in her swollen face. “I want you to rest until tomorrow afternoon, then report to me at 15:00 hours.”

  “Yes sir. Did you get anything out of my prisoner yet?”

  “He’s in surgery. What do you think about what little he said to you?”

  Deni answered, “He didn’t say anything. Another one told me he was a POW and didn’t have to talk, but that’s all I got out of him before he died.”

  Donovan contorted his face. “POW? Well, we have another wounded one that was captured in front of the clinic. He might live. So far, all we’ve gotten out of him was he’s part of a militia that’s against government, corporations, and Capitalism.”

  Nate grunted. “So what does that leave? Anarchy? I don’t think you can have Socialism without a strong government. Who would collect the taxes to fund the programs?”

  “Yeah, it’s crazy,” Donovan said. “We definitely have to learn more to understand what we’re up against and how large of a threat this group represents.” He started for the door, then turned around. “Take care of Deni for me, will you? Make sure she gets some rest.”

  “That’s my plan,” Nate said. “But she doesn’t listen to me.”

  Donovan smiled. “Well, she has her orders from her acting CO. If she doesn’t follow them, let me know tomorrow.” He left Nate and Deni staring at each other.

  ~~~

  The next day.

  While Nate got dressed and prepared to spend the morning with Deni, who was in the next bedroom, he decided to carry his revolver instead of the heavy civilian version of the M14 that he usually carried. He didn’t plan to go anywhere and would be spending the next several hours doing his best to make Deni comfortable. He thought she would spend most of the morning sleeping, anyway. The rifle would just be in his way. The 1911 would still be his backup weapon, a great combat handgun for ranges not much more than 20 yards. But even his skill level left it an iffy weapon to rely on at longer ranges. The power of the .45ACP, too, was lacking for longer shots. The .44 magnum Smith & Wesson revolver was another animal altogether; fully capable of killing a man at 150 yards with it, he felt it would be less cumbersome around the house while he took care of Deni as best he could. And if trouble showed up, he could grab his rifle from where it stood in a corner of the living room. Yes, there was some kind of a nut organization out there, but the chances of them coming to that particular house were a little above zero. As heavy as the .44 was, it was a lot lighter than the rifle and could be put in a holster at his side and forgotten unless needed. He wore it as a cross draw rig and kept the 1911 on his right side for speed at close range.

  After slipping two speed loaders into a pocket, he went into the kitchen and prepared everything to cook fresh eggs for breakfast as soon as Deni woke. The eggs had come from a poultry farmer just outside of town.

  Brian staggered in, sleepy-eyed. He noticed the big revolver and his eyes widened. “You haven’t taken the .44 out of your pack in a while.”

  Nate responded with, “I missed it. After all, it’s an old friend.”

  “How many .44 mag rounds have you burned in your life?’ Brian wanted to know.

  Nate didn’t need to think about that question. “Over 100,000 rounds, not all through this revolver, though. Probably over 90% were through Smiths, with a few rounds sent down range through Ruger Super Blackhawks and Redhawks. Never owned a Super Redhawk or a Colt in .44 mag. I’ve traded off all of the other .44s I’ve tried but this Smith 629 Classic.

  “Smiths are your favorite, aren’t they?”

  “Yep. A good trigger is paramount, and Smiths have a light, crisp single-action trigger, the best,” Nate answered. “Warriors who didn’t know much about shooting before their military training disdain the idea that a light, crisp trigger pull is needed for accurate handgun shooting, especially Glock lovers; but the fact is they’re wrong. Handgun hunting and long range target shooting are part of an entirely different world from the use of handguns in combat, and they just have no idea what can be done with a good .44 mag revolver.” He smiled at old memories. “I won lots of bets with fellow soldiers whenever I mentioned hitting coke cans at 100 yards shooting free-handed.”

  Brian perked up. “I remember you telling me about the man who got S&W to build the first .44 mag revolver and how good he was with them. What was his name? Elmer Keith wasn’t it?”

  Nate took a seat at the table and kept his voice down, not wanting to disturb Deni’s sleep. “Yeah, that’s true. During WWII, he was working at an arms factory and heard some of the managers talking about how the 1911 was useless in combat and no one could hit a thing with one past about 20 yards, baring a total accident. He told them they didn’t know what they were talking about. The argument became heated and an Army officer got involved, giving Elmer Keith permission to bring his private pistol to the factory range and demonstrate long range shooting with the 1911.

  “The next day during lunch break, nearly the entire factory emptied and gathered at the range where they test-fired new guns before they were sent to fighting men overseas. I don’t remember the range but it was more than 200 yards – a lot farther than I can hit anything with a 1911, I’ll freely admit to that. The target was about the size of a man’s torso. Anyway, his first shot was either high or low and he overcompensated with his second. Then he proceeded to put the rest of the seven-round magazine on target. The officer addressed the crowd and asked if anyone wanted to go out there and stand next to the target to prove their theory that a pistol was useless in combat. There were no takers.”

  Brian snickered. “I used to get into arguments with kids at school whenever I told them you and I had spent Saturday afternoon shooting targets at long range with handguns. They just couldn’t believe it was possible, and called me a liar. Then I took a video of you making a five-gallon plastic bucket dance at 200 yards. That shut them up.”

  “Believe me, there are plenty of people in the military with the same attitude,” Nate said. “It’s not worth arguing with them. Keep in mind you have to be a cool-headed shooter to be able to shoot as well in a firefight as at the range when shooting at targets that don’t bleed and shoot back.” He became serious. “That’s the real limitation of handguns in combat, even at close range. Plenty of cops have emptied their handguns at extremely close range in a panic and didn’t come close to hitting the suspect. The killer then just calmly walked up and killed them while they struggled to reload. That’s the main reason cops switched from revolvers to pistols – more rounds in the gun and a much faster reload. Sometimes crazies have an advantage because they just don’t give a damn and therefore don’t panic, which allows them to hit what they aim at, while a cop who wants to go home to his wife panics and forgets to aim.”

  “Yeah,” Brian said, “if you don’t use that front sight, you’re not going to hit a thing with a handgun.” He looked down at the table. “When men are shooting at you, it’s easier said than done, though.”

  Nate’s voice came out almost as a whisper. “Yeah, but you’ve earned the right to talk about such things. You’ve seen the elephant, and at a very young age.”

  Deni walked into the kitchen, taking short, stiff steps. “You guys discussing who to invite to my wake?”

  Brian jumped up and pulled out a chair for her. “We were about to make breakfast for you.”

  “Oh. That’s nice.” She sat at the table.”

  “The only painkiller I have is aspirin,” Nate offered.

  Deni sat back in the chair and slumped down. “I’ll take a handful.”

  Nate got up to get the aspirin out of his pack. He came back with a bottle. “Might want to eat first and then wait an hour or two before taking these.”

  “At least you have until three before reporting for duty.” Brian was already washing his hands, using water from a bucket near the sink. He could cook eggs as well as anyone and pl
anned to do just that while Deni and his father talked.

  Nate regarded her swollen face. “I’m sure your CO would give you the rest of the day off if you asked.”

  Deni rubbed her puffy eyes with the palms of her hands. “No. I’m anxious to learn what all of that shooting was about. It could be bigger than we’re thinking. Even a small group of nuts can cause a lot of havoc.”

  After breakfast, Deni grew tired and decided to go back to bed for an hour or so.

  Nate and Brian stepped out onto the porch to talk.

  Brian glanced through the open front door. He seemed to have something on his mind. “She sure is beat up bad. How long will it be before she can leave the Army?”

  Something down the street caught Nate’s attention, but it didn’t alarm him enough not to answer. “We’ve talked about that before. The Army can basically hold her forever under the extreme circumstances the country is dealing with.”

  “That’s not right. When her time’s up, they should let her go. It’s too dangerous for a girl, anyway.”

  That made Nate smile. “It’s not easy seeing a pretty woman hurt, is it?”

  Brian’s eyes lit up. “Have you ever thought about what actress she looks like?”

  “I don’t know.” Nate appeared to be uncomfortable with the question. “She looks like Deni to me.”

  Brian started to say something when a potted plant that hung a foot from Nate’s head exploded.

  The crack of the rifle shot split the air just as Nate slid off his chair onto the concrete porch. Before he could say anything, another round buried itself in the wall.

  Brian was close to the door and dove through it, landing on a throw rug that allowed him to skid several feet. He fast-crawled to the corner of the room and grabbed both his and Nate’s rifle. Before he got to the door, Nate’s revolver boomed once.

  “I have your rifle,” Brian yelled.

  “Stay inside,” Nate ordered.

  Deni charged into the living room, her rifle in her hands.

  Brian motioned for her to get down, and she dropped to the floor, her eyes frantically searching for Nate.

  Nate’s voice came in through the doorway. “He was a two-shot Charley. I saw him hotfooting it out of the area when he fell. Before he got back on his feet, I put a slug in him. He hasn’t moved since. I think he’s finished.”

  “Well, keep your head down while I go and get the radio,” Deni warned.

  “Near as I can tell, he was alone.” Nate took her advice anyway and kept his head down as well as stayed in the shadow of the porch, constantly searching for trouble while looking over his sights.

  Deni’s cry for backup was almost instantaneous, as a patrol wasn’t far away. The response came in waves. First a four-man rifle team and then a full squad. A few minutes later, the neighborhood was swarming with pissed off soldiers hunting for more of the assholes who’d killed and wounded their brothers the day before.

  Chesty’s old pickup screeched to a halt in front of the house, with Mel on the passenger side. Relief was evident on both their faces when they counted heads and no one was hurt.

  “The idiot was a bad shot,” Nate commented dryly.

  “Unless he was actually aiming for the potted plant,” Brian quipped. Coiled tension suddenly came to the surface. “I promised I wouldn’t complain about the way things are, but I’m sick of people trying to kill us.”

  “I know,” Nate said. “And with what happened yesterday and Deni being hurt… I know.”

  Chapter 23

  Chesty looked down at the twenty-something-year-old dead man. “Ever see him before?”

  Nate shook his head. “Looks like a college kid.” He spoke to Capt. Donovan. “Did they find anything in his pockets to ID him or tell us where he came from?”

  Donovan hooked his thumbs in his pistol belt. “All he had on him was his clothes, boots, and that SKS rifle with a bent back sight.”

  “Bent sight might be why he missed,” Mel offered. “That’s strange.” He dropped to one knee and pointed. “He’s got a half-inch entrance hole in the right side of his chest and the same size hole on the exit side.” He raised his face to Nate. “What did you shoot him with?”

  “My usual load,” Nate answered. “A 250 grain hard-cast Keith-type bullet at 1200 feet per second. It’s not exactly a hot load.”

  Mel smiled. “I should’ve known. You shot him with your .44 and not your rifle. That explains why the exit wound isn’t the size of your fist.”

  Chesty grew impatient. “None of that explains why this fool took a shot at Nate.”

  Deni walked up. Glancing down at the dead man, she said, “I have a feeling he’s part of what happened yesterday.”

  “Maybe,” Donovan said. “But your intuition, as good as it is, just isn’t enough without more to go on.” He checked his watch. “Damn thing’s quit. That five-year battery must’ve finally died.”

  Nate checked the position of the sun in the sky. “It’s maybe thirty minutes or so past noon.”

  Donovan chuckled. “I never figured you for a smartass.”

  Nate took that as good-natured banter. “Well, I’m not going to stand here and look at a dead fool any longer.” He took a step and then stopped. “Deni’s still stiff and sore from being banged up. You think you could spare her until tomorrow morning.”

  Donovan rubbed the back of his neck. “I wish I could give her more time off, but I just got word the guy she brought in is conscious. Looks like the surgery they performed yesterday on him was successful. I would like for you and Sergeant Heath both to come with me to the clinic and help with the interrogation.”

  Brian had been standing fifty feet away, keeping quiet. “Uh, you don’t want Dad or me anywhere near that bastard.”

  Donovan regarded Brian, obviously looking on him with respect. “That’s the point. He’ll be afraid of your father and Sergeant Heath both. After all, the good Sergeant whipped his ass yesterday.”

  A soldier’s radio came to life. He listened intently for several seconds. Speaking to Donovan, he said, “A half dozen men shot up a checkpoint and ran into a house. It’s about five miles northwest of here. The address is 307 Northwest 110th Ave.”

  Everyone raced to a vehicle. Mel, Nate, and Brian caught a ride with Chesty. Deni went with Donovan and the soldiers.

  Chesty trailed behind the six-HUMVEE column as they raced through town. “Do captains usually get their hands dirty like this Donovan?” he asked Nate.

  Nate checked on Mel, who was hanging on for life, sitting behind the cab in the back of the truck. He spoke past Brian, who was sitting in the middle, clutching his rifle, the muzzle pointing up. “No. But nothing’s normal nowadays. Why should the military be different?”

  Arriving near the scene, they soon found all roads blocked by HUMVEEs and edgy soldiers. Chesty pulled off onto the shoulder of the road. They were on the outskirts of town and it looked more country than town. “I think I know the house they’re hold up in. The family died in the plague.”

  Nate got out. He pointed at Brian. “Stay in the truck. There’s no need for you to be in this mess. I would have left you at the house, but hell, I just got shot at there. I don’t know of any place that’s safe.”

  Brian looked disappointed but said nothing, nodding.

  Mel had already jumped down from the back of the truck. “I hope the house is constructed of cinderblocks. Bullets will go right through. They lose a lot of their velocity going through, though.”

  Chesty shook his head. He grabbed his rifle as he spoke. “It’s a hurricane-proof house. Walls are solid poured concrete with plenty of rebars and covered by real stones, not fake flagstones. The windows are impact resistant, but I doubt they’re bulletproof.”

  They ran to catch up with Donovan and his entourage.

  The Captain looked the scene over with 7x10 binoculars. The house was on a hill in the middle of ten acres. There were a few trees on the land, but there was no way to approach closer than 100
yards without exposing yourself to gunfire. The grass, for some reason, hadn’t grown very tall and would offer only concealment, anyway. “Get a SAW over here and extra ammo,” he ordered. Directing his words to Chesty, he asked, “Do you know if anyone’s living there?”

  “The family died in the plague.” Chesty rubbed his cheek nervously. “But that doesn’t mean someone didn’t squat in it the last few months. Can’t promise there’re no innocents in there with them.”

  “But most likely those bastards are alone in there.”

  Chesty guessed. “I would say so.”

  A soldier lying on the ground, taking cover behind a pine tree nearby spoke up. “Walls don’t stop bullets. They’re dead.”

  Mel coughed. “The walls of my bunker at my retreat stop bullets.”

  “You think so?” Nate asked the soldier. “Do trees stop bullets?”

  “Depends on the size of the tree.”

  “So not all trees are the same, but all walls are the same? The walls of my farmhouse have stopped .308 and 30-06 full metal jacket bullets. Not all homes are made of wood or cinderblocks.” He shrugged. “Of course if you have a Ma Deuce and plenty of ammo, you got it made. Cut loose and it’ll reduce that place to smoking rubble. With enough ammo, even an old M60 would do it. Peck at it with thousands of rounds and chip away the walls little by little.” He got out his binoculars and scanned the house. “It’s dark inside of course, and I don’t see anyone close enough to a window to catch any ambient sunlight. I notice there are no curtains. The place may have been stripped by looters. If so, that may make setting it on fire more difficult. There won’t be as much flammable stuff left inside. Bullets are hot, but they pass through things so fast there’s no time to transfer that heat to whatever it passes through. Might catch a sofa or mattress on fire, though, especially if it stops inside of it.”

  “Well, I’m not going to waste lives storming that house,” Donovan said. “Those shitheads inside aren’t worth one of my soldiers.”

  Nate let the binoculars hang from his neck. “Oh, I damn sure agree with that. And I’m going to the truck to check on Brian and let you do your job.” He stepped back.