Desolated

by Lou Cadle

  Better him than me.

  He moved again, circling around, then coming up from a different angle. He lost sight of the enemy for a moment, but then there they were again. He had hit one of the horses but not killed it. It was away from the rest, standing there, the feathers of the arrow sticking out from its shoulder.

  Vargas and his men had shifted the horses to keep the wall intact and left the injured horse behind. It was still hard to get a shot at the men. There were four of them in there, he thought.

  He stepped out and shot another arrow. He had another dozen, most of them homemade. The distance and accuracy was better with the old commercial arrows made of fiberglass. He had one more of those. He nocked it, moved to his left, a few steps more into the neighborhood, and the girls went through the routine with the dummies.

  No one fired this time, not at him, not at the dummies.

  “They might have it figured out,” he said to the girls. “Georgia, Wanda, you get on down to the house or wherever you’re assigned. Yasmin, stay up here and operate three of the dummies, just in case it’s still fooling them.”

  “Going,” Georgia said.

  “Stay low at first,” he said. “I need to get closer, Yasmin. Give me two minutes to find a good spot, and then trigger them again, one by one, as fast as you can move, okay? Keep going around, triggering them in a random order until I tell you to stop.”

  “Got it,” Yasmin said.

  “And keep your head down.”

  Dev slid down the hill, feet first, keeping to a spot behind some dense bushes. It wasn’t well protected, but the men weren’t firing back at the moment.

  Also, he didn’t seem to be doing them much damage.

  He heard one yell. Had someone else shot at them? Who? Maybe Curt.

  He’d do better this time, wait for his chance. He’d end up closer to them, but from a worse angle. He stopped, crawled around the bush he was behind until he could see them, and watched them march forward. They were moving slowly, trying to keep the horses bunched tight around them. But there was an opening now at the rear, and there was a man sitting on the ground. He’d sprung a trap and was struggling to open it.

  Dev could wait until they passed him and take his shot then. He might be able to get one of them.

  He heard one of them say, “Whoa.” The horses came to a stop. There’d been a little window as they hadn’t all stopped at once, but it was gone now. He saw a rifle come up over a saddle, not aimed at him, but up at the dummies. He could see the man’s arm, but he was keeping his head low. That his shot was angled up was helping him protect himself.

  He fired over Dev’s head.

  Dev heard a sound above him, a human sound of pain or surprise. Had the man managed to hit Yasmin?

  Damn them all. Dev aimed at the shooter. The men made noises to get the horses moving, and the instant he saw two of the horses shifting, he anticipated the opening and fired an arrow into it.

  “Scooter,” someone said. “He’s down.”

  “Leave him,” Vargas said.

  They kept moving, but the injured man on the ground disturbed the horses. Without changing position, Dev nocked another arrow and let fly. Then another, quickly on its heels.

  A burst of three shots was aimed his way. He hit the ground, wishing he had better cover.

  “Got him, I think,” a man said. The firing stopped.

  “It’s not the one with the crossbow,” a new voice said. “That’s a regular arrow.”

  So Curt had gotten some shots off. Good. But from what he’d glimpsed, there were at least four men in this bunch alive, one of them injured. Plus the one with the trap, who was out of it for now.

  “Shut up,” Vargas said. “He might be alive and moving again.”

  Dev stayed where he was, hardly breathing, not risking making any noise at all. They’d missed with all three shots, but if they sprayed this area again on full auto, he was dead.

  Nothing happened for long minutes. When he dared to look again, they were out of sight. The one he’d shot had gone with them. The man in the trap had managed to get out of it and was crawling back along the road, toward the highway, out of range. Dev scurried back up the hill.

  Yasmin had been hit. Goddamn it. She was lying on the ground on her back, her breath coming rapidly. Her face was glazed with sweat. She reached one hand for him as he knelt by her.

  “You’ll be okay,” he said, taking her hand.

  She grimaced. “Don’t think so. My own fault. I stood up too far.”

  “Not your fault at all,” he said. “Where are you hit? Are you bleeding?” He saw no sign of the wound.

  “Chest,” she said.

  “Sorry about this,” he said, and he ripped her shirt open.

  She had been shot, high in the chest, but as she breathed, he could see a bloody froth oozing out of the wound. It had come in at an angle, and her lung was punctured. There was little chance they’d be able to treat this. The horror of it was, they didn’t even have any drugs stronger than willow bark to offer to ease her pain.

  “It’s not too bad,” he said, tearing off his own shirt and wadding it into a makeshift bandage. “Hold this on it if you can.”

  “Feels bad,” she said, and then she coughed weakly and he could tell by her anguished face that it hurt her to cough.

  “Open your mouth,” he said, and she did. “Stick out your tongue,” he said, and she did. It wasn’t bloody. He had expected it to be. So it could have been worse. But it was bad enough.

  “I wish Misha were here,” he said.

  “Not sure,” she said. And she didn’t finish the thought.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said, gripping her hand tighter.

  She managed a brief smile. “Better this than what—” a shallow breath “—they had in mind for me.”

  He shook his head. It was better to stay alive, always. But that wasn’t for him to judge, was it? “We’ll take care of you. I have to go. I’ll send someone back to help you the first moment I can.”

  “I know,” she said. “Go.”

  He dropped her hand and ran down the hill toward his house, trying to push worry for the girl from his mind. He’d make his last stand down there.

  Chapter 20

  Sierra saw the lead horse coming. “They’re nearly here,” she said to her daughter.

  “I’m ready,” Zoe said.

  “Remember, Pilar is up the road a few hundred yards. Don’t shoot that direction.”

  “I remember.”

  The enemy approached. At ground level, there was a confusion of horse and human legs. Over the backs of the horses, she could see nothing. She waited for a signal from her daughter. There were only three dummies to operate, set up not that far from each other. They were closer to the dirt road than Zoe was, but still hidden behind the tall grain plants, visible from the road, but not, they hoped, in enough detail to be obviously dummies and not human. The whole point of them was to keep the men from keying in on Zoe and shooting at her.

  “Ssst,” Zoe hissed. The signal.

  Sierra yanked the rope, heard the dummy come up, and immediately crawled along the beaten-down path she had made to the next.

  She heard, hardly louder than a sparrow’s wings, the arrow fly overhead. A horse screamed, and she felt a stab of pride. Her daughter was a good shot. Sierra made it to the next dummy, yanked its rope, and scurried back to the first.

  She didn’t hear the second arrow’s flight, but she did hear the consternation of the men.

  And then the bullets started to fly. Sierra flattened herself to the ground, hoping Zoe was doing the same thing.

  “Get the damned horses,” said one man.

  Were the horses hurt? Or trying to flee? The urge to see what was happening was almost irresistible. But not until those rifles quit firing.

  Vargas’s voice boomed out. “Cease fire. Don’t shoot until you have a clear shot.”

  The gunshots stopped. A second voice said, “Watch for movement i
n the grass.” It might have been that Freddie, the one who’d shot the Quinn chicken.

  Sierra wished there were a breeze. If one would appear out of nowhere, a ripple in the grass might get them to expend more of their bullets. If the wagon had been destroyed, it was possible they didn’t have many rounds left after that.

  “We need better cover,” a man said.

  “No,” said Vargas. “We need to attack. Let’s move into that grain field. Side by side. We’ll find them eventually.”

  Sierra was awfully close to the road. How she longed for a weapon, a real weapon like their rifles.

  She heard them enter the field. It was noisy, walking through the tall grain plants.

  If she moved, they’d hear her or see her. But if she moved, they’d fire at her and not her daughter. She could give Zoe a chance to get away.

  Zoe was her daughter, and she believed she’d die for her, but forcing herself to rise, knowing what would happen, was the hardest thing she’d done. She had her hands flat on the ground and was bending her legs, getting them under her, ready to sprint to the side, when she heard one of the men yell, “Look out!”

  She heard Arch’s voice, a wordless yell. She popped her head up just in time to see it. He was running right at Vargas, weaponless.

  Vargas turned. He stepped back and raised his rifle.

  But no, Arch was not weaponless. In his hand was a grenade, and just before the first shots were fired at him, he thrust his hand out, almost as if offering it for a handshake.

  The grenade detonated.

  The sound was deafening. Her eyes closed on their own. When she opened them, Arch had disappeared.

  Or no. His body had become part of the shrapnel flying. Sierra stared, horrified, as two men fell, caught in the grenade blast.

  “Zoe, run!” she screamed, and she ran herself, sprinting through the grain field, aimed up the road toward her house, but keeping to cover, trying not to focus on the image of what she had witnessed.

  Arch did it for Zoe, she realized. He had sacrificed himself to save his granddaughter. She could do no less. She stood even taller, letting out a banshee scream, running hard and fast, drawing their fire.

  But no one fired at her. She was torn: she wanted to see, but she wanted to get away. She hoped Zoe had heeded her order and run back from the road, to the back of the field, and into the woods.

  She hoped even more Zoe had not seen her grandfather’s fate.

  She wished she hadn’t herself. Her mind tried to recreate what she had seen, and she forced it to stop. No more nightmares. She needed no more nightmares haunting her to the grave.

  The grain was thinning. She was almost at the end of the field. “Pilar?” she called softly, dropping again to hands and knees.

  “Over here,” came the quiet voice.

  “Are they looking this way?”

  “It’s clear,” he said.

  She sprinted across the road, saw his hand wave from behind the old, rusty car, and ran right into his arms, holding on to him tightly.

  “What? Is it Zoe?”

  “I’m sure she’s okay. It’s Arch. He’s gone.”

  “Oh no,” her father said. “What’s happened?”

  She didn’t go into detail. “The grenade. I think there are only a couple of the men left alive,” she said. “Maybe only one. If Zoe and Dev and Curt are all still alive, we can get them now. Or if I can get to a rifle, I can.”

  “No, wait.”

  “I can’t. Not after what Arch did.” She wiped her eyes. “Aw, shit. Arch.” She pulled herself together. “I’m going across the backyards and back down to our road if it’s clear. There might be a rifle sitting on the ground out there.”

  “No, hide. We’ll retreat up to the house. We can barricade it.”

  “Pilar,” she said, and she kissed his nearly bald head. “We can’t do that. It’s now or never. This is our chance. Those who survived that blast will be confused, or injured. I have to go now. Give me your grenade. I’ll put it to good use. And you get into hiding. Take C.J. if you see him.”

  “Be careful,” he said, handing over the grenade. She ran past him, up into the property, and angled over to the Quinn place, her heart still aching about Arch. He had been a pain in the ass sometimes, but he had been her friend, and her teacher, and Zoe loved him with all her heart.

  Please don’t let her have seen his last moment. Please.

  She ran into the yard, calling, “It’s Sierra.”

  Dev was behind the woodpile, and he stood to gesture her over. He was shirtless.

  She’d have to tell him. “Dev. Where have you been?”

  “Waiting here with the other guys for them to come.”

  She made it to his side. “Dev.” She swallowed, and then shook her head.

  “Not Zoe?” His grip, swift and desperate, was like steel on her forearm.

  “Your father. He died protecting her. I’m sorry.”

  He let go, shaking his head, as if she had spoken a foreign language.

  “I’m so, so sorry. I think Zoe got away. Pretty sure she did.”

  “I heard the grenade. Did he get caught in the blast or something?”

  “Yes,” she said, because it was easier for now.

  “Oh, Dad,” he said. He brought his hand to his forehead and gripped it, probably fighting off tears.

  “I’m sorry. I wish I could stay here and comfort you. But I want to go look and see if I can get a rifle.” She held up the grenade. “Our last one. If I can use it to kill them, I will. If I see a rifle unattended, maybe I can distract them with it and get to the rifle.”

  Dev pulled himself together. “Do you want me to come? I can probably throw it farther. Or one of the guys? Troy has a great arm.”

  “I think I can manage. Pretty close quarters on the road. I won’t be throwing it very far.”

  “Do you know how many of them are still standing?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m guessing only a few. But they had that full auto rifle, right? So two is plenty dangerous, and there could be more. Maybe they left a few men out on the main highway.”

  “I think they must have. Maybe I should head back that way. Check on Yasmin on my way.”

  “She hurt?”

  “Shot. I wish Misha were here. Or Zoe, even. She needs attention.” He shook his head. “Not that I think it will help her.”

  Sierra didn’t let herself think about that. “This will be over soon. We can tend to the wounded then.” And grieve those who had died. She said, “I have to go.”

  “You don’t need to go alone.”

  “I know. But I will.” If her life ended as Arch’s had, she didn’t want one witness to it.

  She ran down the driveway and slid into the woods only at the last minute. There was a horse on the road still dying, making noises she knew would haunt her, gasping for breath, groaning. The lower half of two torsos were lying there, one wearing fatigue pants and one in worn jeans. No, forget the horse’s pained sounds. That sight would be far worse.

  There were four bodies altogether, as far as she could tell, one dead horse, and one badly injured horse. No rifles—or there was one, but it was hardly recognizable as that. A barrel and some splintered wood suggested at least one had been destroyed. There was no sign of the full auto rifle. And no sign of a living man.

  She wished she were a better hunter. She might be able to pick out a track from the mess of destruction and figure how many were left alive. She listened, but the world was silent. The typical background noises of birds calling and rodents rustling was silenced. They’d fled the noise. While she longed to call for Zoe, she knew not to.

  If she were the military men, what would she do? Retreat. At least out to their road, and discuss what to do next. They were leaderless, but there had to be a chain of command. Vargas was gone, thanks to Arch’s sacrifice. If but three of her enemy remained, there were three weapons arrayed against them—good odds, but Dev, Zoe and she were scattered, out of commu
nication with one another.

  She needed a rifle to even those odds. But what to do? For a moment she considered sending Dev out to collect their daughter and to find Curt. Then the three of them, armed with bows, working together, might finish the job. But that would take him past his father’s body, and if she could spare him that, she would.

  No, her advantage right now lay in the enemy being on the run, possibly disorganized and without a commander. She headed back up toward the main highway, keeping close to the trees, in case she was wrong about their numbers or readiness to fight and should need to dive for cover.

  She made it nearly to the highway, where she stopped and listened. No voices, no sounds of horse hooves. The ground rose on this side and either she needed to climb or to cross over to the scrub trees on the left. She decided on the latter, and soon was hunched over, weaving her way through bushes that pulled at her clothes and hair.

  Too noisy. She backed out and circled around several feet until there was a clearer path ahead. She peered around, looking uphill first—no one was there—and then downhill. And then she leaned forward so she could see the whole highway.

  Down by the Quinn property, two men searched through the debris, fast, seeming anxious. Looking for more ammunition, no doubt. They weren’t keeping watch. Another man was alive, sitting up behind a fallen horse, and he had a rifle, but he seemed injured.

  She retraced her steps at a run, crossed back over the road and climbed the hill, using bushes to pull herself up. Clambering as fast as she could, she made it to a high spot that leveled out and saw one of the dummies. “Dev, it’s me,” she said, in case he was up here. She didn’t have time to hunt for Yasmin, not right now. She veered to the left of the dummy, making for the main highway. She should be able to throw the grenade from there and get the nearer man.

  The other man couldn’t be allowed to flee, though, to take back the news of what had happened. An army would come marching back up with him, little doubt about that. Let their superiors wonder instead.

  She was dithering about when to throw the grenade when a figure rose from behind a dead horse and lunged at the very man she was planning to kill. Sierra thought for a crazy moment that she was hallucinating the figure. It was a bloody red thing, like some demon out of mythology, neither male nor female. More like death personified.