On the far side of the camp, fire climbed out of the woods and into the outlying tents. Leaves withered, bark crackled, and nylon walls melted. Only small and harmless for a moment, the fire evolved into an inferno wall that swept in all directions. Screams and shouts sounded and, much like the flames, spread through the camp. Tents unzipped. People scurried out, putting on boots, pants, and shirts. Guards called for water. A flood of people dashed to the chaos. A woman screamed. She pointed to the second blaze rising up from the opposite side of the encampment. A full alarm sounded. The factory’s foggy windows came alive with light. The people stirred like frenzied ants.
Harper lowered the binoculars, fist bumping privately at her splinter team’s success. Dewy grass brushed against her belly. Dirt smeared her elbows and forearms as she crawled away from the hill’s bend that directly faced the factory. The automatic assault rifle clacked against her back with every movement. She looked to her left. Dustin, Levi, Cowl, Yoakley, and twenty combat-able farmers, women, and more lay prone. Their attention was directed at Harper. Some mouthed prayers. Other steadied their breathing. Harper displayed the hand gestures she taught them. Dustin made an OK with his fingers. The gesture repeated itself from Levi to Cowl and all the way down the line.
Harper shifted to her right. James, Sawyer, Kimmy, Winested, and another twenty more looked back. They were still and breathless. Harper gestured. They okayed. In total, twelve of Harper’s forty-eight guerilla fighters wielded assault rifles. The rest held tight to knives duct taped to broomsticks, hatchets, machetes, claw hammers, wood axes, and any other tool modified for the kill.
Harper redirected her sight to the bend of the hill that dipped into the factory. Shouts and indistinguishable commands echoed from the other side. Harper’s hand reached into the satchel at her side. The papery packaging of the plastic explosives kissed her fingertips. She closed her eyes. Thoughts of James, Eli, and her together centered her, but her heart still pounded. She unstrapped her assault rifle, cocked it, and waved her hand in rapid motion to those at her flanks. In sync, she and the other riflemen army crawled to the hill’s bend. They peered down at the tents, flustered guards, and chaotic mass of two hundred plus people scurrying about. Harper lined up her shot and said the words, “Open fire.”
Muzzle flashes blinked like strobe lights. Weapon noise rattled eardrums. A hail of bullets rained down from the mount and sawed into the concave encampment, shredding tent, wood, and flesh. Harper set her firing rate on burst fire, pelting an unsuspecting walkway guard. His body thrashed before tumbling over the orange railing. The second-story doors flung open, slamming against the outer walls. Guards rushed out the factory, firing at the hill as they approached bleeding allies. Harper squeezed the trigger twice and two tangos collapsed. Four more armed men and women burst forth from the double doors, blindly shooting at the hilltop. Dirt exploded as bullets drilled into the earth around Harper. She ducked and pulled herself back from the bend. Her firing line didn’t let up. Their faces lit up like a photographer’s bulb with each muzzle flash. Her husband’s eyes were unblinking and cold and his mouth hung slightly open as he opened fire.
The four shooters spread out from the factory entrance, flipping tables and using tents for cover. Rifle stocks smashed factory windows from the inside. Shards of glass tumbled to the dirt. Gun barrels appeared in Bimberg’s lower window frames.
Taking a few deep breaths, Harper lifted her head and fired into the window. A swift burst of random shots within confirmed her kill. The other enemies returned fire. Down the line of the hill, a farmer dropped to his face. Dr. Hanson crawled up next to him and rolled the man over. Bullet hole. Two more allies went down--a former slave and reformed biker. Harper didn’t get the chance to hear their stories. In the next life, she thought and returned her mind to the battle.
The surrounding flames continued consuming the camp’s borders, pushing the residents to the center of the conflict. Painfully loud gunfire filled the air. Dustin’s magazine went dry. He pulled the trigger an extra two times, clenched his rugged trucker hat, and scurried past his allies. Bullets whizzed by. His boots slipped on the grass, sending him tumbling over the warm dead body. He swiftly shoved a new blob of dip in his mouth to replace the batch swallowed and swept up the man’s gun. Going prone, he returned to the fight.
Winested let his sniper skills speak for itself. Every shot he fired, another body dropped. Brandy’s men zigzagged, but Winested didn’t relent. James yelled to him, but his voice got drowned by the noise. Winested gave him a thumbs up and turned the rifle to the factory windows.
With an eye shut, Sawyer took shots at two men dashing down the camp’s muddy road. The bullets embedded themselves in dirt and mud. Karla crawled to him from the unreleased melee line behind. Sawyer gave her a look of fear and stern fatherhood. Karla ignored the unspoken request and pointed her fingers at a stationary gunman behind a table. Sawyer brooded briefly but took the shot. The man grabbed his neck as he collapsed to the grass. Karla rubbed her father on the back and pointed out another target.
James let his fully automatic rifle scream as it spat lead into the factory. He moved his line of fire to a few more goons running out the front doors. The bullets sparked on the metal. The bodies piled outside. Suddenly, his gun stopped shooting. He ejected the magazine in haste, realizing it was not yet depleted.
“Jammed,” he yelled, followed by a slew of curse words.
Harper kept shooting until her gun was spent. All she focused on was her next target and his/her movements. She withdrew her one spare magazine belt and slid it within. The incoming gunfire didn’t let up. For every shooter she put down, another would snatch up his gun. The ant-like people had cleared out of the middle and dispersed into tents, giving up on fighting the growing flames.
Without warning, a goon charged up the hill with a baseball bat. Yoakley put him down. Another two charged. The female officer’s handgun sent them running in the opposite direction. She smiled briefly at the success and turned to the malicious horde, holding kitchen knives and other blades, charging out from behind the closest line of tents. They dispersed and ran up the hill.
A farmer at the edge of the hill stood and fired down at them. A volley of bullets originating from the factory blew through him. He went tumbling down the hill, becoming a moving hurdle for those sprinting.
Tracing the muzzle flash, Harper lined her sights with one of the riflemen in the factory window. She squeezed the trigger just as a woman with a knife appeared in view. The gaunt woman took a burst of bullets to her torso and rolled down the hill. Harper wiped the warm blood from her brow and, without a moment’s notice, the screaming mob had turned the cusp of the hill. Harper’s allies got up from prone positions and retaliated, exposing themselves to the enemy gunmen. A few of the farmers backed away from the hill’s edge as they engaged in rough and tumble combat in the heat of gunfire.
Still on her belly, Harper pulled back but froze as bearded, dirty, blood-crazed strangers rushed her from both sides. James leapt in front of her right flank, smacking a grizzly man across the jaw with a rifle stock. Levi and Cowl dived into the fray on the left flank. Wind passed Harper’s face as a fire axe swung down at her. She rolled to her back, eyed the big axe man for a millisecond, and fired her rifle in him. More strangers caught wind of her and darted in her direction. She switched to fully automatic with the flick of the finger and opened fire.
A few yards away, the Brighton melee platoon rushed forth, engaging with the mob that had moved past the firing line. Harper turned her rifle on those coming up the mountain and continued shooting until her rifle only made a soft clicking sound.
A man jumped on James. They clashed on the grass and tussled, trading knuckle-cracking wallops. The stranger flipped out his switchblade and aimed it at James’s eye. With an instinctive dodge, James moved his head. The blade tore down the left side of his shaven scalp, almost taking off a bit of his ear. James growled and pushed his palms into the man’s chest, ej
ecting the stranger from on top of his body. With a motion, he drew out a paring knife from his belt and lunged. The stranger rolled to his feet, his green buggy eyes dilated with adrenaline as he dodged and dug his heel into the cusp of the hill. James jabbed at him, allowing himself to become exposed on the ridge as well. In a dance of death, the two slashed, jabbed, and cut at one another, rendering their flesh torn and their blades red. Bullets zipped by their heads, but they were too caught up in the duel to let up.
Dustin emptied an assault rifle and grabbed another off a corpse, dividing his shots between those charging up the hill and at the sharpshooters in the factory. When an enemy got too close, he’d bludgeon them with the weapon and continue his onslaught.
Scattershot punched a goon and he went flying backwards. Cowl pumped his shotgun. Another charged and more scattershot put him down. He shouted to no one in particular. “They’re crazy! They just don’t give up.”
Another blast. Another body.
Levi whacked everyone he saw with his handy claw hammer. Sawyer caught his wrist in mid-swing. A circle of blood pooled on his shoulder. He pointed to the people running up the hill. “That’s the enemy. Them.”
Harper’s firing line broke. Bimberg’s forces continued to charge like they did in Brighton, only without a fence to keep them back. Screams, thunks, splats, and pows melded together into the sounds of hell. Everywhere she turned, more death, cries, and brutality. Her mind swirled. Her feet moved without her permission, pushing her farther from the factory. She unsheathed her machete as a man rushed to her with a raised knife. She moved out of the way, avoiding the knife, and hacked at his back. When he fell, Harper reached for her final firearm--a pistol--but fought the temptation to pull it. She left it tucked in the holster.
More enemies crossed the bend. It appeared that three of Brandy’s men fell for each of Brighton’s, but that number leveled out with every passing second. Harper moved laterally, cutting down anyone who wasn’t an ally. Bullets ripped across the landscape. A farmer got shot in front of her.
“Hanson!” she cried out for the doctor. The bodies piled up around her; some dead, some screaming.
Someone grabbed her arm. She twisted back, ready to slash, when she noticed Trudy’s droopy but piercing blue eyes. The older woman’s hair was in a tizzy. Her overalls were stained with more than paint.
“We’re losing, Harper,” Trudy said directly.
Harper turned back to the battle, realizing that the front she had cleared had been overtaken by more of Brandy’s men. James and his assailant were nowhere to be seen. Over the screams and shouts, she realized the gunfire had died down and the melee had grown more vicious.
“Come with me,” Harper took the woman’s hand. “We’re getting the Humvee.”
Trudy and Harper retreated, rushing through the fray and commanding their side to push forward. Harper rushed into the nearby woods. The branches slapped against her but she ignored the pain. The sounds of battle drifted. The khaki Humvee was parked next to a tree. Harper pulled the cold backseat handle and slinked up the gunner station. She unlocked the M60’s ammo box. Not much.
Trudy hopped into the driver seat. “How does this thing work?”
“Turn the ignition, put it into drive just like a normal truck, but... meaner.”
The engine roared to life. Trudy slammed the accelerator. Harper pressed her back against the padded rest and let the heavy machine gun’s stock nestle on her shoulder. Air blew back her ponytail and whistled in her ringing ears.
Trudy sped by the trees and shot out at the far end of the hill.
“What’s the plan?” the older woman shouted.
“Ride the hill!”
“That’s our people!”
Harper clenched her jaw. She replied, “Trust me!”
The Humvee ran parallel with the bend, getting closer to the all-out melee. Harper aimed the barrel to the slightly above heads and pulled the trigger. Within that instant, both sides dropped prone. Brandy’s people watched in awe as the military vehicle roared by. Harper’s people trained quick looks and then got to their feet, slashing down at their prone adversaries.
The Humvee’s thick wheels churned dirt as it struggled to balance on the edge of the bend. Bullets pelted it from the factory. Harper turned the machine gun to the old building and guided a string of bullets across the lower windows and scattered gunmen. The enemy retaliated. Harper lowered her head. “Trudy. Turn this thing around!”
The Hummer took a hard turn. Its back end fishtailed as it did a U. Harper saw her forces dispersing those on her side of the hill. She pointed her finger to Bimberg and yelled to her allies. “Take the factory!”
“You heard her.” Dustin waved his hand and led the charge down the hill.
Harper passed by as Levi, the police officers, Sawyer, and the rest bolted into the heart of Brandy’s camp with a brutish war cry. The enemy gunfire stayed on Harper’s Humvee as it raced down the hill. The car bounced, riding over rocks and then tearing through empty tents. Trudy lost control, sending the vehicle headlong into a blazing teepee. Embers exploded across the hood and up the windshield, searing Harper’s forearms. She grimaced and kept shooting as the tires screeched. Coming to a harsh stop, the Humvee twisted, splashing a wave of mud over a crowbar-wielding woman wearing fishnet stockings and a jean vest. Harper twisted the machine gun to her, aimed, and letting the battle senses take over, she pulled the trigger.
Nothing.
The woman flinched.
Harper squeezed the trigger. Nothing. She swiftly popped open the bullet box.
Empty.
The woman charged and extended her arms up the back of the truck, pulling herself up the trunk. Using the bumper as a stepping stone, she scurried to her feet. Harper lifted herself out of the gunner station and confronted the enemy.
“I’m here for Brandy and my son!” she yelled as the surrounding battle moved from the hill into the center of camp. “Not you or your people.”
The crowbar slashed downward, clashing on the roof in which Harper stood. “If you keep on fighting, so will we.”
The woman went in for another frustrated swing. Harper sidestepped, almost tumbling off the rumbling but parked Humvee.
“You can walk away!” Harper declared.
A third failed swing caused Harper to stumble on the Hummer’s hood covered with glowing embers.
“No!” The woman hissed. “Only blood pays for blood!”
The woman jumped at Harper, who maneuvered to the edge of the hood. The woman glared at her. Harper kicked a burnt stick at her adversary. It smacked her thigh and enhanced her rage.
Harper whipped out the pistol and trained the sight on the woman’s head. “Run.”
Letting the crowbar tumble to the hood, the woman slowly backed off, removed herself from the truck, and vanished into the encampment.
The pistol lowered. Harper peered inside the windshield. Her eyes went wide and she jumped down the Humvee’s hood. Her boots sank into the mud as she yanked open the front door. Trudy tumbled into her arms. The unexpected weight sent Harper to her knee. Trudy’s soft hair spilled across Harper’s throbbing arm. She pressed her finger against her friend’s neck, praying for a pulse.
Trudy’s eyes shot open in an uncanny manner. Suddenly, she started gulping air. Her fingers dug into her chest. “H...h-heart… my heart.”
“Shhh, I’m going to get Hanson.” Harper said softly. Her stomach churned. She focused, craned her neck, and scanned the surrounding area.
Using police batons, Cowl, Yoakley, and Winested fended off a half-dozen of Brandy’s men. Nearby, Levi’s hammer snapped after clonking a man on the head. Sawyer and Karla tag-teamed a guard with a history in bodybuilding. Yards away, James continued his knife combat in the dirt and dewy grass. A large woman grabbed Kimmy by the hair and dragged her behind a tent. The waitress let out a blood-curdling scream that faded as she vanished out of Harper’s sight.
Brandy’s men enveloped Brighton’s f
armers, gatherers, and new recruits, routing them and hitting them with pitchforks, clubs, and blades. Harper’s people defended with knife and spear jabs and machete swipes. But the onslaught didn't let up. With no sign of Dr. Hanson, Harper shouted for him.
No reply.
Trudy buried her fingernails in Harper’s upper arm in a surprisingly painful way. Her other hand kept clenching her chest.
“Trudy,” Harper began to pry away the woman’s fingers as she tried to stop the tears. “I’m going to get help. Hold on.”
Trudy squeezed harder. Her blue eyes rolled back. “I--I see... Jonathan.”
The older woman smiled briefly. Her grip loosened and she sank into Harper’s lap.
“Trudy?” Harper pressed her fingers on the woman’s neck. “No no no!”
She hovered over Trudy’s mouth, waiting to feel warm breath on her cheek or hear a life-clinging breath.
James shouted her name.
Harper turned back, seeing the bloody, knife-wielding man rushing toward her. Harper reached for her gun but before she could pull it out, the man raised his knife just above her head. Harper braced for impact but found herself waiting. The man looked down at the metal point protruding from his stomach. He groaned and fell to the side. James stood behind him. From the knife’s blade to the cuff of his right hand, blood dripped to the grass. More crimson spilled down the side of his head, drying the corner of his head and splattering his shredded plaid shirt. He looked at Trudy.
Harper shook her head and gingerly moved the lifeless woman from her lap. Taking James’s left hand, Harper got to her feet. They looked out at the battle together. Corpses scattered on the dirt and grass. Fire spread deeper into the camp, turning tents into charred metal frames. A large portion of Brandy’s forces were dead or weakened. Nonetheless, she could see at least a hundred plus of Brandy’s people still fighting. Comparative to her forty-eight--an approximate number before the battle started--she felt the world pressing down on her.
EMP No Power Omnibus Page 32
