“Ten, nine, eight…” the pastor’s voice echoed.
Kevin took another swig of booze and closed his eyes.
“Give them a little taste of freedom,” Steele said with a grim grin.
“Seven, six…”
Kevin nodded and clicked the detonator a bunch of times in his hand.
“Five.”
The treeline on both flanks of the pastor’s line exploded in a roar of fire, timber, and smoke. Men were thrown into the air and onto the ground. Trees fell in a dozen different angles. Men collapsed onto nearby trucks. Chosen soldiers crawled on the ground. Trucks burned. The pastor’s men ran to help the injured. Chaos enveloped the pastor’s line.
Steele’s followers cheered. Many turned his way, eying him in surprise, and for a change, hope. Steele looked down his sights. The pastor crouched low, watching his men scramble in disorganization. Steele grinned. “Nice work, Kevin.”
“I can’t believe that worked. Where’d you get that?” Kevin said, his eyes wide.
“Just a little reappropriation of materials before Thunder deserted us.”
Bullets thudded into the pickup. Steele knelt lower behind the walls of the pickup bed.
“Open fire,” Steele screamed. The command was repeated down the line.
Steele let off a three-round burst near where the pastor had been, but their tall leader had disappeared. He turned his red dot to a man aiming over the cab of a pickup and sent a single round his way. The man flinched as the round entered his shoulder through his collarbone, and he disappeared behind the pickup. If the clavicle was shattered, the man would be out of the fight permanently, unable to shoulder a weapon. If it wasn’t, he would bleed out by the time the battle was over.
As more of the pastor’s men regained their feet, they started firing into Little Sable’s protective vehicle concealment. Metal and plastic punched inward as bullets penetrated cars searching for Steele’s volunteers. Dud. Dud. Holes appeared to the side of Steele. He took cover for a moment, catching his breath. Tess knelt next to him, ducking her head.
Looking down the line, Steele flinched as more bullets screamed above him. Many of his followers hid behind vehicles, seeking reprieve from the building onslaught of enemy rounds. Every now and then a volunteer would lean over, spraying bullets everywhere. Steele crept to a different part of his pickup truck, bouncing upward as he took aim. He shot at three men pinning down his shooters on top of the camper. His rounds forced them into taking cover.
He felt an impact behind him. A different noise than the gunshots, it was like someone had dropped a sack of groceries off a building. He took cover, staring at the remains of Jason near the lighthouse. Brains leaked from the spot where his head had smashed into the pavement, caving in his skull. His legs twisted outward at the knees, white bone and red flesh spraying the ground.
“Keep firing,” Steele shouted, but the rounds kept coming. The faint sound of the diesel engine whined again and then it chug-chug-chugged. The semi rolled over the ground and men fought from behind it. Some of the Chosen rode atop its fifth-wheel, coupling like a tank desant.
“They’re going to ram us!” Steele shouted. He spun past Kevin and moved down the line at a crouch.
“Shoot the truck,” he yelled at Alex on the way by. The college student stood up and fired a couple of rounds before taking cover again.
“Shoot the tires,” he screamed at Bengy as he ran past. He didn’t wait to see if the old man heard him. Steele bounded upright and put three, three-round bursts through the windshield. The semi kept coming. Either the driver was hidden, or they had managed to find a way to have it run by itself. Steele ducked back down as the glass of a car window burst and bullets zipped through the car around him.
Bullet holes dotted the front end of the truck as if it had chickenpox. Its front wheels were deflated, but the truck came onward for their tight defensive ring. Steele put down a man hanging off the back of the semi. He fell underneath and disappeared beneath the tires. Another man filled his place, impervious to the danger. The semi gained even more speed, its engine roaring. Foot by bloody foot, it traversed the ground beneath it.
Steele put another magazine through the front grille.
“Reloading,” he screamed. After punching the magazine release with his index, he snatched a new magazine from his vest pouch and slammed it home. He hit the bolt release button, ready to go. It was too late. He could only watch as the semi barreled down on them, its charge uninterrupted by anything Steele could do. It drew closer until it was about to impact Steele’s line. He dove down onto the ground.
Metal screamed on metal and crunched, concaving as the semi crashed into the middle of a camper. The semi punched through the center of Steele’s line like a harpoon through a fish. Smoke and debris filled the air. The contents of the camper exploded out into Steele’s camp like a tornado had hit a trailer park. It was eerily silent for a moment as both sides stared at the destruction.
A few moments later, men that had been following the semi ran through the gap. In groups of two and three, they rushed inside the compound. Orange flames exploded from the ends of their guns as they let loose on the members of Little Sable Point. Steele couldn’t tell who was who now. Kevin and Tess were lost behind him. He had no idea where anyone was in the smoky haze.
Steele bounded upright and moved with speed to the semi, now sitting exhausted, a war elephant riddled with arrows, gasping its last breath after having penetrated the enemy line. Steele scanned. Have to stem the tide or we are overrun.
A man in jeans and a tan hunting vest ran for him. His shotgun boomed from the side of his hip and birdshot pellets tore into Steele’s leg. The pain stung, but his adrenaline did what it was designed to do: it dulled the pain enough for him to ignore it.
“Motherfucker,” Steele screamed at him. Steele sidestepped on his good leg. Always get offline. He fired three rounds, prepping his trigger on each single shot center mass and then transitioned upward, placing one through the man’s chin.
“Fuck,” Steele cursed again. He let himself breathe and glanced down at his leg. He knew he had been shot, but didn’t know how bad it was. Too much stimuli was happening around him. He knelt down and slid next to a car, his affected leg hesitating to obey. He cupped his groin, holding his boys tight. Nothing burned there. No blood. No flaps of skin. The fabric of his ACUs was torn and shredded. In the center of his thigh, he stuck a finger through a tear and wiggled it around. It always takes a minute for the blood. He removed his finger. Crimson liquid covered its tip. Jesus Christ. No time to worry.
Steele stood and went for the gasping semi. With each step, some of the adrenaline wore off. With every movement, he could feel more of the small pellets riddling his leg like needles hiding inside his flesh and his muscles. Weapon in the high ready, he hugged the edge of the truck.
Two men ran through the wreckage of the camper. Steele tapped his finger quick on the trigger and they collapsed.
Steele closed in on the semi. He jumped up on the step and ripped open the truck’s door, thrusting his gun first inside. He looked inside the cab. Dead blank eyes looked at him, the driver’s body riddled with bloody holes. Hopping down, he felt the pain of a thousand stab wounds shooting up his leg from the bird shot.
Steele hobbled for the gigantic rubble-ridden hole in his line. He couldn’t tell how many had gotten through. Ten? Trucks sped across the field for the gap in Little Sable’s defenses. The pastor could smell that victory was at hand and had sent all his men forward. We had a good cause.
Kevin stumbled up, blood running down his face, arm in arm with old Bengy. Steele grabbed Kevin by his shirt.
“Both of you get out of here.” Kevin nodded, his face wide-eyed in fear.
“Okay,” Kevin breathed. Bengy halted with a hand on Kevin’s chest.
“Old Ben, we need to leave,” Kevin said hurriedly.
Bengy unraveled himself from Kevin’s arm and held up a hand. “It’s okay,” Bengy said w
ith a nod.
Steele knew the stubborn look in the old man’s eye. “Find anyone that’s left and leave,” he said to Kevin. Kevin rushed away, momentarily stopping to help up an injured man. Bengy stood, watching him go. The old man smiled as if he were remembering a life long past in a moment. He sighed.
Steele gave him a sidelong glance as the trucks raced for the chink in Sable’s perimeter armor.
“It’s time,” was all the old man said.
Steele nodded. The man would make his stand here. “I suppose it is.”
Steele collected himself and stepped into the gap. He steadied his breathing, stopping short as he sent a burst of rounds through the nearest pickup window. The driver slumped down, causing the truck to ram into another portion of Sable Point, sending Chosen out of the bed of the truck into the air. Their forms writhed, twisted, and crashed into the ground.
Shooting, Steele let his M4 carbine sing away, round after round, note after note. Bengy’s M1 Garand added its harsh booming tones to Steele’s quick, lighter notes of gunfire. For a brief moment in time, they sounded like a gunfire duet.
Soon Steele found his gun dry, no magazines left in his vest, and he transitioned to his M9 Beretta. He capped rounds at three men, giving each one a round as he transitioned targets. As he turned back to address the two still standing, he hardly noticed something bite into his strong-side arm. His arm fell to his side, limp. He opened his right hand and switched the firearm over to his support hand. He canted the weapon slightly more than normal and unloaded it at the driver opening the door of the nearest pickup truck. Bullet holes littered his windshield. The driver slumped in his seat.
It was at that moment he noticed how quiet the world had grown around him. Steele turned to look over his shoulder. Bengy lay in the grass behind him. Dune grass tapped his weathered face and his chest was flat, his wood-stocked Garand still clutched in his hands. See you soon, old-timer.
The trucks stole his attention away. They rumbled within ten yards of him and formed a semicircle around the hole in Sable Point that Steele and Bengy had plugged with their bodies. Over a hundred men encircled him, their weapons lined up in his direction. They walked forward as if they stalked him, only stopping when they were close, waiting for the command to pulverize his body with lead.
“I want him alive,” came a voice from the back. The ranks of the Chosen parted in reverence and the pastor walked forward as if he glided atop the dune grass and sand alike.
Steele lifted his arm upright. He narrowed an eye and ignored the natural movement of the gun. The trigger snapped back. Click. The pastor did not flinch. He walked with impunity out of the folds of his army and into the open with Steele. A shepherd among his flock. He drew himself upright in front of Steele. His chin rose upward, and his look was one of a disappointed father.
“Drop your gun, fool,” the pastor said. “Your defiance is over. You’ve lost.”
Steele met his eyes and dropped the gun. I might be able to send the hawk through his skull before they annihilate me. The gunfire lessened now. A tat-tat-tat snare drummed out. A few single round shots. Little Sable Point had been overrun fast.
Steele cross-drawed his tomahawk from his belt with his off hand. He gripped it tight. I need a single second and a half. The hawk will need two full rotations to hit him square in the chest. Wind shouldn’t affect the throw, only whether or not they can shoot me before I get the throw off.
“Surrender, Mr. Steele. There is no need for more bloodshed. Your tenacity is unmatched but lacks the power of God. Much like the fallen angels, you were a dastardly opponent but destined for defeat from the very beginning for God’s victory is assured,” the pastor said.
Peter’s blond curls shook as he bobbed his head in acknowledgment of their victory. More of the Chosen pushed forward to get a glimpse of their defeated enemy. They sneered at Steele and jeered him. The pastor spread his arms wide like a soaring eagle, giving a shout.
“God wills it!” he shouted. He raised his arms high in the air looking to the clouds.
“God wills it!” he shouted again, pumping his arms toward the sky.
“God wills it!” they all shouted. The pastor’s men echoed the call of victory. Over and over, their cheers went up to the heavens, filling the air that had once been buffeted by gunshots.
Other captives were led to where Steele stood. Tess was manhandled next to him, her eye black.
“Fuck you,” Tess shouted.
Margie’s body was thrown down at Steele’s feet. She lay unmoving, blood coming from her head. Nathan and Gregor were shoved next to Steele. Other men and women from the community cowered in their small defeated circle of people. Too few of them had made it.
“What have I done?” Steele lamented aloud. Warm blood ran down his arm, dripping off his fingers like a leaky spigot. Drip. Drip. Drip. His lifeblood leaked out onto the sand. Who were you to lead these people to their deaths? Who were you to stand up to the many with so few? Who were you to have hope? Who were you? I am…
He let his tomahawk fall from his fingers. Pain shot down his arm from destroyed nerve endings. He grabbed the shredded flesh where his tricep used to be. Holding it, he tried to keep push it back in. His leg didn’t seem so bad now compared to his ruined arm. The shouts of his enemies echoed in his ears, almost sounding far away.
The pastor stepped closer, waving his followers down to silence. Steele leaned on Tess, taking weight off his leg.
“That’s better, Mr. Steele. Finally, we have a bit of cooperation. Many good men were martyred today fighting for God. Many people could have been given life, but instead, you are responsible for their deaths.” A weight I will carry with me until my last breath.
“The tree of liberty is watered with the blood of tyrants and patriots alike,” Steele managed to utter. His voice seemed almost soft under the oppression of the pastor and his men.
“Ah yes, Patrick Henry. Misguided use of the phrase, but you are adamant. The way of the Lord is a refuge for the blameless, but it is the ruin of those who do evil. You are a tumor that needs to be cut away. Better to be done with it than wait. You are unable to be redeemed in God’s eyes, of that I am sure. Peter, gasoline.”
Peter grinned as he carried the gas cans forward.
When Peter got close, he hissed. “You deserve this.” He tossed the oily liquid on Steele’s clothes. “For what you done to me. For the good brothers and sisters you killed today.” He splashed the gas on Steele’s face.
The gasoline stung his eyes. Steele turned his head away and squeezed his eyes shut. Other Chosen came forward with more cans, tossing their contents upon the people of Little Sable Point. The oily liquid burned his wounds as it flowed over his body. He would soon burst into a screaming ball of flame. The pain that would envelop his body would be infinitely worse than what he currently experienced. Steele wiped it away from his eyes with his good hand.
“No, please,” his people screamed.
Gregor stood tall, letting the gasoline drip along his skin and down his long hair.
“Please, please, please,” a woman cried, her chin to her chest. The Chosen continued to dump fuel onto their battered bodies. It drenched their hair and faces and soaked their clothes. The terrifying apprehension of being burned alive rippled through them as if they were already on fire.
“No. No,” screamed Donald. He tried to run for the Chosen. A gun boomed and he clutched his stomach, sinking to the ground. Donald moaned as the Chosen dragged him back to the remainders of Little Sable. They dropped him and the man groaned on the ground. Nathan rushed forward and put a hand on his wound.
Tess hugged Steele’s body tight, and he draped his damaged arm over her shoulder. She held him up more than he held her. It was the smallest of comforts in a world that was about to be set afire and burnt to nothing.
“It’s okay,” he whispered. “The children are safe.” Gwen is safe along with our child. Tess sniffled into his chest.
“Fuck them,” sh
e said into him. “Psychopaths,” she sobbed.
“It’ll be okay, Tess,” Steele assured her. Empty words for an empty world. A world that seemed to take pleasure in snuffing out life wherever it found it.
Tess wiped gasoline from her face, blinking up at him.
The pastor smiled wickedly at him. “No enemy of God can stand before him. Now we must pray.” The pastor turned his eyes to the sky and clasped his hands in front of his body. “I send your souls to hell in God’s name. May you languish there for an eternity with no reprieve for what you’ve done to God’s Chosen people. Amen.” Amens echoed from his followers.
A slimy long-haired fellow flicked a lighter and smiled. He handed it to the pastor. The pastor held it up for all his followers to see. They cheered in joyful bliss. Their fists jabbed the sky. Their shouts rang true in victory.
The pastor walked for them, lighter in hand, and stopped. The flame of his lighter whimpered and disappeared. He stared at the suspect lighter, a brief moment of doubt dancing across his face. He looked at the lighter and back at Steele as if he had committed some sort of witchcraft.
“Devilry,” the pastor said.
A wind came off the water, blowing into the groups of combatants on the field. It died down and the pastor flicked his thumb again. And again. His followers were quiet as they watched their leader struggle with a simple light. The ragged remnants of the Little Sable Point community held their breath.
Steele’s legs shook as if the ground itself vibrated beneath him. He stared at his feet for a moment. Blood, sand, and filth stained his boots. He was unsure if he was almost done bleeding out and likely to collapse.
Others felt it. They stared at the ground in alarm. They looked about, uncertainty clouding their faces. A soft far-off rumble became a deafening roar.
Men at the back of the pastor’s army shouted and pointed. The Chosen soldiers ran, looking for cover. Guns cracked, and Steele saw them now.
Atop their steel steeds, they rode across the paved ground. Their engines roared out and the earth trembled beneath them. A single, red-bandana clad, gray-bearded man led hundreds of two-wheeled demons. He pointed a short shotgun with one hand and it ripped fire into the pastor’s men. Black leather covered them. Half helmets. Skull caps. Biker vests flapped in the wind as they raced for the pastor’s men. Guns blazed in their hands and the Chosen soldiers fell into confusion.
The End Time Saga Box Set [Books 1-3] Page 111
