by AJ Powers
“Lona!” he screamed as he sprinted toward her.
Before he could see the young man’s face, Clay knew it was Blake. Clay came to Blake’s side and assessed his wounds. It looked as if a few of the buckshot pellets had caught his left bicep. It wasn’t a fatal injury, but Clay knew all too well the pain of being hit in the arm with shotgun pellets.
Clay saw the P225 in Blake’s right hand; he was still prepared to defend his and Lona’s life if anyone else surprised them.
“Blake,” Clay said, stealing a glance at the corpse before returning his attention to Blake. “You did good. But we need to get you somewhere safe until this all blows—” Clay was interrupted by rifle fire.
RAT-A-TAT-TAT!
There was no way to know if the shots came from the good guys or the bad guys, but it was close. Clay looked at Lona and said, “Help me get him up.” With little struggle, they helped Blake to his feet and moved to the back of the house.
A door swung open and a man said as loud as he dared, “This way!” He motioned them inside. Clay recognized Simon, the owner of the store, as he passed.
Simon locked up behind them. His wife took over for Clay and helped Blake over to the couch. She then turned and ran down the hall to find some towels.
“What’s going on out there?” Simon asked.
“I don’t have a clue. Are you armed?” Clay responded.
“I’ve got my twelve gauge and a Colt .38.”
“Good. If someone you don’t know tries to get in here, don’t hesitate,” Clay said sternly to the older man who might have been offended with the life-lesson under different circumstances.
Clay looked over at Blake as a weeping Lona continued to hold pressure on his arm. “You’re gonna be fine, Blake. Just a flesh wound,” Clay said and headed toward the back door.
“Please be safe, Clay,” Lona said, struggling to keep her voice steady. “Get to the others.”
Clay heard her, but didn’t acknowledge. He was focused on getting back to Vlad’s and getting his guns. Once outside, he ran around to the side of the house and commandeered the dead man’s shotgun. He took the bandolier of shells off the man and slung it over his own shoulder before replacing the two spent shells with fresh ones. He snapped the barrel shut and started running.
Clay reached the front of the house and looked down the street both ways. Though the gunfire was still heavy, it seemed to be more concentrated toward the center of town. Feeling confident it was clear, Clay quietly but quickly made his way down the road. A minute later he could see Vlad’s place. He was almost there.
As he cut through the back yard of one of the shops, Clay heard a shot from across the yard. He ducked his head and swung the shotgun around. He dumped both barrels toward the shooter. The gunman was nearly twenty yards away, but the spread from both shells was still tight enough to drop the man. Clay barely broke his stride as he cut across the yard, giving little thought to the man he had just killed. He stopped only to reload the shotgun behind a tool shed and take a few seconds to catch his breath, before sprinting to Vlad’s.
Clay was running toward the back of Vlad’s house when the side door on the garage exploded open and an armed man jumped out. Clay raised the shotgun and prepared to fire.
“No shoot!” A voice yelled out with a thick Russian accent.
Clay dropped his arms and shook his head. “Vlad, you can’t be doing that to me,” he said as he puffed for air. “I almost turned you into Swiss cheese, man.”
Vlad held an M44 Mosin Nagant, the Ruger R8 tucked away in his waistband. There was a grim look on his face, one that Clay had never seen before, and it scared him.
“Olesya was in town, I must go find her.” Vlad’s words pleaded for help.
“I need to grab my stuff and find Megan and the kids first, but then…” Clay trailed off and took a deep breath. “Vlad, we’ll find her.”
“Thank you, Clay,” Vlad said.
“Godspeed, Vlad.”
Vlad headed toward the road and Clay ran to the back of the house. He practically knocked the door off its hinges as he stormed inside and up the stairs. He grabbed his AR-15, Glock 17, and every spare magazine he had. The thought of taking the ARAK-21 crossed his mind, but he couldn’t spare the time to load the magazines with .300 blackout. He also didn’t know the rifle like he knew his LaRue.
Certain he had everything he needed, Clay was finally combat ready. Hoping he wasn’t too late, he ran back down the hallway, practically skiing down the stairs. He planted his feet on the bottom landing and bounced off the wall, using the impact to help change direction. Barely a minute after entering the house, Clay was back outside running toward the center of town; running toward the threat.
Clay slowed his pace as he approached the town square—his rifle at the ready. Brief flashbacks to the gunfight in Mesquite made him worry about a rifle malfunction again. But he trusted Smith’s work was as good as his word and pushed the thoughts out of his mind. No distraction, he told himself as he focused only on the battle around him.
The closing feast—the big dinner everyone looked forward to all week—had been ready to start immediately following the ballgame. Tables, chairs, centerpieces, glasses of water and plates were already placed. It had looked similar to the night that Clay proposed to Kelsey three years ago, except now tables were flipped over, broken glass littered the ground, and several bodies lay lifeless—each appeared to be shot in the back as they fled from the attackers. The scene was disturbing.
More gunshots rang out, causing Clay to spin toward the sound. There was nobody there, and the town hall—the repurposed community club house—blocked most of the view in that direction. Clay’s senses were heightened to levels he could only assume were superhuman; he was ready to fight.
Just up ahead was the Robinson’s House. Once the community gym and pool, it was now the town’s daycare and where Megan had volunteered to help watch the kids during the game. Levi chose to stay, too, making Clay feel slightly better. But as more gunfire erupted through the town, Clay began to fear the worst. Neither Megan nor Levi had their guns—a pitfall of feeling safe. Clay scolded himself for knowing better. To think any town could be outside the grasp of evil men was naïve, but he let his guard down again—a habit that was proving difficult to break.
The pools hadn’t been filled in years and the large gated area out back was now jammed with playscapes and jungle gyms. Every time Clay passed the building, he saw no fewer than a dozen kids outside, swinging and climbing, jumping and sliding. But now, with barking gunfire coming from every direction, the kid’s paradise was a ghost town. The only movement was from a few swings swaying in the wind as the storm drew nearer.
Clay jogged toward the building when he heard gunfire and breaking glass. This time, he saw where the shots came from; he also saw dirt and mud kick up just feet in front of him. The shooters were in the daycare and Clay was in their sights.
Taking cover behind a wall, Clay press checked his rifle to ensure he had chambered a round. Incredibly enough, he hadn’t. In the scramble to collect his gear and get into the fight, he had neglected to charge his rifle. Had he contacted a hostile beforehand, Clay would have certainly ended up on the losing end of that exchange.
“You’re an idiot, Clay!” he said as he tore the charging handle back in frustration. His weapon was now hot.
Unlike the movies, the men didn’t waste ammo peppering a wall they could never hope to shoot through. Clay had sought shelter behind good cover, and they weren’t going to shoot until they had a target to aim at. Clay was at a major disadvantage until he saw a man approaching from across the street out of sight from the shooters pinning Clay down. Unknown to Clay, the man was also there seeking the safety of his three daughters.
Clay immediately recognized the man as one of the shop owners in town. Clay had never learned his name, but he was a tailor or something to that effect. The man saw Clay leaning up against the wall. The two made eye contact and Clay nodded to
ward the building. The man held up one finger indicating that Clay wait a minute. Clay was unsure what the man was going to do, but got the feeling he would know when it was his time to act.
Time slowed to a standstill as Clay waited. He started to wonder if the man had abandoned the plan and gone elsewhere. Though the gunfire had decreased significantly, the peaceful town of Liberty still sounded like a bad neighborhood in Baghdad. Clay was calculating his next move when he finally heard several gunshots close by. The men started shouting from inside the daycare followed by more gunshots. That’s my cue, Clay thought to himself. He spun around the corner and headed toward the building.
For the moment, the gunmen inside had diverted their attention to the man across the street. This afforded Clay the opportunity to move undetected. He managed to get himself pressed up against the wall of the childcare without notice. He slid along the wall toward the broken window and readied himself. Clay took a deep breath then pressed off the wall, whipping himself around. Taking aim through the window, Clay lined up his shot.
“He’s done,” one of the shooters yelled just before Clay squeezed the trigger.
The first man dropped immediately. Clay fired three more rounds as he transitioned to the next man. His aim was off, but the explosive reverberation that bounced around the room stunned the other man long enough for Clay to adjust.
Success.
The second man crumpled to the floor and Clay cleared the small lobby area of the daycare from outside the window. He ran around to the front of the building and stopped just to the side of the door. Clay looked over to where he thought he saw the man last and quietly yelled, “It’s clear!”
Unsurprisingly, there was no response.
Clay went inside alone and confirmed the two hostiles he shot were neutralized. As Clay reached the gym, which had been converted to something of an arts and crafts area, gruesome images of a massacre began to creep into his head. Clay reached out and turned the door handle; his gut told him everyone inside was dead. He pushed the door open and raised his rifle looking to the left and the right. There were no bodies; no blood. Instead, he found a vacant room that smelled of glue and paint. And as Clay searched the rest of the building, he found more of the same thing—none of the rooms showed any sign of life.
“Megan!” Clay shouted.
There was a faint, unintelligible cry in response.
Clay kept calling for Megan as he carefully tore through every room, slowly zeroing in on the sound. He found himself in the swimming pool maintenance room. Shelves stocked with blankets, towels, and toys lined both sides of the narrow room. Straight ahead Clay faced a shut door with a faded chemical warning sign.
“Megan?” Clay said again, this time a little quieter.
“Clay!” A muffled shout erupted from the other side. The door burst open and out came far too many people to fit in such a small room.
Megan ran over to her brother and embraced him. “What’s going on?” she asked, her cheeks and eyes both red and wet.
As some of the other adults helped the rest of the kids from the small room, Levi ushered Courtney and Erica over to Clay. They were all relieved to see him.
“I don’t know, Megs, but there are still more of them out there.”
Megan visibly shook and looked as if she was going to pass out. The adrenaline from the shooting coupled with thirty-plus bodies crammed into a small room wreaked havoc on her.
“Levi, take this,” Clay said as he handed him the Glock and a spare magazine. Noticing there wasn’t a dry shirt in the entire room, Clay realized Megan wasn’t the only one suffocating in that closet. “Stay in this room until you get the all clear. But if you hear someone coming, you get everyone back in that closet and lock the door, understood?”
“Yeah, okay,” Megan said as she wiped a combination of sweat, tears, and dirt off of her cheek.
“You take care of them, Levi,” Clay said.
“With my life,” he responded.
Other than Geoff, Dusty, or himself, Clay wouldn’t want anyone else there protecting his sister. There was no doubt that Levi would put himself between any one of the people in that room and a bullet. That was just the kind of man he was.
“I’ll be back in a bit; I need to go help the others.”
Clay promptly turned and left the room, heading to the front of the building. He carefully made his way east keeping an eye out for Vlad—or more accurately, Olesya. Along the way, he clashed with three other groups of hostiles. Clay’s participation in their downfall was minimal as the citizens of Liberty had now armed up and were effectively fighting off the invaders.
As Clay reached the end of the neighborhood, there was still no sign of Vlad or Olesya. The gunshots were gradually replaced with screams for help as citizens found their loved ones dead or dying. It was truly a horrific thing to witness—another nightmare to haunt Clay for the remainder of his days.
Standing at the end of the street, Clay just looked around searching for any clue of where his Russian friend might be. Movement caught his eye; someone walking nonchalantly toward Shelton’s house. It wasn’t the significant distance that made him impossible for Clay to identify; it was the ski mask covering his face.
Clay took off running toward the assailant.
Chapter 16
The tremors in Shelton’s hands turned the simple task of loading his Ruger Mini-14 magazines into a frustrating chore. He had handed out every other rifle that he owned to those who needed more effective means to fight off the attackers. Having also given out the extra boxes of ammo he kept in the safe, Shelton was forced to crack into one of the spam cans of .223 he kept in a coat closet.
He had nearly topped off the first magazine when he heard the front door open. Before he could insert the steel mag, the intruder’s VEPR-12 was aimed right at him. The intruder’s face was obscured by a black ski mask with a white, demonic-looking face painted on. Shelton raised his left hand slowly as he lowered the rifle to the floor with his right.
“All right,” Shelton said calmly, still kneeling on the living room floor, “let’s not get stupid here. There’s far more of us than there is of you. You’ll never make it out of here alive if you kill me.”
The man remained silent. His eyes squinted from the smile his mask obscured, his finger curled around the trigger. His orders were simple: deliver a message to Mayor Shelton. But as he stood there with his semi-automatic shotgun trained on the old man’s chest, he became consumed with retribution.
“Listen, son, just put the gun down and we can work this out,” Shelton said quietly. “Nobody else needs to die tonight.”
The man let out a sarcastic laugh. “It’s always the people who have no options left that say stupid crap like that.”
Shelton swallowed heavily as he looked up into the man’s eyes; there was no mercy, no empathy. And if he felt it was advantageous that Shelton not take another breath, there would be nothing to stop him from squeezing the trigger. “All right then, what do you want?” Shelton questioned.
The man briefly wrestled with the decision literally kneeling in front of him, follow his orders or enact vengeance. Finally, deciding to follow his orders, he lowered the gun slightly, but keeping it plenty ready to fire if Shelton decided to be a hero. “I’ve got a message to deliver.”
“A message?” Shelton repeated, nearly in shock. “Son, you don’t blast your way into a community, killing God knows how many people, just to bring a message,” he said, struggling to keep his anger in check.
“You don’t understand, old-timer…” the man said as he stepped closer, “the killing is part of the message,” he said with a sly grin.
Shelton was sick to his stomach. “Then what is the other part of this message?” he asked.
“Yeah, I’m rather interested to hear it myself,” Clay said as he stepped into the room with his rifle raised, the intruder’s body inside his optics.
In a gesture of good faith, the assailant eased his stance as he con
templated his next move. He quickly deduced he had none—at least none that had him leaving the house upright, anyway.
"Feel free to go ahead and drop that gun any time,” Clay said.
The man complied with Clay’s request and placed the AK-style shotgun onto the floor. As soon as his hand left the grip, Shelton stood up and shoved the man down onto a couch across the room. Clay stepped into the living room, keeping his AR-15 on the assailant while Shelton picked up the VEPR-12.
“I really like this couch, so don’t make me ruin it by turning your head inside out,” Shelton said as he moved the muzzle of the twelve gauge to within an inch of the attacker’s face.
The man had a satisfied smirk on his face—he had gotten under Shelton’s skin. His smug grin morphed into mocking laughter. “You know, you’re really terrible at the whole ‘tough guy’ act, Barry.”
Without saying a word, Shelton reached down and pulled the ski mask off the man’s head. Shelton squinted his eyes as he tried to identify the familiar face in the dim light of the house. Then it hit him.
“What are you doing here?” Shelton roared with anger, a tinge of fear flashing across his face.
“Like I said…I’m here to deliver a message.”
Clay shifted his aim to the front door as numerous boots stomped up the porch steps; Shelton kept the shotgun on the attacker.
“Mayor Shelton!” one of the voices yelled as the group came in through the front door.
