“Palmer’s alive!” Colton shouted. He set his rifle down and helped move the firefighter onto his back to assess his injuries. Both of his arms had been hit, but Colton didn’t see any wounds to his chest or head. If they could stop the bleeding, they might be able to save him.
“You’re going to be okay,” Colton said calmly.
Palmer, eyes wide, coughed. His lips parted, trying to speak. “Headed toward town... Gotta stop ’em, Chief. Don’t let ’em hurt my family.”
Colton looked over his shoulder. “Don and Ryburn, you hold security. Hines, help me.”
The radio on Colton’s vest crackled, but he kept his hands on Palmer’s right arm, applying pressure to stop the gushing wound. If an artery had been clipped, they wouldn’t have long.
“You’re going to be okay. Stay calm and breathe,” Colton said.
Palmer tried to look down at his body, but he could barely raise his head. “I’m hit bad, aren’t I?”
“Just hang on,” Colton said. “Hines, where are you with those supplies?”
Hines opened the medical pack and pulled out combat dressings. “Here, Chief.”
“You see anyone out there, Don?” Colton asked. His radio squawked again, but his hands were covered in blood.
“Negative,” Don said.
“No more gunshots either,” Ryburn added. He was panting heavily behind them. “Maybe these guys just did a hit and run.”
Another flurry of automatic gunfire sounded in the distance. “Or maybe not,” Colton said.
He moved to look in the direction of the gunfire, but Palmer grabbed his arm, gripping it tightly. “My family,” he gasped. “Please.”
“Watch out,” Hines said, nudging next to Colton. He pulled his hands away from one of the bullet holes and allowed Hines to make a tourniquet. Palmer gritted his teeth against the pain, and as soon as they tightened the second tourniquet, Colton and Hines picked him up as gently as possible and carried him to the Volkswagen. Don jumped into the front seat, and Colton piled into the back with the other officers.
Palmer groaned as the van jerked into gear.
“You’re going to be just fine,” Colton said. “Just stay calm and breathe, man.”
Hines and Rayburn continued to apply bandages to stop the bleeding. Colton wiped his gloves on his tactical pants, smearing blood down the front. He moved between the front and passenger seats for a view of the road.
“You see anything?” Colton asked.
Don shook his head. Scanning the roads, Colton searched for the men responsible, but all he saw were civilians. Men, women, even kids. All terrified. Raiders running wild in Colorado seemed like something out of a graphic novel, not reality. How had it come to this?
Several men on horses emerged on a side street to the right. He recognized two of them as volunteer officers. They were galloping south, probably toward the Mary’s Lake Road barrier.
Don took a left, heading for the Estes Park Medical Center. A Volkswagen bug squealed onto the road ahead of them. Margaret was behind the wheel. When she saw Colton, she waved and leaned on the horn.
“Let me out,” Colton said. Don slammed on the brakes, and as soon as Colton shut the door, he squealed away. Margaret waved Colton toward the Volkswagen Beetle.
“Get in, Chief. I know where these bastards are.”
RAVEN GALLOPED DOWN the side of Prospect Mountain along a trail that had been used by a construction company. Creek struggled to keep up with the mare, but he was quickly falling behind.
“Faster, girl, faster!” Raven said to Willow, trusting Creek to catch up with them later.
The raiders in the Toyota pickup were driving down Stanley Avenue, firing randomly at civilians, but they didn’t seem to be headed toward any of the town’s supply caches. Was their plan just to kill as many people as possible?
Raven gripped the reins tighter as he urged the horse to hurry. He lost sight of the truck a moment later. Sitting up in the saddle, he searched for the vehicle. A gunshot rang out, followed by a scream. Raven glimpsed the truck turning back onto Stanley Avenue, leaving behind a body in the middle of the street. It was Doug Moore, a local hunter, his rifle still gripped tightly in his limp hand.
If the truck stayed on Stanley, he would intercept them at Prospect Avenue. Bobbing up and down in the saddle, he strained for a better view of the road. The familiar sight of the Estes Park Medical Center rose in the distance, and Raven’s heart clenched.
Now the route the raiders were taking made sense. They weren’t after food; they were headed to the hospital. His sister was on the tail end of a double shift. Allie was there, too, hanging out with Teddy.
“Hell no, you don’t,” Raven said.
He let go of the reins and leaned down to grip Willow around the neck, making himself as aerodynamic as possible. Sucking in the cold wind, he prepared for battle. His ancient ancestors would have done the same thing, riding low against their horses and visualizing victory against their enemies.
Willow finally reached the bottom of Prospect Mountain and galloped out on Landers Street. Instead of taking the road, Raven directed the horse straight through the backyards of several houses. If she ran fast enough, they would come out at Prospect Avenue right before the Toyota pickup truck.
“Faster, faster!” he shouted.
Willow galloped over the fresh powder, icy breaths coming out in poofs as Raven worked her hard. Far behind them, Creek howled. Several civilians were standing in their front yards, looking toward Prospect Avenue.
“Get back inside!” Raven yelled at them.
Halfway down the street, he tucked his boots tightly into the stirrups, sat up, and unslung his AR-15. The rattle of an old engine grew louder as Willow’s hooves thundered through the fresh snow. They were almost there.
Reins in one hand and rifle in the other, he nudged Willow’s sides. She made a final dash for Prospect Avenue. He was only going to get one chance to stop them. Here he would make his stand. He pulled up on the reins, and Willow slowed to a stop.
Raven quickly dismounted and slapped the horse on her flank. She took off while he ran toward the end of the street where he took a knee behind a boulder, waiting for the perfect shot.
The Toyota screeched around the corner of Stanley Avenue and pulled onto Prospect Avenue. Raven held a breath in his chest and flicked the safety off. From his vantage point, he could see that the driver and passenger both had pistols in their hands. Raven readied his rifle, preparing to fire.
Steady, Sam. Steady....
A man standing in the back of the pickup bed gripped what looked like a mounted M249 SAW. An armored plate surrounded the gun, providing a shield. They all wore bandanas and stocking caps, more like bank robbers than soldiers despite their military hardware.
Raven lined a shot up on the front tire, intending to disable the truck first. He cursed when he saw the armored rim around the tires. He pulled the trigger anyway, firing three rounds into the wheel-well before turning the barrel toward the driver. Several squeezes of the trigger peppered the side of the vehicle and shattered the glass, but the driver powered through the spray, pushing down on the pedal instead of letting up.
“Shit,” Raven muttered. He aimed for the man in the bed of the truck next, but the shots streaked into the sky as the raider ducked down. Before Raven could fire again, a barrage of gunfire lanced into the boulder.
The driver finally squealed to a stop, allowing the gunner to fire on Raven. Rounds kicked up the dirt as he bolted for new cover. He nearly lost his footing, but kept upright and slid behind a tree just as rounds lanced into the bark on the other side. Taking in a deep breath, he made a run for another tree.
Several shouts followed.
“There, over there!”
More gunfire riddled the tree Raven had just left, and the driver pushed back down on the gas. Keeping his back against the bark, Raven once again waited for a chance. Down the other end of the street, he glimpsed a flash of white and gray fur.
Raven had to end this—and end it right now. He moved his finger back to the trigger, sucked in a breath, and darted around the tree, firing a round as soon as the sights were lined up on the gunner in the truck.
His aim was true, and the round hit the man in the top of the shoulder, jerking him backward. The next shot hit the M249 and knocked the man over the side of the pickup.
The driver sped away, leaving the injured man in the ditch. Raven strode forward, firing several more shots after the vehicle. The rounds shattered the unprotected back window, glass raining down. The passenger broke away the shards with a pistol and then returned fire at Raven.
He rolled for cover and watched from his belly as the truck tore around Fir Avenue and onto Moccasin Circle Drive. The driver made no effort to slow down. A few seconds later, the truck passed the medical center and kept going.
Relief flooded Raven. Sandra and Allie were safe—at least for now. He pushed himself up, panting, and moved toward the ditch. He expected to find a corpse, but instead stepped up to the side of the road and saw the man standing with a pistol raised.
The bullets slammed into Raven’s chest before he could even flinch. The air exploded from his lungs, and he staggered backward a step before crashing onto his butt, losing his rifle in the process.
Gasping for air, he tried to reach over his shoulder for his hatchets, but raising his arms hurt so badly he couldn’t bring his hands up. The shooter climbed out of the ditch, blood dripping down the front of his chest. He aimed the pistol in a shaky hand and narrowed his blue eyes at Raven.
“Why?” Raven asked. The pain had overloaded his body, and he felt strangely calm. “Why kill civilians?”
The man pulled his bandana away from his face, revealing a silver goatee and a crooked nose. He kept the gun pointed at Raven and shrugged. “They got in our way.”
The rattle of an engine drew his gaze toward the street just as a Volkswagen Beetle turned the corner. Raven could vaguely make out Margaret and Colton behind the windshield.
“Time’s up,” the man said. He aimed his gun at Raven’s head and pulled the trigger. A sharp pain raced through his skull, but the bullet didn’t hurt as bad as he thought it would; more of a sting than anything. The impact his skull made with the concrete was worse. It jolted on the hard surface, blinding him momentarily. He blinked and looked up at the fluttering snowflakes, his vision fading in and out as the VW screeched to a stop.
There was another gunshot, and then a shout.
“Raven!”
Red and black swirled across his vision as he began to slip away. The last thing he heard was the ferocious barking of an Akita.
Charlize stood in the air traffic control tower overlooking Charlotte Douglas International Airport. One of the windows was completely shattered, allowing in a cool breeze. Visibility was ideal from the tower, with a three-hundred-sixty-degree view of the city, and what she saw chilled her to the core.
There were over two hundred thousand people surrounding the airport. Many of them had come for safety—others had simply come for a meal. But everyone on the other side of the fence was a potential threat. The violence beyond the walls surrounding the survival center was spreading like a wildfire, with desperate civilians fighting to get through the twenty-five gates around the perimeter.
Charlize couldn’t help but feel somewhat responsible. Her flyover seemed to have lit the match that set the fire off. Now the entire zone had broken into chaos. Captain Harris was barking orders into a handheld two-way radio. At the edge of the rooftops below, snipers were set up along with their spotters.
“They don’t have enough bullets to keep the civilians back if those gates fall, do they?” she asked.
“I’ve ordered them to only shoot if fired upon, and to retreat if the gates fall and the masses flood in. Our job is to help these people, not kill them.”
Honorable, Charlize thought to herself, but she also had to ask the inevitable. “And what happens to the supplies and generators if the gates fall? I’ve been given strict orders to protect them at all costs.”
Harris stroked his jaw. “You’d have me slaughter people to protect these supplies?”
A tense moment followed. She wasn’t used to making decisions like this. Dropping bombs and firing missiles at enemies was one thing, but killing American citizens was entirely different. Even if they were shooting at her.
“For now, we have to do everything to ensure the integrity of the perimeter,” Charlize said.
“I’m trying, ma’am, but more and more people are coming in from the city by the minute. I’ve ordered the gates closed, which means they are going to be even more pissed off.”
Charlize raised her binoculars at the hangar that had been turned into a makeshift medical center. Fans were set up in the open doorway, blowing air on the civilians. Soldiers had moved into position outside, holding sentry.
“Gang members have been trying to sneak in,” Harris said. “If any of them get inside, they could sabotage the gates and open them for their buddies. Then it would really be a bloodbath.”
He looked back out the broken window and shook his head. “It would only take one mistake or a rusted pickup truck packed full of explosives to take down those gates. I saw that happen in Afghanistan.”
Albert cleared his throat. “Ma’am, I think we should get you back inside the EOC.”
“And do what?” Charlize asked. “We’re just as safe up here.”
Charlize raised her binoculars back toward gates nineteen and twenty. They were just three blocks away from the fences. Close enough that she could hear the civilians on the other side of the fence chanting We want food! We want food!
Harris wagged his head and looked over at Charlize. “Everyone’s riled up because of the chopper,” he said. “I’ve got to do something, and soon.”
“I’m truly sorry,” Charlize said. She wasn’t sure if she was completely responsible for the riots, but the flyover had definitely made things worse.
“I’m sorry too, because there’s no way in hell I can authorize a mission outside the gates now, sir. I’ve already lost a lot of good men out there,” Harris said to Albert.
“I’ll go by myself,” Albert replied.
Charlize brought her binos back up and zoomed in on gate nineteen. Two guard towers rose above the fences, and the soldiers inside had angled their machine guns down at the crowd. The civilians pounded against the metal gate, beating it like a drum with fists and feet, chanting and screaming at the top of their lungs.
A gunshot rang out, and the soldier in the turret to the right ducked down. The other guard opened fire on the crowd.
“God damn it,” Harris snarled. He brought his radio back to his lips. “Eagle 2, I said no shooting!”
“They were fired upon, sir,” came the response.
Harris exhaled a breath and said, “For now tell everyone to hold their fire. We do not want to piss off that hornet’s nest.”
“Little too late for that,” Albert said.
Across the airfield, the crowd surged, slamming into the walls and fences in anger.
Albert stood so close to Charlize that his arm touched her side. “Ma’am,” he whispered, “this is madness. I have to find my sister and get her out of here. She’s…sick.”
Charlize lowered the binos and pivoted away from the ledge. The snipers positioned on the rooftop all kept their barrels angled at the crowd. Albert hadn’t told her much about Jacqueline. She’d tried to picture a female version of Big Al and failed.
“What’s wrong with her?” she asked.
Before he could answer, another shot rang out in the distance and the roar of the crowd surged into a deafening blast.
The civilians who had made it inside the SC stood on the tarmac below, watching the gates. Many of them had their own weapons. Even if Harris ordered his men to stand down and retreat, it was possible those civilians might put up a fight. One wa
y or another, a major battle seemed inevitable.
If the situation here was indicative of what was happening in the other survival centers, Charlize wasn’t sure America had a chance of recovering.
Insanity is doing the same thing over and over and getting the same results, she thought.
“Captain Harris, how did you handle situations like this in Afghanistan?
“Once, we were forced to kill civilians to get a crowd back. It only made things worse. The next day we were hit by two suicide bombers. That’s why I’m trying to keep my men from stirring the pot.”
Charlize looked down at the hangars. She didn’t know how much food was stored there, but it wasn’t going to do any good just sitting there. If it meant getting them out of this mess without bloodshed, it’d be worth it.
She looked back out over the city. She couldn’t see the railways or the idle trains, but she knew they were out there.
“You know anything about the rail systems in this area?” she asked Harris.
The captain shook his head. “Not really, ma’am. We get most of our supplies from truck convoys. It’s dangerous and slow moving, but that’s all we have. Why?”
“Curiosity. If we could get the rails running again, we would have a form of transportation that could move a lot of supplies and people without fear of attack. Unlike the highways.”
“True, but right now I’m more worried about protecting what we have. Got any ideas?”
She nodded, returning her attention to the hangars below.
“I’m all ears, Secretary Montgomery.”
“We need to get the word out that at nightfall we’re going to bring a container of food outside the gates to be distributed fairly,” Charlize said.
Harris smirked. “One container to feed two hundred thousand people? Ma’am, all due respect but we’ve hardly got enough for the twenty thousand already inside the gates.”
“We have enough for this,” Charlize said, keeping her tone polite. “It will buy us time to bring in more supplies—and give us a distraction.”
Trackers 3: The Storm (A Post-Apocalyptic EMP Thriller) Page 6
