by M. C. Allen
Firestorm
Walking in the Rain
Book Five
M.C. Allen
Copyright October 17, 2015
All Rights Reserved
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not in any way to be interpreted as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental and totally fictional.
All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.
This book was written with the absolute permission from the originator of the series, William Allen. References to characters from his series was done with his permission. It also helps that we are brothers!
This book is dedicated to my wife, Lynley. Thank you for putting up with me for over twenty years!
I would be remiss to forget people along the way who helped me get Firestorm done. Lizah Martin and Wendy Grantges were so helpful in offering advice along the way. My editor, Sara Jones deserves high praise for her hard work and diligence. You rock!
This book would not be here without the inspiration of two people. My dad and my brother. Dad wrote a western years ago, and I have his manuscript in an old cardboard box in the garage. I’ll get it done for him one day. He passed away in January 2015 after a long struggle with Alzheimer’s disease. Will, my brother, published his first book a week later. Dad’s passing was enough push to get him to stop messing around and publish it! In a way, losing Dad was what got the ball rolling. Love you Dad. I hope you like my story.
CHAPTER
ONE
Snap! Crack! Well, that sound was familiar, and at one time, I let people shoot over my head at targets. Camp Perry was an experience every competitive shooter should have. If nothing else, you don’t cry like a baby when the bullets start to fly.
The round was close to my head, and as it flew past, it created a supersonic distortion in the humid air. Since the boom of the muzzle blast followed right on the heels of the crack, the shooter must have been close. Too close. The time between the crack and boom could be almost a half second for a long-range shot. Besides, a long-range shot would have sounded different.
The mixed hardwood and pine forest was thick along the seasonal creek, currently in the dry part of the season. So the shooter had either missed an easy shot, or the round had been deflected by a branch. If that was the case, then where was the follow-up shot?
I would have fired at least twice in the time it took me to gracelessly fall to the ground and start rolling to cover. The pack on my back and my web gear made the cool maneuver look like a turtle mixed with a flea-bitten dog. It was definitely not pretty, but I ended up behind cover. At least the ground was soft there, even though it was parched dry. Diving onto limestone or granite rocks will leave you battered and bloody, but when someone is trying to punch holes in you, a few scrapes and bruises are minor issues. The pine needles and leaves over the loamy soil made it almost comfortable. Except somewhere out there, probably to the right near the edge of the dry creek, someone was trying to kill me.
The last few months had proven that when someone tries to kill you, your best option is to “kill them back.” But something was off with this situation. Only one shot fired? I had decent cover, but I wasn’t being stealthy and a blind person could tell where I had ended up. I was prone behind a decent-sized tree, a pine about two feet across. It wasn’t perfect cover, but at least it would conceal me until I could roll or crawl to something better.
Most rifle rounds would punch through my current pulpy companion, and even if the actual projectile missed me, the wood splinters that exploded from the exit would be hazardous. My unseen bushwhacker was still silent. I was breathing like I had been sprinting for the last ten minutes, the adrenaline causing my pulse to race and my respiration to go haywire.
Even worse, I had no target. Heck, for all I knew I had stepped on a tripwire that set off a rifle set to fire at a specific spot. That would be a good way to warn people of intruders if you were short on guards. I scanned the area around me. Nothing but trees, leaves, and pine needles. So … what now? Without any extra clues, my next option was to withdraw and try to go around the area. Some extra data would be helpful. I hated making decisions without the full picture.
“Hey, could you hold off on shooting me until we at least get to know each other? At least buy me dinner!” I tried to sound sincere, but it came across as sarcastic and angry.
The shooter might respond, or just start plowing copper-jacketed replies through my peaceful majestic tree. Who knew I would become a tree hugger after the apocalypse? Why couldn’t it be zombies? Shamblers, not runners. They would be hard to hit if they all rushed you, but shamblers you could just spike and dodge. Nope, we just had to fight normal humans who were always trying to kill you for no good reason. Well, in their defense, most were fighting to protect their own resources. Water, food, livestock, or simply land; those weren’t commodities traded on an open market, but paid for in blood.
Stupid EMP. The electromagnetic pulse had knocked everyone on their butts. All of those years spent reading up and assembling gear felt wasted. Hell, I thought I was prepared for anything.
Peering around the left side of the tree, craning my neck just enough to see where my adversary may be hiding, I pushed all of those thoughts to the side. No more than a few seconds had passed, but I could not see or hear any movement to my immediate front. Straining to hear the rustle of leaves or the crack of branches underfoot, I caught movement further to my right, along the creek.
I had walked right into a trap.
Following the creek was supposed to serve a dual purpose. Find water and hopefully find animal tracks for potential food. Obviously, someone had already staked out this area, and I had stumbled across their claim.
The way forward was blocked, and to the right were more threats. To the left, I heard the soft footfalls of someone sprinting through the forest far enough away that I only saw flashes of movement. I had to make a decision quickly. My position was untenable already.
I jumped to my feet and turned to start sprinting back the way I had come, only to have another shot strike near my feet and a commanding voice bellow, “Hold on right there, mister!”
Not what I expected. I figured they would just shoot me down and loot my gear. My rifle was useful and I had plenty of ammunition and magazines to keep it in a fight, but I was low on both food and water. At that point, I might’ve traded for a glass of water.
“Go ahead and place your rifle on the ground in front of you and step back!” the voice continued. It had a southern twang but didn’t sound too unfriendly. I complied by taking a single step back and raising my hands to shoulder height without being told. I was trying to be polite even though they had shot first, but I figured I was the intruder there. If they were up to no good, I was really screwed. I could have returned fire in the direction of the first gunshot of the sentry, but I had a feeling that I would have ended up dead and fertilizing the forest.
They had let me get into the “kill box” before firing, but held up killing me for some reason. They didn’t ask me to drop my pack or the rest of my weapons, and I had several on me. I had weapons hanging off my web gear in plain sight, but I had an extra pistol tucked in my waistband near my left hip. I didn’t clank when I moved, but that was mainly from using lots of black electrical tape on all of the metal mounts and clips. With the motley gear from the 1990s, I didn’t look like a modern soldier, and my long hair and untrimmed beard gave me a wild look. The floppy h
at didn’t even match the green web gear and large pack, and honestly, I cared more about how each item functioned over making a fashion statement.
From the creek came the universal question. “Who are you, and why are you on our land?” That came across a little angrily, so clearly this was a group that had staked out their own domain. I needed to be cautious and not piss them off further. When in doubt, try the humble approach. It might just save your life.
“My name is David Metcalf, and until about a month ago, I was a resident of Arlington, Texas. I was following this dried up creek trying to find some water and possibly a critter for a meal. Crawfish, raccoon, rabbit, maybe even a hog if I was lucky.” I let my voice trail off a little toward the end. Then I rallied it a bit. “I try to stay away from people’s houses and fields if I can. I don’t steal from folks. I know times are hard since the pulse knocked out the entire grid, and I’m just trying to make my way to someplace safe.” There. Lay it on, but not too thick. They could have just killed me and been done with it, and to be honest, it would have been a relief.
My tank was empty. I was dehydrated and bordering on starvation. I had once topped the scales at two hundred and forty, but I knew by the length of extra belt wrapped halfway around my waist that I had lost way too much. My wedding band had become so loose that I carried it around my neck on a piece of string because it kept falling off of my finger. Just projecting my voice to be heard was an effort. The act of jumping up from the ground left me lightheaded and swaying.
“Do you intend to do us harm, Mr. Metcalf?” The voice was less forceful. He must have seen me really well for the first time and noticed my condition.
“No sir. I really was just passing through. I have a little folding shovel that I was going to use to try to dig up some crayfish or even grubs. I’ve had to do that a lot recently.” That was a little thick, but not a lie. You needed protein and fats to survive, and I had been on a serious paleo diet since most of the canned goods had run out.
“If you are from the Dallas–Fort Worth area, why are you only this far away? It’s only about fifty miles from here. Most people came through this area months ago, looking for food and causing trouble for us.”
“I was delayed,” I replied quietly. “The plan was to get out of there as soon as possible, but things happened to delay us.” I let the last word hang in the air.
“What do you mean ‘us,’ mister?” he asked, his voice going flat.
“I mean that I’m just the guy walking point. By now, my team has already figured that I’m as good as dead, and they have already taken their positions while we’ve been standing around playing twenty questions.” I let my voice sound angry. I was bluffing, really.
The rest of my team was hauling ass back about a quarter of a mile to our last rally point. I tried to stop at defensible positions and assign them as rally points every few miles. If something like this happened, they were instructed to go to the last place we had stopped to rest and immediately go to ground. We drilled this. Just wait there for two hours or until I gave the order to move out. Without further orders, they were to find another route and get away from whatever had killed or captured me. If they followed my instructions.
The effect on my “captors” was immediate. I heard them all fall to the ground and start scrambling to scan the woods around them. They were disciplined enough not to yell out in the process. I stood in the same position with my hands up. This would delay them a little longer and give my squad time to get away.
“Call them off, mister!” the man yelled at me. I pegged him as the leader since he seemed to be the only one from the mystery group giving me instructions. “We don’t want anyone to be harmed; we just don’t know who we can trust anymore. It has gotten worse in the last few weeks, and people are getting nervous about strangers!”
Well, that changed their tune quickly. They were probably used to bluffing people into moving on. That will only work for so long. They must not have had that many encounters out there in the middle of nowhere. I had chosen this route to avoid major roads and towns, and by cutting across the land slowly, we were able to avoid people. I got a little sloppy and ended up in this mess. It must be the starvation affecting my decision-making ability, I thought.
“Listen, people. I really don’t want anyone getting hurt. My team is well trained and will only attack if they feel I’m in danger,” I said loudly enough to add some credibility to my lie. There was no way my team was about to take these people out.
Just then, my radio crackled in my ear. “Mr. M, do you need us to engage?”
I threw my hands higher into the air. “Stand down!” I yelled. “We went over this a hundred times; you were supposed to follow protocol!” I didn’t bother using the radio; they were near enough for everyone involved to hear me. Even the unknown group was pointing guns either at me, or the nearest bush that looked intimidating.
The situation needed to be calmed down, or we were all going to die.
“Everybody, just relax,” I pleaded with both groups. I continued, “Let me just explain, and I think it will help avoid shooting each other. Please? It’s too hot, and I’m about to pass out anyway.”
After several minutes of cajoling, we reached an uneasy truce of sorts. I asked the group around me to sling their weapons’ muzzles down, then I had my group do the same. At least I told them to. I still couldn’t see them in the forest arrayed around the other group. I asked the leader of his team to move them into the creek bed near the cottonwood tree. At least there, we could talk in the shade.
I then got on the radio and told my team to go into the dried up creek about fifty yards down and to slowly make their way toward that tree. It was a giant tree, so easy to identify as a landmark. The process was slow, but eventually I joined the unknown people under the tree, where we waited for my team to appear.
The scene under the tree was not what I expected. The five people were mixed in ages and race. The older man, the leader, had coffee-colored skin and looked to be in his late forties to early fifties. He was dressed similarly to the rest of his group: jeans, sensible work boots, and dark button-down shirts. They looked like farmers. Their weapons were a mixed bag of hunting rifles, a shotgun, and a long military surplus Russian bolt-action rifle with a history that pre-dated the Second World War.
The hunting rifles were slung muzzles-down as I had requested. The carrier of the shotgun simply held it downward since it didn’t even have a sling. The smallest member of the team looked about twelve and was carrying the long Russian rifle. He had the same skin tone as the leader, and a passing resemblance with the elder man. The man carrying the shotgun sported a thin mustache and straight dark hair that was sticking out from under his hat, and the two members with scoped hunting rifles were women. The ladies may have been Caucasian, but their faces were deeply tanned by the Texas sun, so it was impossible to be sure. They looked to be about the same age, mid-thirties to forties, but they could have been younger. For all I knew, everyone was younger than I had first estimated, the last few months had aged everyone prematurely.
The leader stood alert with a familiar AR-15 pattern rifle that was clipped to his chest, allowing it to hang and giving him use of both hands. His right hand rested on the butt of a pistol on his hip. He had the air of someone who was calm, but alert.
I inched my way down the steep slope to the bottom of the ravine and joined the assembled group. This was a tense moment, so I made every move slow and deliberate. I had dropped off my rifle and pack up by the tree. I could see why they used this as an ambush position. The unknown force before me could move at a low crouch and not be seen from where I had been moving through the forest. I should have checked it out, but I was distracted by the hog tracks I was following. Leading with my stomach resulted in my inattention. My downfall was bacon. Time to focus and put on a show. The next few minutes would decide how this encounter would end up. I cleared my throat and looked at everyone there before starting.
“Ladi
es and gentlemen, as I said earlier, my name is David Metcalf, and I really do not want to hurt anyone. As you can tell by my condition, I’m just hungry and thirsty. My team should be here in just a minute. I’ll stand here between our two groups. They are a little skittish after all we have been through, so please just remain calm, and don’t make any sudden movements.” I looked at their apparent leader. “Do you mind setting up some security while we talk?”
I really hope my group can keep it together. So far, they had disobeyed my orders to run at the first sign of trouble. Part of my plan had always been to try to keep them from harm, and by taking point every time we moved, I was guaranteed to meet trouble first. If these people proved to be a threat, I would take out as many as possible. I may not have my rifle, but up close, I was just as deadly with my blade. I had used it so often lately, that my pistol was mainly unused. I watched everyone carefully and waited.
As my little team of four cautiously came into view, I heard a sharp intake of breath and someone muttered, “What the hell happened to them?” I looked to their leader and saw his eyes widen.
“I know. The first thing I always notice about them is their eyes.” I answered their unspoken question.
My team of hardened killers were just children. They were all painfully thin and just as filthy as I was at that moment. They were also well armed for kids.
I had to stink. The water had become scarce, as the Texas sun had continued to scorch the land and dry up most water sources. I needed to make nice with these people. They looked cleaner than us, so they might have water.
I waved the kids over and, with my hand extended and parallel to the ground, said, “Guys, let’s all have a seat. Our host will put out security for all of us.” The gesture had been one of our codes to stay calm and not say anything. We had several little tricks we had worked on while we were on the move.
