Dead America The Second Week (Book 9): Dead America: New Mexico

by Slaton, Derek

  She blinked at him, and then glared, crossing her arms in indignation.

  Before she could open her mouth, the Sergeant put up his hand. “I know what you’re going to say, and it’s not what you think. We need to protect them, and more importantly, we need to buy time so Mathis can get back. Sixteen against three is a bit much, even for us.”

  “How do you want me to play it?” she asked, shifting her weight.

  Hammond motioned to the church. “Lay low until someone comes inside. Last thing we want is for them to just fill that building full of lead.”

  “I’ll make whoever comes inside pay dearly,” she promised.

  The Sergeant nodded. “I have no doubt.” They shared a fist bump, and then she clapped Landry on the shoulder before running into the church and sealing the front doors.

  “So, how we doing this, Sarge?” Landry asked.

  Hammond looked around, taking in the big open area in front of the church and the houses on either side of it. There was an embankment of trees that lined the road leading up to it, all the way out of town.

  “Those SWAT guys are gonna be a bitch,” he said. “That kevlar can take a beating.”

  “Agreed,” Landry said.

  The Sergeant shook the gas jug. “But, we can do some molotov cocktails.”

  “I don’t see any glass bottles, Sarge,” the Private replied with a shrug.

  “Shit.” Hammond pursed his lips in thought. “Shooting ain’t gonna do any good either.”

  “Unless…” Landry dug around in his ammo bag, and pulled out an innocent-looking stick. “We use this.”

  The Sergeant’s jaw dropped. “Where in the fuck did you get a road flare?”

  “Remember when I blew up that gas station the other day?” Landry asked.

  Hammond cocked his head. “Yeah.”

  “If the grenade didn’t work then I was going to use this,” the Private held it up with a grin.

  The Sergeant laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “That’s why I love you, Landry, always wanting to blow shit up.” He took the flare and jammed it into the handle of the gas can. As he looked around where to plant it, his companion held out a hand.

  “Wait, wait, unscrew the cap,” he said. “I got an idea.” He pulled a box of bullets from his bag and dumped a few into the jug.

  Hammond furrowed his brow. “What are you doing?”

  “We know it’s sixteen against three,” Landry explained, “but they sure as hell don’t. Once that fire goes, it’ll take a minute before these start popping off. They may not hit anything but they’ll sure get their attention.”

  Hammond shrugged. “Fuck it, what have we got to lose?”

  After shoving a dozen bullets inside, Landry closed the cap again.

  “You take the east,” the Sergeant instructed, “and I’ll take the west. Get in a house and wait for this to blow. Once it does, start picking them off. Priority is the SWAT.”

  Landry took a deep breath. “And if they get to the church?”

  “Try not to let that happen,” Hammond said. “It’s a long drive to El Paso and I don’t want to have to listen to Whitaker tell us how awesome she is.”

  Landry barked a laugh. “As good a motivation as any.”

  They exchanged a fist bump and then parted ways, running to their respective houses as the rumble of vehicles echoed in the distance.

  Hammond set the jug right next to a tree in direct sight of the house he headed for. He struck the road flare and and hauled ass to the house. He threw open the front door and knelt down in front of the front window, taking aim at the jug and waiting.

  For a few moments, it was eerily quiet, the calm before the storm as the flare just hissed. Soon six men in SWAT gear with assault rifles marched up the road, sweeping every tree as they went, hopefully unnerved by the quiet.

  Directly behind them stalked Diego, strutting with his chest buffed out as he brandished a pump-action shotgun, flanked by eight good ole boy hunters carrying handguns and hunting rifles.

  The SWAT team moved up, taking defensive positions at the center of the road with a man on either side protecting the flank in the trees. The Sergeant waited patiently, wanting to give it until the last possible second to strike.

  One SWAT member reached the tree and spotted the light from the flare. He leaned around the trunk and noticed the gas jug, and turned to yell to his comrades.

  Hammond fired.

  The bullet ripped right through the plastic just above the flare, sending fuel splashing up into the flame.

  The fireball was huge, engulfing everything within twenty feet of it. The guy who’d found the can disappeared in flames, the other three in the lead pack covered in napalm. The three absorbed some of the blast, saving Diego and the back three SWAT guys with him from a fiery fate.

  The first guy fell to the asphalt, and the other three on fire began to shed their gear to try to save themselves. As soon as their helmets came off, Hammond and Landry shot them in the face in quick succession.

  “Take them out!” Diego screamed, and the men scattered.

  The hunters hid behind trees, taking aim at the houses, forcing the soldiers to take cover. Hammond dove to the floor as drywall and glass rained around him. He slithered into the living room and peered around the corner, noting that Diego was on his side of the road, with a SWAT guy and three hunters.

  He waited for them to make a move. Diego motioned for the hunters to go first, and as soon as they broke away from the trees, Hammond quickly fired on them. He caught the first guy in the stomach, but had to take cover when the other two began firing on him.

  “It’s him!” Diego barked. “Let’s go get him! You, push up to the church. You, clear those houses!”

  Landry sat back from his window as three hunters broke formation and headed towards his house. He took aim, but they fired wildly on the house, and he lunged for the kitchen to avoid the bullets spraying the front of the building.

  He landed with a thud and slid into a cabinet, cracking it in two. “Fucking hell!” He scrambled to a kneeling position and aimed his assault rifle over the island towards the front of the house.

  The front door nosed open, a gun barrel entering first followed by the hunter holding it. Landry waited with bated breath as the rest of them came in, hoping that he’d be able to take them all out with a single strike. The hunters spaced themselves out, however, giving the lead hunter time to get across to the living room before they came fully into view.

  Landry peeked around the kitchen door as the second hunter headed up the hallway towards him. He slunk back behind the wall and drew his knife, ducking back into the shadows as the tip of a gun barrel nosed into the room.

  The hunter had one foot in the kitchen as he began to turn, and Landry was forced to move, springing up and planting the knife into the bottom of his pursuer’s chin. He stared into the man’s eyes as he realized his mouth was pinned shut, but managed to pull the trigger on the rifle before the life left his body.

  “He’s in the kitchen!” one of the other guys yelled, a shot ringing through the living room through the wall.

  Landry fell into a dead drop to avoid the zinging bullets, shoving the dead hunter as chunks of powder puffed around him. He grabbed his assault rifle and began to fore back into the wall, hoping that at the very least he’d have a moment to collect himself.

  “Fuck fuck fuck fuck,” he hissed to himself as he ran out of ammo and he scrambled to eject his mag and grab a new one. He managed to slap one in and cock his gun just as a hunter came through the door.

  As if on cue, the bullets in the gas container began to pop off, a few of them flying into the front of the house. The hunter startled, turning to look behind him, and Landry took the opportunity to fire several rounds into his torso.

  As the hunter fell back, dead, his last living companion screamed in anguish, firing panicked grief-stricken shots wildly into the kitchen. Landry stayed low, until the gun clicked empty but the hunter con
tinued to fire the empty rounds, sobbing as he did so.

  The Private aimed at the clicking noise, honing in on where he thought the man was on the other side of the wall, and pulled the trigger, firing at least six times. He waited in silence, expecting a return burst of bullets, but there was nothing. He crawled as quietly as he could down the hallway, and peeked around the corner to see his assailant crumpled in a heap against the far wall.

  He closed his eyes for a moment, taking a series of deep breaths, and then the sounds of battle outside snapped him back into reality. He checked his gun and got to his feet.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “Shit,” Whitaker muttered under her breath as two SWAT members made a direct line for the church. She’d been watching from a small window next to the large front doors, fighting her trigger finger to jump out and join the fray.

  She studied their gear, protected head to toe in kevlar. She slung her assault rifle over her shoulder and drew her handgun and knife, one in each hand.

  “What are you doing?” Simon hissed from beside her.

  Whitaker grinned. “They’re wearing bulletproof stuff, but a lot of that stuff isn’t stab proof.” She held up the knife, and then peered out the window again. “Keep everyone down and out of sight, no matter what happens.”

  Simon nodded stiffly and rushed to the main area, motioning to the scared civilians laying between the pews like sardines. He crouched out of sight, and Whitaker inched towards the door as the handle began to turn.

  The lead SWAT guy burst inside, leaping to the left side of the room away from her, his back turned to her location. The second one rushed in, swinging to the right, immediately getting an eyeful of the tightly-wound Private.

  She slammed her left arm into the side of his rifle, using the butt of her gun to keep the barrel pointed away from her. She jabbed the knife in between the bottom of his helmet and the top of his vest, landing the blade just above his collarbone.

  His body seized, squeezing the trigger and firing off a three-burst blast from the rifle, immediately alerting his partner who whipped around to face her. He immediately fired on her, but she held up the dying man as a human kevlar shield, soaking up all the rounds with him. She held on tightly and braced herself, able to hold him up despite the force of the attack pushing him against her.

  After a few more triple-round bursts, Whitaker stuck her handgun under her shield’s armpit and fired a few times, striking her attacker in the chest a few times. It wouldn’t kill, but it at least winded him, sending him staggering back a few steps. She took the opportunity to rush forward, throwing the now-dead body at its companion.

  He tried to flail recover and fire at her, but the gun clattered to the floor as his buddy hit him hard. He toppled over and used the momentum to shove the body off of his chest, but Whitaker was waiting, and stabbed down into his wrist. He screamed in agony, rolling to grab at the knife with his uninjured hand.

  She flung herself behind his head, snaking an arm around his throat and the other behind his neck, putting him in a tight choke hold.

  He thrashed, legs flopping around like a fish out of water, but she grabbed one with her calves and began to fold him in half, his stomach straining.

  “Shhh, it’ll all be over soon,” she cooed. “Just let the darkness wash over you.” She held on for a few moments after her went limp, to make sure that he wasn’t playing possum. When she was convinced that he was out, she let him fall to the floor and straddled his chest, yanking her knife out of his wrist.

  She lifted the bottom of his helmet and slashed his throat, sending a copious spray of blood across the stone wall. She turned her red-splattered face towards the wide-eyed onlookers peeking up over the last few pews.

  Whitaker took a deep breath. “It was him or us,” she declared. “I chose us.”

  The awkward silence continued, Simon looking especially horrified at the display, but Sofia stood up and brushed herself off.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  Whitaker nodded and got to her feet, and then a staccato of bullets exploded outside, one of them flying through a window above her head, shattering it. “Everybody stay down!” she cried, waving for Sofia to hit the deck again.

  The civilians complied, hiding between the seats in their house of God once again.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Diego put his hand on the remaining SWAT member. “Let’s go. Pin him down, but the kill is mine.” He inclined his head towards the house that Hammond was holed up in, and his partner gave him a firm nod.

  The SWAT guy rushed out from the cover of the trees, assault rifle raised as he led Diego towards the house, two hunters flanking the door upon approach. The bulletproof shield stepped through the door, sweeping the room. Diego followed right behind him, the two hunters moving close behind him.

  The living room was wide open with hallways down either side of it towards the bedroom. The kitchen was at the far end, an easy wide open-concept design, leaving very few places for the Sergeant to hide. Diego motioned to the island in the middle, and his lackeys fired off several rounds into the cheap wood.

  After the island was turned into Swiss cheese, there was silence. He motioned for one of the hunters to check behind it.

  The man broke from formation, cautiously stalking forward, gun at the ready. He jumped behind the island, firing off one shot just in case, but there was nothing there. He shrugged and shook his head, and then immediately pitched forward as a bullet punched through the back of his head.

  Hammond fired into the armored beast’s chest, sending him staggering back into Diego, distracting them as he killed the other hunter.

  The SWAT guy opened fire, forcing the Sergeant to duck and scramble down the hallway to the bedroom at the front of the house. Diego screamed in anger, turning and aiming his shotgun, firing just as Hammond flew through the air, missing high and hitting the wall above his prey’s head.

  He cocked the weapon and aimed again, but Hammond dove into the bedroom as a shotgun blast tore a giant hole in the drywall.

  “So we meet again, Sergeant,” Diego called, taking a step forward as he cocked his shotgun again.

  Hammond sighed as the gas can bullets finally popped off, not doing him much good. “It would appear that way,” he replied.

  “Only this time your friend can’t help you,” the Sheriff sang the words like a schoolyard bully.

  “Lucky for me, I don’t always need their help,” the Sergeant replied and popped up into the hole, firing a few rounds and causing his enemy to take cover.

  Diego returned fire, not fast enough to take Hammond out, but taking another chunk of wall down. “You should know Sergeant, I’m going to punish you severely for what you’ve done to my men. I’m going to make you burn, carve you up like a holiday turkey, and make you suffer for each and every life you’ve taken.”

  “Is this speech part of that punishment?” Hammond asked wryly. “Because if it gets any more cliche I’m going to put a bullet in my own head just so I don’t have to listen to it anymore.”

  Diego growled and fired again, this time blowing a hole in the wall just above the Sergeant’s head. Hammond immediately popped up and fired several more shots before rushing the window at the front of the house. He dove through, the glass shattering spectacularly, and landed in a roll on the ground.

  As he flipped over and tried to raise his weapon, he froze, a SWAT member standing above him with a rifle aimed at his head.

  “Drop the gun, or I drop you,” the guy promised.

  Hammond pursed his lips and tossed the gun into the grass.

  The SWAT guy pulled a radio to his lips. “I’ve got him,” he said.

  As they waited for Diego to come out of the house, the Sergeant grinned up at his captor. “Don’t suppose you want to sign up for the military, do ya? Pretty sure we can scrounge up a bottle of whiskey as a signing bonus.”

  The man didn’t move a hair, simply staring down at his prisoner.

  Diego strutted o
ut of the house like a prize peacock, standing just out of arm’s reach of the fallen soldier. “I hope you are prepared to meet your maker Sergeant, because you’ll be meeting him soon.” He sneered.

  “Not that soon, motherfucker!” Whitaker cried, emerging from the church with her rifle aimed. Landry moved beside her, gun up as well, closing the distance between them and the trio.

  Diego cocked his shotgun and aimed it at Hammond’s head. “Stop right there and put your weapons down, or I’ll take his head clean off.”

  They stopped walking, but didn’t lower their weapons.

  “You pull that trigger, and we’re going to end you too,” Whitaker warned.

  Landry raised his chin. “That goes for you too, SWAT boy.”

  Diego wrinkled his nose as he surveyed the situation. “How about we strike a deal?” he asked. “You seem to care about these… peasants for some reason. You let us go with your Sergeant so he can face trial for the crimes he committed against the Silver City Gang, and we leave this town alone.”

  The Privates shared a quick glance and then Whitaker cocked her head. “Counter offer. You suck my dick and I use my rifle to give you the last facial you’ll ever get.”

  Diego snarled and straightened his shotgun arm, but before he could fire the SWAT guy’s body flipped ass over teakettle, the crack of a sniper rifle echoing through the battlefield. He gaped at the crumpled body in the grass, and Hammond reached up, batting the shotgun to the side, firing the slug into the grass harmlessly as he did so.

  The Sergeant tackled the surprised Sheriff, flattening him on his back and then giving him a vicious headbutt. Diego’s nose crunched beneath the force of it, blood pouring all over his face as his opponent pinned his arms to the ground with his knees.

  “So, you’re a fan of slow painful deaths, are you?” Hammond asked, and drew his knife. “Well, I’m nothing if not generous.” He drew the blade down just below his captive’s Adam’s Apple, and slowly pushed it in.

  Diego’s eyes filled with fear as he gurgled, blood filling is throat and choking him. His eyes widened, legs thrashing as he panicked.