Badlands Trilogy (Book 2): Beyond the Badlands
Page 23
Seconds passed. More gurgling more struggling, then silence.
Then the guard lay motionless, eyes open, staring at the ceiling.
Finally satisfied the man was dead, Johnny retrieved the man’s rifle and began searching the crates. It took less than thirty seconds to find the box. It took a full minute to find the crowbar lying in the corner.
Using the crowbar, Johnny pried the top off of a crate of hand grenades. He snatched a couple up and made his way over to the window.
Outside, Clint waited.
“Take these,” Johnny said, handing Clint the grenades. “Use both of them.”
“Should I wait to make sure you’re in position?”
“No. If I don’t make it we’re all dead anyway.”
“How close do I need to be when I pull the pins?”
“Anywhere near the fuel tanks will do.” He gripped Clint’s shoulder. “And go quick. Sun’s coming up fast.”
* * *
Carrying both grenades, Clint made his way from the makeshift armory and across the residence hall’s courtyard. On the opposite side sat a single Jeep, used by Glenn’s men. More importantly, more than two dozen cans of gasoline sat beside the vehicle.
Dave’s plan had gone well so far, aside from Whipple almost ruining everything.
Now the shit was about to hit the fan. Once those grenades went off there would be no turning back.
So with the dim sunlight creeping over the horizon behind him, Clint ran faster than he’d ever run in his life. He could see the Jeep parked ahead. It seemed a thousand miles away. No matter how hard he pushed he felt slow, like running through deep, sucking mud.
As he ran he considered that he’d never pulled the pin on a grenade before. Nor had he ever fired a gun or seen anything resembling combat. The worse skirmish he’d ever gotten himself into was a playground fight or two.
Johnny, on the other hand, had seen plenty. And Clint realized that it was people like Johnny who made Clint’s life of non-violence possible.
Clint made a mental note to thank him when all this was over.
The Jeep and the fuel tanks loomed, growing larger in his vision. Closing in on his target he finally believed that everything they’d planned might actually work out.
One foot in front of the other, the cold metal of the grenades comforting in his hand.
A dozen yards away now.
Almost there.
Feet to go.
The crack of a rifle sounded in the early morning air.
Hot pain ripped through Clint’s side as his breath hitched. He hit the ground hard, the grenades flying from his hands.
Oh my god they fucking shot me! Clint’s mind raced as he lay on the ground.
His entire body sang with pain. He vomited, that metallic taste of blood coating in his mouth.
It hurt to breathe.
I’m dying, he thought to himself.
He tried to move his legs.
Nothing.
So close. So goddamn fucking close.
He grew cold. He could almost feel the blood draining from his body.
His mind began to fade. A thought occurred to him. At least it wasn’t Whipple
A weak laugh escaped.
He could feel the blood on his clothes, growing cold outside of his body. He was leaking like a sieve.
His life flashed. So many chances not taken. So little adventure. So little purpose in his life before the virus.
Ironic that now, dying in a field, he felt more alive than he had his entire life.
He lifted his head. The figure of a man holding a rifle appeared, walking toward him.
Anger welled inside him.
He couldn’t die like this.
It was at that moment that Clint Howard decided to die on his own terms.
* * *
The rising sun gave Tom Preston just enough light by which to make the shot. A guard in Glenn Summerville’s army now, Tom spent his life before the virus petty thieving, bullying and generally not giving a shit about much of anything.
Now, after the virus, his life pretty much consisted of the same thing. Except now that kind of thing was encouraged.
He ended up spotting the runner by accident. Assigned to patrol the hallways, Tom decided he wanted some fresh air instead.
When he opened the door and walked outside he stumbled upon the potential escapee, making his getaway.
Tom dropped to his knee and lined up the sites on the target. He breathed deeply, exhaled. He tracked the target a second or two and then placed the barrel site just in front of the runner before pulling the trigger.
The runner went down like a bag of wet cement.
Tom almost cried out in celebration, but stifled it. Wouldn’t pay to let any of the others hear him and take credit for the shot. No, Tom would claim ownership. Good for a few “attaboys” and some extra rations. Maybe even access to a few of the women Glenn had locked up. That’d be nice.
As Tom made his way toward the downed runner, he noticed the shot hadn’t killed him outright. No biggie, a knife across the throat would finish that job without a sound.
Several dozen yards away the runner lifted his head and caught sight of Tom. He began to crawl, dragging his body across the ground and toward the Jeep. Poor bastard actually thought he could get away still. From the looks of it the guy’s legs were toast. Killing him now would be doing him a favor.
Seconds later Tom overtook the runner. He hooked the toe of his boot under the man’s arm and rolled him over on his back.
Tom pulled his knife.
He paused. “What the…”
The runner held up his hand. Something dangled from his index finger.
Tom’s brow furrowed.
The man on the ground laughed.
Tom stared closer. He recognized the object.
A grenade pin.
The man on the ground continued to laugh, the middle finger of his other hand extended upward.
Tom turned to run.
Then everything disappeared in a white-hot explosion.
* * *
When Johnny held the rifle in his hands he found himself back once again in the desert. The feel of the weapon brought with it an uncanny déjà vu. He’d helped change the world back then. Now, with another rifle in his hands he was about to change the world again.
He found the ammunition easily. A few jerks with the crowbar and the top of the crate nearly flew off. He retrieved a metal ammunition box and quickly cracked open the top.
Inside, magazines packed the box to the rim.
He placed the butt of the dead guard’s rifle against his shoulder, sighting down the barrel into the dimly lit room. M16, just like his days in the service. No scope, only iron sights. That could be a problem. Until the sun burned brightly enough, those iron sights were virtually useless.
Timing would be everything.
Picking up the two cases of ammunition, Johnny found the stairwell leading to the upper levels of the residence hall. He hurried up the stairs, counting the floors as he went. Two, then three.
Moments later he found himself at the top floor.
He exited the stairwell and stepped onto the fourth floor. Aside from some trash and other debris that had blown in through a few busted windows the floor remained empty.
Perfect.
Eyeing one of the broken windows overlooking the courtyard below, Johnny made his way across the room, dodging obstacles where he could see them until he came within feet of the window.
The explosion roared.
Bright, white light flashed through the opening of the broken window.
Johnny smiled as he closed the remaining distance to the windowsill.
Good ol’ Clint.
He placed the case of ammunition down on the floor and retrieved one of the thirty-round magazines, promptly downloading it by sliding out the top round in case it had been packed full. He didn’t want to take the chance of the magazine not seating against the bolt.
And Johnny planned to explain it to them, one bullet at a time.
Chapter Fifty-Four
Dave and Gary jumped when the explosion finally came. They looked at each other with similar expressions of excitement mixed with trepidation.
“There’s our signal,” Dave said, a slight smile forming on his lips.
Gary nodded.
Both men ran down the hallway and began their work. Using the back of the first claw hammer, Dave ripped the lock off the first door he came to. Inside a man hopped out of bed wearing only underwear and a t-shirt.
“Get to the northeast corner of the building!” Dave yelled. “We’re taking this place over!”
The man stared at him, surprised.
“Go! Now!”
Dave moved on to the next door and proceeded to rip the lock off the hinges while Gary worked his way down the line in the opposite direction.
Men and women emerged from their makeshift prisons, their red-rimmed eyes wide with shock as they gathered together in the hallway.
“What’s going on?” a man shouted.
“Go! Outside! Toward the northeast corner of the building!”
“But they’ll kill us!” another man shouted.
“They can’t kill all of us,” Dave said. “Move people! Get these doors open!”
They made short work of the locks, gathering prisoners together in the hallway.
“There are weapons in the northeastern corner of this building,” Dave bellowed to the growing crowd through hands cupped into a makeshift bull horn. “If we make it there we can arm ourselves and fight!”
The ruckus became louder as more doors crashed open and more voices filled the hallway. It wouldn’t take long for the guards to arrive.
Dave decided to be there when they did.
As if on cue, the muted sound of footsteps came from further down the hallway, behind a set of double doors. Heart racing, Dave planted his feet and waited.
Moments later the doors crashed open and three guards charged through.
Dave met them with a spray of bullets.
The rifle kicked as the men fell. Blood oozed from open bullet wounds, saturating the carpet. Behind him the commotion increased with the gunfire.
Dave quickly gathered up the guards’ rifles and ran back toward the growing crowd of escapees. They now numbered in the dozens.
Dave handed one of the M16s to Gary. “Take this. Any more of these assholes come, shoot them.”
Gary nodded.
Around them, more commotion. People yelling. Crying. Gunshots from outside.
Two men standing next to Dave asked how they could help. He handed them the other two rifles and pointed to the taller of the two. “You come with me.”
“What about me?” the other man asked.
“Stay here. Help Gary. We need everybody out. Any more of Glenn’s guards come, mow them down.”
“Got it,” the first man said as he ran back to the group.
“Everybody!” Dave yelled. “Follow me!”
Dave ran down the hallway with nearly two dozen prisoners in two. “What’s your name?” he asked the man to whom he’d given the rifle.
“Dennis.”
“We’re headed toward the northeastern corner of this building. When we get there, I need you to help me get a gun in everybody’s hands.”
“I can do that.”
The group raced down the hallway, Dave in the lead. Behind him Dennis ran, both men with rifles in hand. Minutes later they broke through the doorway and headed toward the armory.
Outside, a man with a machine gun waited.
* * *
In the light of the rising sun, Johnny watched as Dave and the freed prisoners fled the residence hall.
Then he saw the guard, rifle aimed.
Lining up the iron sights on the dimly lit figure, Johnny’s senses leveled out. He exhaled lightly and squeezed the trigger.
The man dropped to the ground like a marionette with its strings severed.
Johnny’s sixty-three confirmed kills while in the service just became sixty-four.
Dave didn’t hesitate. He directed the group toward Glenn’s armory, firing Whipple’s M16 at the oncoming guards. Though Dave had never served, Johnny thought that his new friend would have been just the kind of person to have on your side when things got rough.
Another guard appeared from the building. Johnny fired a shot. Blood spattered as the man dropped to the ground.
Sixty-five kills. Sixty-six if he counted the guard lying four floor below with a screwdriver in his throat.
Johnny supposed it was possible to see the muzzle-flash from the fourth floor, but chances were that Glenn’s cronies could never make that kind of shot.
Too bad for them.
More guards appeared, running across the courtyard. Lining up the rifle’s sights on the man in the lead, Johnny squeezed off another shot. The man fell hard on his face. Three rounds fired. That left twenty-six shots in the magazine.
He always kept count.
Another squeeze of the trigger. The shot hit the running guard in the shoulder, knocking him to his knees.
Johnny lined up the sites again and squeezed the trigger. The man’s head exploded in a red mist.
Kill sixty-eight.
Some skills, it seemed, a person never forgets.
* * *
By the light of the rising sun, Dave watched the guard drop with the report of the rifle shot.
Johnny on the spot.
“Come on!” Dave roared as he ran. The prisoners followed. The armory seemed so far away.
More shots rang out around him.
He ran, firing at the guards. Voices shouted. Everything was happening so fast. Dave heard a man behind him scream. He didn’t look back. Everything relied on making it to the firepower.
Minutes dragged by, each step feeling like slow-motion.
Then he was at the door. He tore it open. “Inside!” he yelled, waving the rest of the prisoners inside. They filed in, breathing hard. He waited until most of them were inside before heading down the hallway. The rest would catch up.
Minutes later the first of the group stood inside the room, breaking open the crates of weapons. Rifles lifted from their packing, magazines inserted. Rounds placed into chambers.
Dave picked up a box of M16 rounds. He turned to face the group. Determined faces stared back at him. Men and women stood clutching loaded rifles and carrying handfuls of grenades. People who’d been helpless prisoners only hours before.
He grinned. “Follow me.”
* * *
The explosion immediately roused Trish and the boys from their sleep. They sat in the darkened room, huddled together, waiting and wondering.
The minutes passed slowly. They listened for clues, anything to let them know what might be going on outside their door.
Yelling from the hallway. The crack of gunshots in the distance.
A loud crash at the door. Startled, they all jumped.
“Trish…”
“It’s okay,” Trish whispered. But things did not sound okay.
Another crash at the doorway. Despite herself, Trish let out a quiet yelp. She pulled the boys in closer.
A third smashing of the door and it flew open.
“Come on!” a man yelled. “We’re taking this place back!”
“Who are you?” Trish asked.
The man smiled in the growing light. “Five minutes ago I was a prisoner. Not anymore.” He glanced down at Zach and Jeremy. “Meet up with the group outside and follow them.”
* * *
Ryan hardly heard the banging on the door. The gunshots barely registered and the explosion had been only a minor distraction.
He could only think of Beth.
His rock. His tether on reality. His compass.
Suddenly the door flew open
with a loud bang. He stayed seated on the bed, staring at the wall.
The man in the hallway looked at Ryan’s face.
They locked eyes.
The man opened his mouth to speak, but decided against it. He walked away, leaving Ryan to himself.
Ryan hopped off the bed and stood. He walked slowly to the doorway and glanced down the hallway. People everywhere. The prisoners rioting.
He smiled for the first time that day as he stepped out into the hallway.
* * *
“Make a push for the armory,” Glenn ordered.
“But the prisoners, they own that courtyard out there,” Davidson said.
“Then take it back from them. Are you not armed?”
“We are.”
“Then if you’re not lacking firepower, maybe you’re lacking balls.”
“Sir, our men are already out there putting their asses on the line. I think we should pull back, regroup.”
“Are you making decisions for me?” Glenn asked, resting his hand upon the butt of his pistol. “Mutiny won’t be tolerated.”
More gunshots crackled in the distance. “No, sir. Not at all.”
“Good. Now get your ass back out there and storm that fucking armory.”
“Yes, sir,” Davidson replied before walking out the door.
No doubt the men were getting their asses handed to them out there. And with most of their weapons in that armory there was little they could do to evict the bastards who’d gained access.
But the men out there weren’t the brains behind the operation in Kansas City. Like any other war, the generals did the thinking, designing the strategies that won battles. Soldiers were like bricks in a wall to an architect.
He could get new soldiers, but only if he was alive. That left only one choice.
Opening up a cabinet at the far end of the room, Glenn retrieved a large backpack. He slung it on his back before retrieving one of his M16s. He checked the magazine to ensure it was full before replacing it.
His men no doubt fought a losing battle, but they’d at least buy him some time to escape. Then he could regroup, recruit a new army. A better army.