A Guardian Angel

by Williams, Phoenix

  “They're on the highway and driving into the field, far west!” Tim yelled out for everyone.

  “Yeah, well,” Barney said, “keep your head down. If I were them, I would have snipers.”

  Tim turned to the man with worry. “We need to plug that hole in the wall. They can't sneak inside behind us or we're dead,” he stated.

  “I got it,” Barney said after a moment's thought, bolting toward the stairs. He clambered down with his head as low as he could hold it and ran out of the entrance.

  Tim stood up and watched over the railing as Barney crawled into his car and started the engine. He pulled out and swung it around, parking it straight in the hole in the wall. It almost could have fit all the way through until it got snagged somewhere around the gas tank. Barney heaved himself out of the car and jumped behind the sandbags opposite of Frank.

  “How'd they manage to blow a hole like that?” Barney asked, out loud but to himself. Frank pointed to the strings of gore that had spread itself around like debris. Barney's color flushed out. “Oh,” he said.

  “People are getting out of the truck!” Tim yelled down to them. He lifted his AK again and watched the militia through his scope. He pulled away from it a second time and addressed Barney. “Get up here and help me.”

  Barney skipped up the stairs and took a post beside the rancher. He raised his own rifle and dropped it just as fast out of surprise when Tim opened fire. Small cracks of return fire could be heard in the distance as Barney raised his gun again. He started getting a bead on the passenger of the truck when the driver dropped dead over the wheel. Tim had shot him.

  “What's that in the bed?” Barney asked as he scanned the vehicle. He heard Tim's gun scrape along the railing as he looked himself.

  “Looks like,” Tim started, squinting hard to identify the object, “a cannon or something.”

  “That's what I was thinking, too,” Barney commented.

  Tim watched the militants work as they assembled the rig, a homemade contraption composed of metal tubing and wires. One of the men carried a crate over to the men loading the rig. Tim took a shot at him and missed, popping one of the truck's tires.

  Barney took shots at each flash of light as he saw them, but failed to stay on target for long. Somehow he felt that blindly shooting at them would produce as good of results as if he took careful, deliberate aim. This way he didn't have to watch their bodies rip open as he snuffed out their lives.

  Tim continued taking his shots, hitting whatever he could as he watched the invaders start loading shells from the crate into the artillery rig. He finally pegged the guy carrying the crate right in between his shoulder blades. He spilled the rest of the shells from the crate as he dropped, but it was too late. Two shells were loaded.

  “They're loaded,” Tim said, just loud enough for Barney to hear. The rancher spun around and screamed to his crew, “Hit the deck!”

  Barney and Tim dropped to the floor and kicked up dust around them. They looked up at each other as a loud crack rang out from the field. Whistling through the air, a shell dropped down and exploded into the roof of Tim's house. The rancher sat up and his mouth dropped in horror. Flames sprouted up from the shattered structure.

  “Goddamn,” Tim said to himself. He felt a hand tugging at him.

  “Get down!” Barney urged him, pulling the rancher to the floor again.

  Another explosion cracked out, but this time none of them heard it. Instead, Tim's eyes slammed shut in strain and his ears were muffled with ringing. His head felt like it had just been slammed into a cliff face by a tidal wave. Sloshing in his skull, his brain tried to scream itself to sleep. His eyes opened but all he saw was static. Colorful and distorted snow danced on his cornea. Shapes moved as silhouettes in the backdrop. A dark form grew and consumed his vision. His tingling body was pulled upright by something and noises started to form. They gurgled and muffled together into an almost extraterrestrial dialect.

  Barney screamed and he didn't know it. “Tim, are you okay?” he cried into the rancher's stone still expression. He didn't care that he was screaming.

  “Barney?” Tim asked with disillusion. He reached out until he found something to pull himself up with. His vision still shook and his ears rang, but real sounds started to grow and crystallize.

  Someone was shrieking.

  “I'm alright!” Gus called out. Chance nodded the same message when the rancher peered over to him.

  “I'm hit!” Frank cried through desperate gasps and struggled grunts. Everyone abandoned their positions and rushed down to aid Frank. A hole about the size of a silver dollar gleamed in the man's side. Blood trickled out from the wound and soaked the man who laid on his stomach. Barney came up to him and tried to put pressure on the injury as well as he could through Frank's pained flailing. He screamed at Barney's touch and Barney said whatever he could think of to calm him.

  Tim had rushed to the entrance and retrieved the first aid box that he mounted up there a week ago. He stirred his hand around in the contents while he ran back to Frank. Pulling a huge bundle of gauze from the box, he pushed Barney aside. Still shaken up, he dropped the rest of the first aid kit and slammed the gauze down on the wound. Frank screamed in agony and the rancher beckoned Gus over.

  “Keep pressure on this,” Tim ordered. “Hard.”

  He turned around and rummaged through what he had dropped until he had a bandage. Just managing it, he wrapped Frank's wound before stumbling backwards to his gun.

  “There's painkillers around here somewhere,” he told Gus. “Give them to him, then redo that bandage so it's tight. And make sure it's clean. Take him somewhere safer.”

  He got a nod in reply as Gus set off to do as he was commanded. Tim snatched up his gun and with just a quick gesture to Barney was back up in his sniping position.

  “Shoot all of them,” Tim said, raising his gun. “All of them.”

  Barney didn't say anything at all and raised his rifle as well.

  The air around them exploded and rang with gunfire as they opened up, stopping no longer than it took to point. The truck had sprung a leak from gunshot holes and a similar experience was shared by the militants in front of it. A couple men dived behind the opposite side of the vehicle. Tim saw a head pop up from within the bed of the truck. He shot and missed.

  Barney focused on one of them that had grabbed what shells he could off of the ground and tried scampering toward the cannon. He shot the runner in the leg but still he carried on. Fueled by faith, he climbed up into the bed.

  Tim spotted him as he waited for his target to come up from cover again. He shot the man in the torso several times before he dropped, tripping over the side of the truck and vanishing.

  The other militant in the bed jumped up and opened fire, only to be shot down by Barney. He reloaded his weapon after a brief sigh of relief while Tim continued to shoot around the truck. Every now and then an enemy would return fire, popping up from either end of the vehicle. They clung to their cover, seldom risking the chance to be shot. From his angle, Tim could spot a denim covered leg sticking out past the tire. With a squeeze on the trigger he dropped the man to the ground. The rancher could see him as his face strained and he clasped onto his leg. One more shot laid him still.

  The last man at the truck abandoned the scene, running back toward the roadblock. Barney watched him through his scope.

  “He's getting away,” he breathed, dropping his gun and allowing a slight smile of relief to flicker through his lips.

  “No, he's not,” Tim said. He fired three times and the runner sank away from view.

  A little surprised, Barney looked through his scope and scanned the truck. “It looks clear,” Barney told the rancher.

  “What about the roadblock?” Tim asked. “Can you see anyone there?”

  They both stood silent for over a minute and peered, coming to the realization that the vehicles were empty and not a soul was to be seen around t
hem.

  “No one's there,” Barney said as Tim set his gun down.

  Gus appeared at the bottom of the stairs just as Tim and Barney were climbing down them.

  “How is he?” Barney asked.

  Gus had a frightened expression. Barney could see the fear in his eyes with no idea how he could escape it. He opened his mouth and dispersed the heavy sweat from around his lips. “He's asleep. It looks bad.”

  “Will he die?” Tim asked as he started filling his empty magazines with more bullets.

  Barney turned back and looked at the rancher while Gus struggled with his words. “He will if he doesn't get to a hospital,” he answered. “Like now.”

  Tim looked up and into Barney's eyes. Barney stared back at him. Then the rancher looked up at Gus and with a weak smile, said, “Well, let us hope we live to take him to one.”

  “What're you talking about?” Gus cried. “He needs to go now!”

  “Tim, we can go now,” Barney spoke. “They're not shooting, no one's charging right now. Just let us take him to a hospital.”

  “And then what, Barney?” Tim asked, clicking the magazine into his firearm. “Say it's just White Shrek here and he does manage to drive past the roadblock as if no one is going to stop him,” Tim proposed. “And then they attack again? Down one man, and if you make that two, then it's just the three of us left defending this whole place against all of Heaven's Crusade.”

  Barney lowered his head.

  “What do you think our chances are then, Barney?” Tim asked. His face hung in such a way that it looked like a smile was beyond its capabilities.

  “Why defend?” Barney shot at him. He sat up straight and looked Tim in the eye. “Why do we need to stay here? We can all get out of here alive.”

  “Leave?” Tim asked. “This is my territory. My home! I am here to protect it and I need your help.”

  “It's not MY home, Tim!” Barney declared. “You want me to die for – what? A house? A rusty angel?”

  “What if,” Tim started. He paused to look at everyone's faces. “What if it is my destiny to protect this angel?”

  Chance came out of the wall where Frank slept, slipping in to listen to Tim with his skeptical colleagues.

  “What if it is God's will that this angel be safe? That it's sacred?” Tim asked.

  “God's will?” Barney asked, stupefied. “Tim, listen to yourself.”

  “Where else could it have come from?” Tim asked. Barney tilted his head in confusion as Tim carried on. “I mean, really? Where? Did a random satellite just crash into my livestock? An angel shaped one? That no one seems to have an account for?”

  “What you are talking about is crazy,” Barney said. “It doesn't matter where it came from, I am not going to die for it. I am not going to get my friends killed for it. Not for it, not for you.”

  A biting silence lingered for a moment before Tim pointed his weapon at Barney. “Then how're you different from them?” he asked.

  Barney jolted.

  “Calm down,” Chance urged the rancher.

  “Jesus, Tim,” Barney started.

  Everyone was interrupted by the loud but distance sound of a trumpet blast. Everybody in the compound looked this way and that for the source before a second one rang out. They all climbed up on the wall during the third blast. They stopped and their mouths slunk to a shocked agape as there sounded a fourth and final trumpet blast.

  On the horizon, just at the crest of the hill on Tim's property, sat a line of silhouettes. There were over thirty armed men sitting on horses, side by side in a long line. One of the cavalry men in an extravagant uniform Tim had never seen before rode up in front of the rest. He started trotting back and forth as he addressed the men.

  Crack. Tim's rifle went off as he stared through the scope at the man. He missed.

  Turning toward his attacker, the leader of the cavalry raised his weapon and then dropped it past his waist. Every horse began to run. Began to gallop. The night erupted with sound.

  Hooves stampeded a beat against the sky as gunfire cracked out and bits of metal dug into the environment. Wood beams showered splinters down in a hail above Tim's head. He returned fire alongside the other three. His ears were berated by a loud and harsh staccato of firefight exchanged both at close and long range. Lead sunk into flesh and a man flew off of his horse without a scream. His leg got caught up in the saddle and his body hung from it as the horse, confused and without direction, turned around and sped away. The sandbags that Tim and Barney were behind ripped open. Glass from Tim's house shattered. Metal punctured. A horse screamed out as it was hit and dropped, throwing its rider under the hooves.

  Chance's head split open and he was thrown back off the wall. Everyone stopped shooting at the riders for a moment as they exchanged looks of horrified disgust.

  Then the fight resumed.

  Obscured by the veil of gunfire and activity, Gus dropped his gun and slipped away. He stepped down the stairs before rushing into the wall and seeking safety.

  “What's going on?” a weak voice said to him through the pitch darkness inside the wall.

  Gus shushed his friend.

  A grin started to appear on Tim's face as he fired. It started slight, unnoticeable to anyone besides Barney. He was unnerved entirely by it. Complete with the reloading and raising of his gun, Barney perspired.

  They are getting too close, Tim noticed. Too damn close!

  His finger moved faster, the trigger clicking more and more. He distributed bullets like a fireman trying to douse flames at the charging militants. There were too many of them. They are going to get in!

  Lights shined out of the sky. Gigantic, brilliant beams came down and illuminated the compound. They were helicopters that rushed in from out of nowhere and swarmed the scene.

  Tim looked up to the birds. One was a police chopper with armed men leaning out of the side doors. Its spotlight pinned down on the compound and washed over everyone's face. The second one was a flight-for-life helicopter which circled and lowered from the sky. The militants on the horses zigged and zagged in various directions, distracted and confused by the new arrivals.

  Before anyone could focus on the helicopters for too long, a loud screech of metal came scraping from the highway to the west. Two very large black vehicles had slammed into the roadblock, tossing the cars aside effortlessly. They roared down the road and turned into the Simacean Ranch.

  Barney tried to exchange a strong look of concern with Tim but the rancher aimed down his sights and continuing his fight on the militia. He ignored the vehicles that had arrived so suddenly. Barney, unsure of what to do, glanced over and watched officers pour out of the two SWAT vehicles. They had machine guns and tactical shotguns. Two had riot control shields. Guns started igniting and hot dots darted this way and that out into the field. Barney dropped his gun as his car exploded. A handful of officers pulled the totaled vehicle out of the hole in the wall and poured in through it themselves.

  “Drop your weapons and put your hands behind your head!” one of them yelled at Barney and Tim.

  Barney's hands shot up to his scalp and he sank to his knees. An officer rushed up and grabbed him by the shoulder, pulling him face down into the dirt. Barney was handcuffed and then drug off through the hole as fast as his arresting officer had arrived.

  Men ran all around the compound, carrying things from one side to the other. Tim eyed them all as he kept his gun raised and pointed at the officer who addressed him.

  “Drop the gun!” the officer screamed. “Drop your weapon right now!”

  Breathing in deep, Tim opened fire. He shot his target in the vest and threw him back off his feet with a loud smacking sound. Two other officers ran up and one shot back at Tim. Only one bullet fired as the rancher dropped to the earth.

  The old man screamed in pain. He writhed and tried to grab his wound but his shooters stormed upon him and detained him.

  Men cam
e in through the wall in uniforms but not like the SWAT officers. They were paramedics and along with them rolled a gurney. Tim kicked and fought as they strapped him down onto it and wheeled him away. He looked upside down at all the men and women in uniform that swarmed his property. He tried to swear but he only closed his eyes. When he opened them next, he was in his driveway moving rather quickly. He heard Barney call at them, his voice carrying from the window in one of the big black vehicles.

  “Hey!” he cried. “Hey! There's two guys still in there!”

  No one looked back as they continued carrying Tim away and into the field where the flight for life's rotors had begun accelerating.

  “Hello?!” Barney called.

  One thing Tim did notice during the blurring motion around him was that there was nobody left in the field. Nothing but an abandoned truck, a confused horse, and a whole lot of dead. They slid Tim into the helicopter as dust and straw were tossed about the powerful blades. The paramedics closed the door they came in through and the vehicle lifted off.

  Needles were being put into the rancher while he protested. Heart monitors were strapped on after they tore his shirt open. The entire time he begged them not to. The arresting SWAT officer that rode with them told him to be quiet.

  The radio on the officer crackled with noise. Voices, most muffled. One came on with loud clarity. “Charges are placed! Charges are placed!”

  Another voice chimed in. “Clear the area! Go, go, go!”

  Panic stirred in Tim's eyes and with an exorbitant amount of effort for the pain he felt, he lifted himself up enough so he could see out of the helicopter's glass window. Lights danced in his eyes as he watched his property detonate. Explosions ripped open the wood and brick, unbound the mortar and glue. Fire caught and crackled through the glass. The last thing Tim could see before the officer pushed him back down to the gurney was the angel.