Last Stand (The Survivalist Book 7)

by Arthur Bradley

  Lieutenant Bell looked down her sights. It was agreed that they would hit the man standing closest to their respective positions. The cadet to the right would hit the man furthest right, and so on. This kept guessing to a minimum, even as the soldiers moved about.

  “Ready!” she called, her cheek never lifting from the rifle stock.

  Rodriguez and Cobb both tightened.

  “Aim… Fire!”

  All three cadets fired at once, bullets whizzing through the air to cross the four-hundred-yard fairway in roughly the same number of milliseconds. For a moment, nothing happened. No one fell, clutching their chests, nor did anyone frantically spin in circles, searching for the next muzzle flash. And then, all at once, everything broke loose. Soldiers dove for cover; others rolled behind trees and down into a nearby sand trap. For his part, Ashby had the good sense to run down the fairway, still clutching his precious silver cup.

  It took the cadets a moment to accept the impossibility of what they were seeing. Whether they ultimately placed the blame on not first sighting in the weapons, or simply accepted that nerves had gotten the better of them, the result was the same. All three shots had missed.

  Rodriguez and Cobb both fired again, but it did little more than help the soldiers to pinpoint their position. Bell was too stunned by their incredible failure to even consider taking a second shot. All she could think was that the blunder had surely cost them their lives. The soldiers were coming. The helicopters were coming. They were all going to die in the next few minutes, and there wasn’t a damn thing she could do to stop it.

  Shaking herself out of the paralysis, she rolled to the edge of the air handling unit and dropped down.

  “Quick! Into the clubhouse!”

  Rodriguez was closest to the stairs, and he hurried around through the open door. Cobb was the farthest. He pressed up, stumbled, and then fell onto the rooftop gravel. His limbs seemed uncoordinated and heavy, as if his blood had inexplicably been replaced with ice water.

  “Come on!” she yelled, waving him on from the doorway.

  Cobb managed to make it halfway across the roof before a long string of gunfire sounded from the sky. His body shook from side to side as the SpeedHawk’s M134 minigun riddled him with hundreds of 7.62 mm rounds.

  Bell watched in horror as Cobb was literally torn apart. Even his scalp ripped free, flopping onto the rooftop like the pelt of a large rodent. Tears welled up in her eyes as panic and grief overwhelmed her. She found herself unable to move. She could only stare at what was left of Private Cobb’s lifeless body.

  Rodriguez called from the stairwell. “Lieutenant! Get in here!”

  She shook her head, hoping to clear the confusion. It helped, but only a little. She bit her lip until blood began to spill into her mouth. Still, her feet refused to budge.

  “Move, soldier. Now!” The voice was not Rodriguez’s, nor was it her own. As impossible as it was, the voice in her head was that of Marshal Raines.

  Bell did as she was told. She raced through the open doorway an instant before bullets tore the door from its hinges.

  Rodriguez stood halfway down the staircase, staring up at her.

  “Where’s Cobb?”

  She raced ahead, pulling him along as she passed.

  “We’ve got to get deeper.”

  He stumbled after her. “But Cobb—”

  “Cobb’s not coming. Run, damn it! Run!”

  The radio sounded, and Morant listened as one of his soldiers called for air support.

  He keyed the mic. “What’s going on out there?”

  “Taking rooftop fire from an unknown number of shooters. Blackbird 1 appears to have driven them down into the clubhouse. Permission to go in and clean things up, over.”

  “Granted. Radio when it’s done.”

  “Roger, out.”

  “Finally, a bit of luck,” said Hood.

  Morant’s face hardened. “General, I don’t think you understand the circumstances. We’ve lost seven men that we know of, and another team of four is failing to report. That’s a hell of a long ways from ‘a bit of luck.’”

  “And don’t forget about my leg,” Buckey said, obviously attempting to add fuel to the fire.

  “I–I understand that we’ve had some setbacks,” stammered Hood. “I only meant that it was good news we can finally remove the threat outside. Once that’s done, we’ll have more men in here where we need them.”

  “We wouldn’t need more men if the intel had been solid.”

  “What are you talking about? I never—”

  “You told us there were a handful of politicians holed up in a bunker. You didn’t say anything about U.S. Marshals protecting it.”

  “You think the Marshals are here?” Hood’s mind immediately went back to the attack he ordered on Glynco. Could it be that some had survived and were now working against him?

  “Buckey said it was a marshal who shot him. It makes sense that he’s not alone.”

  “That’s right,” Buckey said, eyeing the corridor. “It wouldn’t surprise me if this whole place was crawling with them.”

  Hood started to offer a defense about how he couldn’t possibly have known, when Morant held up a hand to quiet him.

  “Save it, General. Excuses are like outhouses. They’re convenient when things turn to shit, but that doesn’t make them stink any less.”

  Hood puffed up. “Do I need to remind you of who’s in charge?”

  Morant met his stare. “No, General, you do not.”

  As Lieutenant Bell and Corporal Rodriguez raced down the stairs, the walls around them began to disintegrate. The SpeedHawk’s minigun ripped apart wood and sheetrock, collapsing the stairwell in on itself. An eight-inch splinter broke off, stabbing into Rodriguez’s left eye. He screamed, his feet giving way as he stumbled and fell. Bell turned and caught him, nearly tumbling down the stairs in the process.

  “My eye!” he screamed. The shard protruded from his face, slick with blood.

  “Come on,” she said, slipping an arm under his shoulder. “We’ve got to get down to the basement.”

  They staggered down the final flight of stairs, arriving a glass door imprinted with the words “Greenbrier Golf Pro Shop.”

  Without releasing Rodriguez, Bell tried the handle.

  Locked.

  She reared back and smashed through the glass with the butt of her rifle. Reaching through, she unlatched the deadbolt and swung the door open.

  The inside of the shop was surprisingly untouched, its walls decorated with autographed photos of famous pros that had played at The Greenbrier. Hundreds of golf clubs stood upright in wooden racks on the floor, and stacks of shirts, ponchos, and hats adorned small display tables throughout. Golf bags, push carts, and other large items were positioned at the back of the store.

  Bell hobbled over to the checkout counter and carefully lowered Rodriguez to the floor.

  “Lieutenant, you’ve got to help me with this,” he said, reaching for the thick sliver of wood. “I can’t do it on my own.” Rodriguez was clearly trying to keep it together, but he was a broken shoelace away from breaking down.

  Bell struggled to even look at his face, let alone help dislodge the shard of wood.

  “I’m sorry. I can’t.”

  He grabbed her hand and pulled it toward his face.

  “Please, Lieutenant. One good yank and it’s out.”

  She swallowed. “Right.” She reached up, gripped the huge splinter, and gave it a slight tug.

  Rodriguez screamed like a man on fire.

  “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!”

  “Please, I’m begging you, pull the damn thing out!”

  Gritting her teeth, Bell tried again, this time jerking the shard up and away. It finally pulled free with a wet sucking sound. Blood immediately began pooling in his eye socket, and Rodriguez once again shrieked in pain.

  She reached up and snatched a white hand towel from a shelf above the counter. Folding it in half, she pres
sed it against the bloody hole.

  “Hold this over it.”

  He pressed it against his eye.

  “That hurt like hell,” he said, his voice trembling.

  Bell eyed the staircase. “They’ll be coming. We need to get ready.”

  Rodriguez raised his rifle and propped it on the counter.

  “One eye or not, I can still shoot.”

  “Stay here,” she said, standing up and hurrying toward the door.

  Instead, he pushed to his feet and followed after her.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Back up for our packs.”

  He grabbed her arm and wheeled her around.

  “No! You can’t.”

  “Listen, if we can get the Claymores—”

  “You’ll never make it.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “We both know that.”

  She bit her lip. “We have to do something. I’m not going down without a fight.”

  “I’m not saying we roll over, but leaving this store only ends one way.”

  “Okay, so what do you propose?”

  Rodriguez looked around the store. There wasn’t much to work with—golf clubs, clothes, a few bags and carts.

  He shrugged. “We could pretend to be mannequins.” For a guy with a blood-soaked rag pressed into an empty eye socket, it was a solid attempt at a little humor.

  “Or,” she said, “we could try to make things a little more challenging for them.” She grabbed one of the clubs out of the rack and bent it over her knee, twisting it back and forth until the head broke off. She touched the broken tip with her finger. It was jagged and sharp. “Come on. Help me. We can brace these around the store to slow them down.”

  Rodriguez was about to point out that a few sharp golf clubs weren’t about to stop a team of hardcore soldiers, but he held his tongue. She needed to do something, and he had nothing better to offer.

  “Right,” he said, snatching up one of the clubs.

  As they began snapping off the heads, she said, “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?”

  She continued to look down at the clubs.

  “For Cobb.”

  “Cobb made his own choices. That wasn’t your fault.”

  “No?” she said, looking up as if to challenge him.

  “No,” he said, meeting her stare.

  She went back to working on the clubs.

  “I don’t want to die. Not like him.”

  “Join the club.”

  She held up one of the pointy shafts and shook her head.

  “We’re going to need more than these to stop them.”

  Rodriguez turned and studied the store. A few ideas came to mind, none of which were going to make much of a difference. Still, it was like she said—they had to do something.

  “I’ll continue to break these off.” He pointed to a wall lined with dozens of boxes of golf balls. “You go over and dump as many of those golf balls on the floor as you can find.”

  “Golf balls?”

  “Sure. Maybe, it’ll slow them down.”

  “Right!” she said with much more enthusiasm than the suggestion deserved. She reached out and touched his hand. “Thank you—you know, for not giving up.”

  “I get it, Lieutenant. Now go play with my balls.”

  She started toward the rack and then turned to look back.

  “What did you just say?”

  “I said go pour out the golf balls. Really, Lieutenant.”

  She shook her head, a nervous smile creeping over her face. No two people could be more different, but like it or not, they were in this together.

  They took five long minutes getting the store ready, keeping a constant eye on the stairs. When they had finished, there were twenty homemade golf spears poking out of nooks and crannies, and a few hundred Titleist golf balls rolling about the floor. They also hung shirts, hats, and ponchos around the store, hoping that they might confuse the soldiers, even if only for an instant.

  When they were done, Rodriguez pulled off his bloody clothes and slipped on a pair of golf pants and a matching Polo shirt and hat.

  “Do you really think this is the time to be worried about your clothes?” she said, kneeling behind the counter.

  “It’s camouflage.” He hesitated. “Maybe you should change your clothes too, Lieutenant.”

  She gave him the eye. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

  He grinned. “Hey, I’m just looking out for you.”

  “Uh-huh, sure you are. I’m fine like I am.”

  “Suit yourself, but that pink t-shirt would look awesome on you.”

  “Corporal…” she growled.

  Rodriguez laughed and repositioned himself to the far corner of the room to hide behind a stack of golf bags that he had stuffed with everything solid he could find. It wasn’t quite a machine gunner’s nest, but it was better than being out in the open.

  Bell whistled and pointed toward the stairs. Shapeless shadows crept lower.

  Rodriguez nodded, lowering his face to the stock of his Grendel.

  Unfortunately, neither Bell nor Rodriguez had a clean shot at the landing, essentially giving the soldiers a free pass up to that point. The Black Dogs made no attempt to talk them out. Instead, they tossed a small canister through the broken glass door. It landed near the center of the room, emitting a tremendous boom and flash of light.

  Rodriguez and Bell both covered their ears and ducked away from the blast, but that only help to limit the worst of it. As their senses were overwhelmed, the world morphed into a bright, silent orb of confusion.

  Chappie watched from the open cargo door of his UH-60 as the two SpeedHawks raced away, white smoke streaming from their underbellies. Two dozen Blackhawks now circled the golf course, and smoke rose in the distance from where one had detected and subsequently destroyed the remaining Chinook. Dr. Green and Congresswoman Lemay sat on jump seats to either side of the door. Both stared out, gripping the harnesses strapped tightly across their chests.

  Chappie’s radio sounded. “Sir, both aircraft are fleeing to the east. Should we continue to fire on them?”

  “Let ’em go.” The mission was to rescue President Glass, not wipe out the Black Dogs. Not yet, anyway.

  “Who are they?” shouted Lemay.

  “They’re a special unit sent by your lovely Commander in Chief.”

  “But why would President Pike do that? It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Not yet perhaps, but it will. I suspect you’re about to have your eyes opened, Congresswoman.”

  A tremendous flash lit the windows of the clubhouse below them, followed almost immediately by the sound of gunfire. There was a firefight underway.

  Green pointed out the open door. “General, could that be President Glass and the others?”

  “I don’t know why they’d have left the bunker, but somebody’s obviously putting up a fight.” He brought his radio up. “Get a squad down into the clubhouse. And be on the alert for friendlies.”

  Three of the Blackhawks quickly descended. Before their wheels could even touch down, soldiers were scrambling out the cargo doors.

  Their responses to the flashbang grenade couldn’t have been more different. Rodriguez poked his rifle above the golf bags and began firing blindly toward the door. Bell chose to drop to the floor, lying motionless with the hope of avoiding detection until her senses had returned. Of the two, Bell’s choice had the better outcome. Rodriguez quickly found himself under intense fire, bullets ripping into the bags. One found its way around the makeshift barricade, punching a neat hole through his thigh. He screamed and scrambled further around the bags, hoping to avoid the painful slap of another bullet.

  Dozens of rounds continued pelting the bags, but thankfully, none had found their way through the thick piles of clubs, push carts, and training aids. Afraid to show any part of himself, Rodriguez sat balled up, his rifle clutched to his chest with one hand, and the bloody
rag pressed to his eye with the other.

  Bell watched as two of the Black Dogs carefully crept toward Rodriguez’s position, darting from one table to the next. They were seconds away from having a clean shot.

  She took a long slow breath.

  “I’m okay with dying,” she whispered. “I hope you are too.”

  She sighted in on the lead man and fired. The 6.5 mm slug caught him in the side of his neck, and he toppled over, clutching the wound, coughing and gurgling. She immediately swung back toward the other man, but before she could get off a shot, he dropped prone and let loose with automatic fire.

  Bullets punched holes all around her, shattering the glass counter and sending hats and towels tumbling from the shelf above her head. She waited for the sting of a bullet, but it didn’t come. Instead, two more thunderous booms shook the room. Completely unprepared for the flashbang grenades, she lay back, blinded and disoriented. She vomited but managed to swallow it back down. Loud gunshots rang out, as well as voices that she couldn’t make out. She lay on the floor, unable to fight back. This was it. The end. Oh well, she thought, I had to go sometime. At least it was with some honor.

  More gunshots sounded, some of them silenced and some of them not. Strangely, none of it seemed directed at her. The entire commotion lasted less than a minute, and when it finally subsided, she opened her eyes. A man stood towering over her, dressed in military fatigues, body armor, and a tight-fitting cap.

  He extended a gloved hand.

  “U.S. Marines, ma’am. We’re here to help.”

  By the time Chappie’s helicopter had landed, the fight in the clubhouse was already over. Ten marines surrounded a young man and woman, barely out of their teens. The man was dressed in bright golf clothes and the woman in an Army cadet uniform. Both were clearly shell-shocked from the intense firefight, but the man had clearly taken the brunt of the punishment.

  Chappie, Dr. Green, and Congresswoman Lemay hurried over to the cadets. Lieutenant Bell immediately saluted, and Chappie returned the gesture.