Christine smirked at his comments. She replied, “He told me to expect you. What kind of toys?”
Michael whistled, and waved at one of the trucks. Two men hopped out, went into the back, and began unloading wooden crate boxes. He turned back to Christine. “These, you’ll love. Fifty Claymores and twice as many of some other kind, I don’t remember the name. Little mines, with tripwires. If we had electronics, the Claymores could be daisy-chained, but we couldn’t figure out how to use the cables and twister things the combat engineers would have used. Eh, better than nothing.”
Mary laughed. “Wow, that’s a lot. Thanks, neighbors.”
Christine, however, frowned. “Speaking of ‘nothing,’ what exactly are you asking in return for all this, and for whatever else is in your trucks? No one gives this sort of stuff away for free.”
Mary nudged her with her elbow. “Don’t be rude, Chrissy.”
Michael shrugged. “It’s a valid question. And it’s not free. We’re hoping you all will remember this gesture of goodwill when it comes time to negotiate trade deals for your extra produce and food production, come fall.”
Well, that made sense. And they’d likely get the good deals they were after, too. She said, “And Fort Morgan is going to honor our decision, if we wish to stay neutral?”
“Friendly-neutral… Yes.” Michael wiped his forehead, too. The day was hot. “But we’ll keep asking, and I’m sure David is smart enough to know what’s best for his people.”
Christine fought the urge to frown. David’s people? David wasn’t even from here. These were her people more than his—but she bit her tongue. “Yes, I’m sure he is. Thank you for the assistance. I’ll let you get on with your deliveries, though, as we’ve got a lot of work to do.”
“Of course,” he said, smile fading slightly. “Good luck, Chrissy. You’re good people, the kind we want for neighbors. Please remember that, come harvest. Well, I’m off to deliver more goodies. The rest is more guns and, especially, ammo. Guns are useless if you run out of the part that kills bad guys.”
Christine got deliberately busy directing her crews to take the crates, and when Michael had left, she opened their hand-drawn maps with her advisor, to update the mine patterns… But half her thoughts were on David. His people… Was she, and the others, now really his people?
If they were, was it a bad thing? Maybe it would motivate him to stick around. That idea brightened her mood considerably. The fact that he was a great role model for Hunter wasn’t a bad thing, either—his only role-model males so far had been his sleazy father and a serial killer.
Soon, though, those thoughts were forgotten as she got busy with the maps. The new mines were a real God-send, ensuring they had enough devices to fill out their patterns—crafting them had been slower work than they’d first thought.
73
Tuesday, July 14th
Christine walked along the barricaded south gateway, across the bridge, with David. Why he’d assigned her as part of his team, she didn’t know. She could shoot damn good, just as well as any of the people he’d put on the lines, dammit. But he’d been adamant, and there was little she could do about it short of just ignoring his orders. So, there she was, tagging along as he inspected the lines.
As he made notes in his police-issue flip pad, ever present, he said without looking up, “So, are you relieved that this will be the final inspection before the fighting starts?”
“Almost,” she answered truthfully. Almost, but not quite. “Too bad it’s also when the dying begins.”
“That began last night,” he reminded her. One of their sentry patrols, sporting a light machine gun mounted to the truck bed thanks to Ft. Morgan’s donations, had been ambushed. The crew was lost, but their “battle buddy” truck had grenaded the bullet-riddled truck with bodies still in it, preventing the enemy from getting the machine gun… “What a waste of lives. Waste of armaments, too,” David said, then paused and cocked his head.
Christine mimicked the action, listening. What had he heard? Slowly, a warbling sound rose, high-pitched. “North air-raid siren?”
David grunted. “Let’s go. It begins.”
He ran to the patrol car, twenty yards back from the bridge, and she followed. She dove into the passenger seat, and he was already peeling out, squealing tires, as she closed the door. They sped through the tiny town, arriving at the north bridge, but the siren was already dying down.
“Have they been overrun already?” she asked.
David’s answer was pursed lips.
The car came around the corner, the bridge sliding into view, but no smoke, no gunshots. People walked the line, huddled behind cover, or did whatever they were doing, just like always. “Seems not,” David said.
He hopped out of the car, this time grabbing the AR-15 he’d carried with him since the arms delivery yesterday.
She grabbed hers, as well, and followed him out to the bridge on foot.
Sitting on the bridge, a red Mustang gleamed in the sun, recently washed and waxed.
Christine’s heart skipped a beat. No way…
“Bryson?” she said, voice croaking. “What the hell is he doing here?”
David kept up his stride, approaching the checkpoint. “What’s going on? Report.”
A townie separated from the line of people aiming rifles at her ex-husband. “David, good to see you. We thought we were under attack already, but it was just this jackass. Chrissy’s ex,” he said, nodding his head toward her, as though she wouldn’t recognize him.
“Well, what the hell does he want?” she asked, thrusting her fists to her hips.
“Says he wants in. He says the horde is right behind him, and if we don’t let him in, he’s going to die. Said it like that was somehow important, too. Jackass,” he repeated.
Well, he’s not wrong.
David grunted. “Take me to him.”
The guard headed toward the roadblock, now heavily fortified with sandbags, cargo containers full of rocks, and more. A narrow path down the bridge’s center was the only vehicle access, but blocked by a tractor-trailer rig.
Bryson looked up, and spotted David atop the “wall” of trailers. His angry expression shifted, and Christine recognized that smug look. “Thank goodness. You idiots are in for it now. David, tell your idiot door monkeys to let me in, will you?”
“Why?” David asked simply.
Christine looked over at him, and smirked, glad he was giving her ex a hard time. “You going to keep him out? Say you’re keeping him out. Pretty please.”
Bryson called up, “Hi, Chrissy. David, whatever she’s offering you to keep me out, I’ll double it to let me in. Money talks, bullshit walks.”
Christine snarled, lip curling back.
David, without looking at her, replied, “No thanks, Bryson. We already have plenty of toilet paper.”
He turned to Christine. “Look, if you really tell me to keep him out, I will. No one here likes him or wants him. But think of your kids, first, okay? I don’t think they’d appreciate knowing you left him out to die, and that’s all you. I’m not taking the blame for your choice. So, which is it?”
So much for that idea. She let out a heavy sigh. “Fine. Let the sonuvabitch in. But, David, you have to keep him away from me. Lock him up somewhere.”
David grinned. “I think I know just the place. A comfy little cellar Cobi showed me.”
Christine raised one eyebrow at him, but nodded. “As long as he’s not underfoot, stealing my kids…”
Bryson looked over his shoulder, then turned all the way around and raised a hand to his brow.
She followed his gaze, and gasped. Dust clouds had appeared in the distance—but to the north. The base David had found was west, and a bit south, wasn’t it? She looked at David, but he was busy barking orders, and the roadblock slowly inched open.
Bryson hopped back into his Mustang and sped up, screeching to a halt at the trailer, waiting for it to open far enough to get his car in.<
br />
Idiot.
To the south, a familiar sound arose, low at first but quickly rising in pitch and volume.
The air-raid siren was sounding.
A moment later, a faint crack, crack sounded.
“Damn,” David muttered. He looked to the guardian who had spoken to him first. “Get Bryson detained and cuffed, and Cobi can tell you where to stuff him. Then get your ass back on the line.” He turned to Christine. “Time to go fight. If you pray, now’s a good time.”
She couldn’t have agreed more. “I know the plan. Stick with you, help you as you coordinate our defenses. Check.”
The rifle’s heavy weight in her hands was disturbingly reassuring.
Boomer, the bandit leader, leaned up against his car, the old Impala he called his command chariot, and peered through binoculars at the north bridge into Weldona. The way the hill dipped down toward it meant it wasn’t really visible from most places outside of town, but the particular spot to which Wiley had led him provided a good view.
The bandit leader let out a low whistle. “You weren’t kidding. It seems pretty well guarded, but not near as good as that south bridge. Honestly, I was kind of worried about whether we would be able to break through that one. Even though I have plenty of people to do it, they set that gateway up pretty good. We would’ve had to funnel into, like, a kill zone. Most of my people wouldn’t have done any good until it was their turn to hit the meat grinder.”
Wiley leaned up against the car, as well. “Yeah, I see what you mean. It sounds like the shooting has begun over there, already. I thought you told them to wait until we had scouted this out.”
“I did.” Boomer’s jaw tightened. “Most of these idiots are soft, though, so I’m not too surprised one of them lost their nerve and started shooting.”
“And these were the ‘souljas’ you wanted to follow you when you attacked the south gate?”
Boomer smirked. “I wasn’t going to be leading the first wave anyway, you know what I mean? So it wouldn’t have mattered when they started shooting, since I’d have just thrown them all at that south gate at once, then walked in to squeeze the juice out of this plum.”
“Yep. Leading from the front would’ve been pretty dumb, what with the funnel at that gate. So, what’s the plan, now?” Not for the first time since his capture, Wiley silently wished he still had his gun. He could’ve ended this entire fiasco right then and there. Boomer’s guards were distracted, looking at the bridge as well, and he might’ve been able to take Boomer out with enough time left to duck the guards’ return fire.
But he had no weapon, and having his survival depend entirely on Boomer’s whim just sucked. Other refugees had joined the bandit camp over the last few days, and Boomer had no problem with those people keeping their own guns, but not Wiley.
He bristled at the thought, but considering he was from Weldona, the town they were about to attack, he hadn’t exactly been surprised.
“First,” Boomer replied, “my little minions will spread out into a line, back behind this ridge, with a technical on either side to bring a crossfire down on them when my army mobs toward that bridge.”
“Where will I be? I’m a better shot than the jokes you got following you.”
“Ha. You’ll be with me, for now, where I set up my command post just a bit back from the ridge. From there, my walkie-talkie is in range of the people on the diversion raid over on the south end.”
“Cool, whatever. When do I get my payback?” Wiley glared for a moment, then broke eye contact. Let that fool think he’s all big and scary…
“We begin the main attack, here, just as soon as Weldona’s reinforcements get in place over there. If your diversion works, then once we move in for the kill, you get to play your revenge card.”
Wiley grunted. “When do I get my pistol back, or a rifle, so I can play that card and you can live up to your side of our bargain?”
Boomer took the binoculars away from his eyes and faced Wiley. “Soon, little weasel. I promised you would have some payback, and I’m a man of my word.”
Wiley doubted that, but at the moment, his options were limited. He would have given up a lot just to be back in Weldona, shooting these bastards.
That was a startling thought, though. Wiley got so lost in considering the unexpected thought that he almost missed Boomer’s command to pull back from the ridge.
Stomping on the brake, the patrol car skid to a halt behind the ring of cover facing the bridge checkpoint, which was itself now a barricaded fortification. David flung the door open and greeted the newly-created militia officer who came to meet him. Lt. Strom, David recalled.
“Strom. What’s the situation?” David pointedly ignored Christine, standing beside him, cueing the lieutenant to do the same.
“Sir, we were lightly engaged. One of ours wounded, left leg. She’ll be fine. Three confirmed kills, at least twice that wounded, from what we’ve so far gathered from the troops’ recollections.”
“Where’d they go?” David frowned. Something didn’t feel right, but he pushed the thought aside. What-ifs were a rabbit hole that could drive one mad, if he let himself.
“They pulled back before throwing everything at us. We’re not sure what happened. Should we send up the ultralight?”
David frowned. The enemy couldn’t know they had a working aircraft, of sorts. Might be time… He nodded. “With a walkie-talkie, it has great range, being high up in the air, and could help us see what the hell is going on out there. Get him up, but I want him to cruise east as he gains altitude. Give him a telescope, two actually, and have him circle. What is the flight time?”
Christine said, “We have a plane?”
As the lieutenant passed the order on, David nodded. “A townie’s hobby project; it’s a tiny little biplane driven by a single propeller. It has no outer shell, no protection for the pilot, but it could easily take off from any street in town. Only our new officers know about it. Just one of many little side projects I’ve been coordinating the last couple days. I just wish we had more time.”
Christine began to say something, but as the first notes of the south gate siren rang once again, she snapped her mouth shut.
A militia soldier ran up to the lieutenant, next to David, and looked back and forth between them. “They’re back. More of them, this time. I think it’s the real thing.” Her voice was edged in panic.
Lieutenant Strom grimaced. “Back to post, and start shooting, dammit!”
David snarled. He couldn’t have said it better, himself. This was it—the war was on. He brought out his walkie-talkie. “North One, status.”
The first shots rang out, from the bridge defenders, followed by some shots from positions to either side—snipers, set as far apart as possible—as the radio voice replied, “All clear, sir.”
David paused. His gut was sending conflicting messages, but in the end, he decided to go with what he knew for sure. “Very well. Send the Flex Team to South One, A-S-A-P.”
Christine leaned in. “Are you sure that’s smart? What if this is just another feint?”
David shrugged. “We’ll deal with what-ifs when they become real. They’ve yet to hit the north checkpoint, and we have no reason to think they know about it. We do know they’re attacking here.”
He tuned out her reply, as he went through status checks with the other emplacements.
74
Christine took aim and squeezed the trigger until her AR-15 bucked against her shoulder; through her low-magnification scope, she saw her target fall. As she scanned the field for more targets, she muttered a curse against the bandits. They had at least two working cars, and one of them kept reappearing, then driving west, out of sight. They had something up their sleeves, her gut told her, but David would only focus on what was in front of him, though she’d suggested sending Flex Teams to other points, as well.
At least the overwhelming defense at the south bridge had kept the bandits from just mob-rushing it, using
force of numbers to win. After all, the bandits outnumbered them at least five-to-one. Thankfully, that wasn’t translating to overwhelming pressure on the defense—not yet at least.
That, or they weren’t attacking with everything they had, yet.
Christine froze, then turned to David, busy with his maps and radios up there in the storage container tower HQ. “David.”
No reply.
“David,” she repeated.
“What?” he asked, frowning. “I’m busy.”
“Yeah, I know. Listen, you saw how many of them were out there. Is that how many they’re attacking with?”
“What?”
Christine lowered her rifle. No targets anyway; the enemy were all barricaded behind odd little mobile covers they’d brought, which appeared to be cut out of siding or truck trailers or something.
She said, “Well, I don’t think they’re attacking with everything. Doesn’t even seem like half. But what do I know?”
She raised her scope to eye level again, scanning. When she heard David radio the other emplacements for status checks, she tried not to smile. At least she’d gotten him thinking. Lacking a target, she fired at one of the enemy’s metal shields, on one end, and grinned when an arm holding a rifle flopped into view from behind it. Those shields didn’t even stop the dinky 5.56 rounds her AR fired, but they did make it hard to know where to shoot.
“Charge!” Boomer roared.
Two-hundred-plus bandits rose up from behind the ridgeline, raising their stupid shields—which took a team of four even to move, more if they wanted to move quickly—and struggled with their burdens, heading south.
Behind them, an equal number of unarmed bandits advanced, slower and lower to the ground. Boomer’s brilliant idea, they’d rush up to fill the battle lines as fighters fell, using their newly-available guns. There had been only so many to go around, and the south gate assaulters had a disproportional number of them to make the ruse believable.
Inception of Chaos: A Post-Apocalyptic EMP Survival Story Page 44
