It created an uncomfortable stalemate, where he knew he was at the disadvantage. He knew parts of the building were on fire. Unless the flames were contained, he was at risk of either having the building collapse down onto him or suffocating as the oxygen was sucked out of the basement to feed the blaze above. To escape, he’d have to either haul himself on his bad leg to a window and climb out of it without getting shot or rush the hallway on his bad leg, defeat whoever was guarding the room he was in, and make it up a flight of stairs and through another kill zone in the hallway up there without getting shot.
While neither of those options seemed even remotely possible, he was starting to think that if he was going to die, it would be best take some of the bastards out with him.
Above the crackling of the flames and the chatter of gunfire upstairs, Grossman could hear three voices not more than a dozen feet away. One of them was young-sounding and unfamiliar. The other two, he knew well—Prange and Carter. He couldn’t make out what they were saying out there, but there was no mistaking the sound of those two voices. Not after everything they’d put him through.
There was a short and furious burst of gunfire just down the hallway. It sounded like a hunting rifle and two SKSs having it out with some M-16s. Grossman felt a surge of optimism that some of his people had broken through Prange’s forces and gotten down to the basement. As quickly as hope came, though, it was taken away. The new weapons were quickly silenced while the M-16s seemed to be able to fire with impunity.
Enough rounds were going down the hallway that he could hear chunks of the cinderblock walls shattering. He itched to drop his magazine to find out exactly how many rounds he had left, but was afraid that at that exact moment, his foes would come rushing in. He decided to go with a conservative estimate of six rounds.
He knew that there were at least three men waiting outside the room for him. He didn’t think Prange would be much of a fight, but Carter was a killer. There was no doubt about that.
So, when he saw Carter cross his narrow window of visibility into the hallway, moving toward where he’d heard potential guns coming from, Grossman felt the equation shift a little bit. Maybe he still had allies in the basement. Maybe not all was lost.
35
Peter had a split second to react to the sudden appearance of Carter. His only tool was a rifle with an empty magazine and a rather expensive scope, and his only advantage was that Carter was still sweeping his pistol across the room, seeking a target.
It was all or nothing. Peter swung his rifle overhead, like a splitting maul. The skeletal folding stock and lightweight plastic handguard and other bodywork made it feel flimsy and insubstantial, a toy version of the axe he was imitating. It wasn’t going to do any real damage, but it impacted Carter’s wrists with enough force and surprise that he jerked the trigger, then lost his grip. As the round in the chamber fired, the gun popped out of his hands and went flying.
Neither of the two men had enough attention to spare to follow where it went. The fight was on. Peter’s next and immediate priority was to lock up his foe’s arms, in case he had another firearm or a knife. Carter was able to easily evade the attempt, sidestepping Peter’s rush and adding his weight to the younger man’s inertia to slam him into the wall.
The impact stunned Peter, and he tasted blood. Carter captured his wrist and was in the process of getting a joint lock on it, when Peter remembered some of the basic hand to hand his father had taught him. He shifted his stance and was able to twist out of the hold, taking a meaty fist to his face instead.
The blow bounced Peter off the wall again, and stars splashed across his eyes. His vision cleared just in time for him to jerk his head sideways, taking only a glancing blow from a second punch. Since he had a solid surface behind him, Peter pushed off of it, propelling himself, shoulder first, into the center of Carter’s chest. The collision sent the bigger man staggering backward. Peter let his football instincts take over and pressed the opening, launching a series of short, sharp shoves, as if he were trying to fend off a big defensive guy bound and determined to roll over him to get at the quarterback.
Carter was just starting to adjust to Peter’s assault when he backed into a box of papers. The next shove sent him hard to the ground.
Peter was on him immediately, again trying to lock up his arms. This second attempt to wrap Carter up also failed, and Peter got a hard lesson in how ferocious his opponent was in a grapple. Almost immediately, he ended up on the bottom of the fight, his left arm bent behind him, his face being ground into the floor. He felt like his arm was about to be pulled out of its socket, if the elbow didn’t give way first.
As he did everything he could to at least deny Carter the satisfaction of hearing him scream, Peter thought about his mother. He found himself fearing his own death less than he feared for her. How was she going to go on after losing both her husband and her only child? Peter pictured his room, his house, the beautiful spot of land it had been built on. Would she and the others stay on there after he, and possibly Larry and Chuck as well, was gone? Or would they abandon the place, pack whatever they could carry, and wander around like refugees looking desperately for some other place to settle?
He felt his limbs grow heavy and sluggish as he spent the last of his strength struggling against Carter’s weight and skill.
As Peter stopped struggling, Carter shifted his weight, taking his right arm out of play. Peter assumed the worst, that he was going for a weapon so he could finish the fight. Grasping about frantically, Peter’s fingers closed around the barrel of his rifle again. He recalled another one of his father’s old sayings. “When your only tool is a hammer, everything looks like a nail. But when you’re surrounded by nails, any tool is a hammer.”
Peter blindly swung the rifle up over his shoulder, feeling the receiver impact something soft. It broke Carter’s concentration just enough for Peter to buck the man off and roll away.
He came to a stop against a burning box of paper. Carter was pulling a small pistol from his belt. Peter hurled the box of paper, putting up a wall of flaming confetti and ash. Three shots rang out, but nothing hit Peter. He grabbed and tossed another box, shoving himself sideways, deeper into the corner of the room where the flames were worst, and he had the most things to throw.
He grasped hot metal and screamed is it blistered his palm, but he kept his grip long enough to throw it at Carter. As it tumbled through the air, he recognized it as one of his SKS magazines. Looking away from Carter for just a moment, he saw more mags in amongst the charred remains of his canvas belt and pouches. Roaring against the pain of another searing-hot piece of metal, Peter took a quick-aimed shot, sending it flying at Carter’s face.
The distraction of slapping it away brought Carter’s pistol offline from his target. Peter swept another armful of flaming paper in his general direction, then put his hands on the legs of a chair. When that hit Carter, he recoiled long enough for Peter to get his feet back under himself and close the distance.
This time, instead of going for the flying bear hug, Peter heard his father’s voice in the back of his head. He lifted his leading leg and leaned his weight forward. Just after he hit the tipping point, Peter kicked the leg forward, impacting directly on Carter’s knee.
With a loud scream, Carter crumpled and clutched at his leg, which was suddenly bent the wrong way. Peter followed with a vicious kick to the face that almost lifted his enemy off the ground. He had just enough time to look around and find one of the two pistols Carter had dropped.
Moving quickly, Peter picked it up. He aimed it at Carter, who was curled up on the ground, clutching at his knee and moaning incoherently. A momentary wave of pity for the man washed over Peter as he watched him. He found his hand trembling as he held the pistol, unable to put his finger on the trigger.
Over the past few weeks, he’d had to aim and fire at people intent on causing him harm. He hadn’t hesitated then, but there was something different about having his sights on a helpless person wh
o couldn’t defend himself or get out of the way. In Peter’s head, there was a line there that he wasn’t sure he could cross.
“Don’t move,” Peter said. “Stay still. Real still.”
Carter just kept groaning. Peter was stuck, not knowing exactly what to do. He didn’t have any restraints on him, and he wasn’t sure he’d be willing to get close enough to the man to try and secure him even if he did. Not without backup, at least. He had to get out of the burning basement soon, but just leaving Carter behind wasn’t an option. He’d either burn to death or escape, neither of which sat right with Peter, but for different reasons.
Shouting for help seemed more likely to bring foes than friends, from what he could tell of the situation in the rest of the building.
The deliberation had distracted him, enough that he barely had time to notice Carter suddenly rolling in a very fast and controlled manner. Peter jumped backward and reflexively squeezed the trigger of the pistol in his hand. The weapon barked and a bullet slammed into Carter’s chest. A combat knife with a blackened blade clattered to the floor.
36
After he saw Carter disappear into the room down the hall, Prange figured he was on his own to deal with Grossman. The sound of a fistfight, loud enough to be heard over the noise in the building, punctuated by a single gunshot left Prange quite sure that his man hadn’t come out on top.
The firebomb he’d sent Carter to get was still in the pocket of the dead man down the hallway. Grossman was still too well protected for Prange and his one dumbass, useless grunt to dislodge him. It was also becoming clear that he needed to either plug a bullet into Grossman or get the hell out. The problem was that the hallway at the top of the stairs sounded like it was still a free-fire zone, even while the building burned.
Prange smacked the guy next to him. “Go get that firebomb. Just pray and spray into the room while you grab the canister and get it back here, all right?”
The kid finally showed some usefulness by checking his magazine and dashing down the hall. He did as he was told, blasting full auto into the room where Carter had quite likely gotten his dumb ass killed. A couple pistol shots rang out in return, but Prange’s guy wasn’t hit while he picked up the red canister and sprinted back.
“Did you get a look inside?” Prange asked.
“C-man was laid out on the floor. Local shot back at me.”
“Keep watch that way. Don’t want him coming up on us,” Prange said, pulling the arming ribbon on the firebomb.
Before throwing the canister, Prange paused to savor the moment. The whole unpleasant, wretched ordeal of the town of Bowman and its pissant mayor was finally almost at an end. Grossman was trapped behind the safe, that stupid cane of his several feet away. Prange could hear him breathing heavy back in the corner, with that little whistling wheeze that he made when exerting himself. The one thing that would have made the moment perfect would have been if Grossman had come out and looked him in the eye. It was going to be so satisfying to burn the man alive for all the trouble he’d caused, but Prange wished he’d be able to see the man’s face writhe in agony as the skin burned off of it and he died.
A huge grin broke across his face as he adjusted his grip on the firebomb. Just as he was about to throw it, he saw Grossman throw himself out from behind the safe, pistol out and aimed toward the doorway. Finding himself suddenly staring at the barrel of a handgun caused Prange to flinch instead of hurling the canister.
Grossman fired three rounds. They were poorly aimed, but one hit the door jamb just above and to the right of Prange’s face. The splinters the bullet kicked up caused Prange to recoil, and he dropped the red canister. It fell to the ground in slow motion as he reached for it with hands that seemed sluggish, as if the air had turned to wet cement.
The next thought through his head was to get away from the thing as far and as fast as he could. While he was still trying to get his legs to straighten and propel him down the hallway, the firebomb landed on its detonator. There was the pop that so many times had filled him with such glee, then the bursting noise as the canister ruptured and sprayed its thick, foul-smelling gel.
It got all over Prange, and he had barely enough time to formulate a prayer to a god he’d never believed in that the ignition charge would be a dud.
It wasn’t. There was a sharp whooshing sound as the fuel lit. Prange saw a blue wave of flames spread out from the canister, across the floor, leap to his leg, then climb up his body.
The pain was unlike anything he’d ever felt before. His first breath in made it even worse, searing his throat and lungs. He was aware, as if he were shouting to himself from a great distance, that he should have hit the ground and tried to roll out the flames, but he no longer had control of himself. He was a helpless prisoner inside of a panicked mind that seemed to be screaming for a very long time, until things faded to black.
37
Peter heard the pop and burst of a homemade firebomb in the hallway, followed by two very agonized screams. He dared to peek out into the hallway. A man in a suit was engulfed in fire, wailing and thrashing aimlessly. For a fraction of a second, the flames and smoke parted, and Peter got a clear view of his face. It was unmistakably Daniel Prange. He, even more than Carter, was responsible for everything that had happened to Bowman over the past few weeks. Every wound Peter and his fellows up at the homestead had suffered, every friend who’d died, every house that had burned down. The responsibility for all of that was on Prange.
As much as he wanted to just let the man burn, Peter raised the pistol and put him out of his suffering. He would have done the same for the man in camouflage behind him if he’d had a clear shot.
Before going any farther, Peter realized he needed to know if there were any other friendlies close by. Looking at his watch to get the time and date, he called out, “Predator!”
Tom Grossman’s voice rang out from a room down the hall. “Aliens!”
Looking left and right, to make sure nobody was coming down either of the stairways, Peter stepped into the hallway. Both of the men that had been on fire were now motionless as their burning flesh filled the air with a sickening scent of charred meat. The fuel on them was still blazing away, keeping Peter from getting into the room with Grossman, or the mayor from getting out.
The burning bodies in the hallway were only one of the reasons the basement air was getting harder to breathe. Smoke still billowed out of the room where Peter had been, as well as the one across the hall where he’d last seen Chuck and Larry.
“I could get out through the window if somebody could give me a hand,” Grossman said.
“We’ve got you,” a familiar voice said.
Peter felt a cool wave of relief wash over him. “About time you got back into the action, Larry!” he shouted.
“Room got way too hot, way too fast; we had to bail. Chuck says the worst of the flames over there have died out. He can haul you out.”
Peter backtracked to the room where he, Chuck, and Larry had originally entered the building. The flames in there had indeed gone down, but the air was still thick with smoke.
“Come on!” Chuck shouted from the window. “Fresh air this way.”
Peter pulled his shirt up over his mouth and nose, squinted his eyes, and ran through the burning debris in the room to the window. “Got a backup piece?” he asked, realizing that the only weapon he had on himself was Carter’s pistol he’d picked up off the ground.
“Yeah. Come on.” Chuck reached down and grabbed Peter under the arms, lifting him up.
The first thing Peter did once he got outside the building was take a huge, deep breath. The air outside of the burning basement still smelled bad and was hazy with smoke, but it was so much sweeter and cooler.
It was only after he’d filled his lungs that he realized he was out in the open and there were still guns going off. He threw himself against a wall, pistol at the ready.
“Relax,” Chuck said. “This side of the building is secure. S
eems like we’re mopping up the last of the resistance inside.” He pointed to a small brick building across the parking lot from the town hall. “We’ve got a clear run to the post office, where there’s a triage set up. Let’s get you checked out.”
The post office was noisy and bustling but seemed to be under control. Somebody checked Peter in by rolling up his sleeve and writing something on his forearm with a marker. The next person in line asked him about where he’d been and what wounds he had. Another couple letters were written on his forearm, and he was sent to a third person, who pointed to the end of a line of people sitting on chairs or on the floor.
While he waited his turn to have the burns on his hands and the bruises from his fight with Carter checked over, he saw Tom Grossman come in. The whole place stopped for a moment when they saw their mayor, then one person started clapping. A few more people joined in. Peter started stomping his foot on the ground as even more people added to the applause.
When it finally died down, Peter realized he didn’t hear the sound of gunfire coming from outside the building anymore. A wave of nausea, exhaustion, and dizziness washed over him as the adrenaline rush of the past few hours all at once left his body and he started to crash. The battle was over. They had won. They had all come together and beaten back Prange and Carter and all of their thugs, once and for all.
It was done.
38
The next day, Tom Grossman sat down in his new “office,” feeling guilty at how large it was. The school building had come through the battle almost completely unscathed, so the town’s operations had moved over. Grossman had taken over the science classroom and didn’t know what to do with the amount of space he had. His office, being up on the second floor of the town hall, hadn’t been directly damaged by any of the firebombs that had been thrown around the first floor, but smoke had gotten up there. All of his files reeked of it, even in the larger space and with the windows open.
Age of Survival Series | Book 3 | Age of Revival Page 20
