by Lou Cadle
Dev whistled to let him know he was coming near.
“Who is it?” Henry hissed a moment later.
“Dev Quinn,” he said. “I’ve cleared the woods on this side.” He moved more quickly until he broke through the woods to the road. If Henry was risking speech, he must feel confident no one else was nearby.
Dev crunched a few steps on the gravel road, and Henry came up and slapped him on the shoulder. “Good job. You hold the road. I need to clear the woods on the south side.”
“How many got through? And how?”
“I don’t know if any did, but if so, it wasn’t via the road. Had to be through the woods, and they might still be coming through for all we know. See you in fifteen minutes or so.”
Dev used the scope to count the dead on the road. It took a few minutes. There were eighteen, including the one splayed over the tree who’d been the first to die. From the looks of it, Henry had been finishing a few off with shots to the head. That had probably been the last few rounds he’d heard fired.
Dev got down behind an old stump and rested his rifle on it, aiming for the downed tree blocking the road. With that body up there as warning, he wouldn’t try coming over it, but he knew these were desperate people. Who the heck knew what they’d do?
He was lucky none of them seemed to have infantry training. They shouldn’t have spread themselves out as they did, for one thing, sending a few in to try and rob the outbuildings while the others trickled across. They should have hidden their cars better. It reassured him that they’d made mistakes.
He heard no more shots from his property, but there were some now from farther up the road, the Crocker or Morrow place. He wondered how Henry felt, leaving his own property unprotected. He worried about the Morrows being so old, and wished Henry would hurry up clearing the south woods, so that at least one of them could go up there and give Mr. Morrow some support.
Chapter 23
Sierra and her father got their rifles down from the rack and made sure they were loaded. They pulled their goggles around their neck and packed their pockets with more ammunition. Unlike the Quinns, who had stockpiled all kinds of illegal gear, they were working with eight-round magazines and would need to reload more often. Arch had drilled her enough in doing it blind that she thought she was ready.
For that part, at least.
“Don’t leave my side this time,” Pilar said.
“Okay,” she said, happy both to have the chance to watch his back and to know someone was watching hers.
“Barn first,” he said, putting his hand on the back door latch.
“One second.”
She flipped the kitchen light off and realized a hall light was on too. “Let me get that light,” she said and ran back to turn it off. Now the house was dark.
“Give your eyes a second to adjust to the low light,” he said.
“Okay,” she said. Everything looked like snow dancing over vague shapes. Until her eyes adjusted, that’s what she always saw. In five minutes, it’d disappear.
Her father turned the handle and the door snicked open.
Outside, there was enough light left in the sky to see by, at least the shapes of the barn and henhouse. The hens and rooster weren’t kicking up a fuss, so she didn’t think anyone was out there again. Not yet, at least.
She and her father circled the barn, but no doors were open. “Back door,” Pilar whispered.
Sierra couldn’t help but think about the last time she’d gone in that door.
He pushed her to the side of the door, reached out, and Sierra held her breath while he eased it open. It swung silently and easily, and she realized he must have oiled the latch and hinges since the other night. Smart.
He squatted and pulled at the edge of the door, stuck his head around quick, and pulled it back. He shook his head and pulled the night vision goggles up. He groped for the door, and she realized he couldn’t see well—the binocular half of the goggles was probably giving him a blur. He peered around again, wearing the goggles, and whispered, “Nobody,” and squat-walked through. Sierra looked around the dimly lit yard one last time, saw it was empty of people, and pulled her own goggles up. She switched them on and, still standing, swung her head around to look in the barn.
There was the faintest glow, and she realized after a heart-stopping second that it was only a wheelbarrow. It had been in the sun this afternoon and still retained some heat. But there was nothing human-shaped but her father, just ahead of her.
“Let’s make absolutely sure no one is in here,” he said, speaking softly. “I’ll take the left side.”
They went down the barn, looking behind equipment, making sure no one was hunkered down behind a tiller or wagon or the wheelbarrow, which was on Sierra’s side. She even peered inside it, though it’d take a very small person to curl up inside that. When she was to the main doors, she looked over. Her father checked the ceiling, but how someone would get up there, she couldn’t begin to imagine.
“Goggles off,” he said as he reached for the main doors, and she pulled hers back down to her neck, the strap scraping past her chin.
In the short time they’d been inside the barn, the world outside had grown dark. There wasn’t even a sliver of moon tonight.
“Should we go and help Curt on the road?” she whispered.
“Or the Quinns, one or the other. I hate to leave the place unguarded though.”
“One of us can stay and protect our stuff.”
“You. You stay.”
“I don’t want you to get—” But her last word was lost in the sound of a shotgun blast from behind them. The Morrow place.
“Shit,” her father said. “Let’s both go. Mitch is all alone.”
They ran across the backyard, headed for the trouble. Sierra’s heart was pounding, and she felt like it might crawl right up through her mouth, but she ran forward anyway. She wasn’t going to wimp out this time.
There was a terrible screech from up ahead, not human, but metallic. Then a slamming sound.
“What the—?” her father said.
Sierra was about to stop and pull on her goggles again when a shower of sparks shot out from just ahead.
“They’re going after his turbine,” Pilar said, pulling her to a halt. When Sierra raised her rifle, he said, “Don’t shoot. Not until we know where Mitch is.”
“There,” she said, as a shotgun blast sounded. “I think he’s up on his deck, or shooting out the door.”
“Okay, let’s get closer. Stay low, move slow, listen for my signals.” Whistling the signal to Morrow that friendly people were arriving, he pushed her shoulder to aim her to the right and veered away to the left several feet, making them a harder target. She walked on, her head pulled into her shoulders like a turtle. Except her head didn’t work that way, dammit. Remembering what Arch had said about not being predictable, she didn’t move in a straight line but shifted back and forth every few steps.
The shotgun sounded again. Mitch was definitely up on the deck.
Her father gave the signal to fire and she brought up her rifle. The sparks were dying down, but they’d still screw up the night vision goggles, so she aimed just below the sparks, hoping she was shooting at bad people. Her father shot first, but her own shots came close behind his. She moved her aim a fraction after every shot.
Her father stopped firing, and she realized she was out of rounds too. She replaced her magazine with a fresh one from her right pocket, stuck the empty in her left pocket, and waited for his signal. Fire again? Move? Or what?
She had no idea if she’d hit anything or anyone at all. There was no more shooting coming from the Morrow house, and she worried something had happened to Mitch. Then the door banged open, and something burning came flying out. It landed, and a spray of flame shot up from the ground.
It illuminated the yard. Sierra could see two figures, standing back from the sparking wind turbine, which was hanging upside-down, its support broken or bent in half. Tha
t didn’t matter so much right now. Those two figures did. She took aim and fired, without waiting for any signal at all. The figures split apart and began to run.
Damn. She wasn’t so good a shot as to hit something running every time. But she tried, leading one like Dev had explained, trying to hit it. She fired four times. Then it fell. She thought she had lucked out, but then it got back up and she realized the person had just tripped. She took aim and fired again, before it could get moving faster.
Again it fell.
This time, it did not get up.
My second kill.
She whistled at Mr. Morrow. But her lips wouldn’t work to hold a whistle. Too nervous or something. “Mr. Morrow, it’s Sierra,” she called.
“Watch out. There might be more of them anywhere,” he called back.
“I know. I’m coming,” she called, and she flipped the safety back on so she could run with the rifle without risking falling and shooting herself or anyone she liked.
She made it to the deck, shoved her rifle ahead of her, and swung herself up the side, saying, “It’s me, it’s me,” so he wouldn’t blast her with the shotgun.
“Get inside,” he said.
“My dad’s still out here.” She lay down prone on the deck and got her rifle set up, as Arch had coached her, taking off the safety again, looking out beyond the dying flames. There was no more gunfire. “What was that fire thing you threw?” she said without looking back.
“Molotov cocktail. Charcoal lighter and a rag and a match,” Mr. Morrow said. “Are you okay? I’m going to check and make sure Sybil is safe.”
Sierra couldn’t imagine wasting fuel for something like that, but it’d helped them see clearly enough to kill the thieves, so maybe it was a smart use of it. The turbine was hardly sparking at all now. She could taste it though, as ozone.
Then a railing to her left splintered, the sound of a shotgun blast coming almost simultaneously with it. She let out a squeak. She rolled and aimed the rifle to where she thought the shot had come from. She squeezed the trigger.
The sound of someone running away came just as her father’s whistle did, to let her know where he was. She fired at the pounding feet again and again, not hitting the guy. Keep him running away—second best.
But no, he could run to her house next and break in. She stopped and calmed herself, adjusted her position, and aimed more carefully. Click. She needed a fresh magazine. Her ears were ringing.
“Sierra,” said Mitch through that noise, “get back behind the door. You’re all lit up out there.”
“But my dad,” she said.
“He’s behind cover out at the garden. I saw him duck down there when you started firing.”
“Are you sure he wasn’t shot?”
“He was fine. Please, get in here.”
“My job isn’t to hide,” she said, though a part of her wished it was.
“Then please at least take to the shadows. Get under the deck.”
“Wait,” she said, thinking it through. The guy she had been firing at was gone. But where? “Okay, I’ll come in.”
“Thank goodness.”
She scampered in the door. “I want to look out your front windows. Maybe the night vision goggles will work in that direction. We need to think about attack from all directions.” She was proud of herself for being able to think that logically and remember something of what Dev had told her.
Mitch let her in and shut the back door after her.
“Could you turn that light off?” He had turned on a dim light on his stove’s hood, not so bright it’d be a beacon to the attackers, but she wanted it totally dark in here.
He flicked it off, saying, “You can go in Sybil’s room. That’ll be good and dark.”
“Thanks.” She went back into the room where the old lady stayed. “Can you shut the door behind me, please?” She readied her goggles on her forehead.
“Okay.” He shut it, and she slipped the goggles down to her eyes.
The pungent smell of urine grew stronger. For a moment, Sierra thought maybe she had wet herself in fear, and then realized what it actually was.
Sybil’s form glowed on the bed, making it easy to move around her. Sierra bumped into something, reached out and felt a round shape, cool metal. Medical equipment. Lifting her feet higher than normal with every step so she wouldn’t trip over anything like wires or tubes, she headed for the window, the shape of which she could barely make out. She dropped down before she got there, in case someone out there also had night vision capability, and she walked the last half-dozen steps on her knees. Pushing aside a corner of the curtain, she looked out. Nothing moved out there except what must have been an owl in a tree, shifting a few inches on a branch.
Probably wondering what all the noise and fire and commotion was about, poor thing.
She caught sight of motion to the far right of her vision. Turning her head, she stared, and for a moment saw nothing. Maybe her imagination? Then two figures appeared from behind a patch of bushes, one taller than the other, walking straight down the road.
And she could see the glow of rifle barrels. Hot, so they’d been fired. She fumbled at the window but couldn’t find how to open it. It must have some sort of—there it was, a crank mechanism at the side. She cranked it fast, watching the two people coming up the road, walking fast. There were screens on the window, but she could pop them out or shoot right through them.
She was raising her rifle when she heard the whistled signal. For a moment, she was confused, wondering if her father had snuck around the front. Then she realized it was coming from the two figures.
Holy shit. She had been ready to shoot them. And it was probably—no, for sure, now that she knew the figures were friends—Curt and Dev.
“Geez,” she said, and she suddenly felt weak. She slid down to the floor and sat there, her back against the wall, and tried to imagine how she’d have felt if she’d have fired. And hit one of them. Killed one of them.
It had been a close thing. Too close. Something to talk about tomorrow, when they met again to talk over all this. If they all had a tomorrow. She had no way of knowing how bad the attack was, how many there were out there, or anything else. Maybe those guys would know more.
She made herself stand up and tried her own whistle. She failed again. Something else to talk about tomorrow. She needed alternate signals if she was going to lose control of her lip muscles every time she was scared.
She called softly, “Dev. Come up to the front door.” And she cranked the window shut.
Sidling around the sleeping Sybil, she headed for the front door to let Curt and Dev in.
Chapter 24
Back at the Quinn house, Arch had heard the shots from the road. He was worried about his son, though he told himself he had Arch’s training plus the basic common sense Kelly had worked hard to instill in him.
He was worried about Kelly too, though she was right there with him, running for the truck to use it for cover.
Gunfire, close, sent them both diving the last few feet behind the truck. Someone was next to the shop or behind its right-hand corner, firing at them. Kelly crawled around the far side of the truck and Arch lost sight of her. Trust her, he reminded the part of his mind that only wanted to worry and protect her.
He got himself ready, and the rifle, thought through what he was going to do, and then moved. He leaned out from behind the truck’s front bumper and fired, pulling back almost immediately. More trying to contain the target than to hit it.
Though if he nailed the guy, that’d be good too.
What had he seen? Not the man, but something. Something was wrong with that picture.
The person fired at them again. A round pinged off the truck. Kelly shot a three-round burst.
As she did, he leaned out again, to look while the man had to be hiding from Kelly’s rounds.
And he saw it. There was a pile of something—rags, a shirt, something—against the shop wall, and it was on fire. Not
much yet, but it was right there against the wood wall of the shop, and as dry as it had been this summer so far, the shop would surely catch fire.
Particularly if they’d used some accelerant.
Damn. Okay, he had to get this guy and deal with the fire before it became a real issue.
He had to assume the enemy had friends. The friends could have night vision gear. Could be good shots or lousy ones. He waited until the next exchange of gunfire. First from the attacker. Then a second later from Kelly.
As Kelly fired, he ran hard for the doors of the shed, putting him out of the line of fire from the known enemy. The door was cocked open. Was there someone in there too? If so, they’d stayed damned quiet until now.
Still. He flicked on the night vision to the scope and eased around the open door, scanning the interior. All he saw was a faint glow of heat on the wall with the fire.
There were two fire extinguishers in here, with two different ratings. Either would work on a wood fire. But first he needed to get rid of that asshole behind the shop. He waited for the gunfire to come again, and then he crept forward until he was six feet from that corner. A moment of silence, a faint curse—could be either a woman or a man—and the person fired again.
Arch fired straight through the wall of the shop. Even with the rounds he used, he knew he might not hit her or do any damage. Kelly fired just as he did.
And then there was a sound, a human sound, a gasp. A woman’s voice, he thought. And then feet running. Running away.
Winged her maybe. Or just scared her.
He ran to grab up the bigger fire extinguisher and ran with it to the door. “Are there any more out there?” he yelled to Kelly, before ducking back.
No one fired at him. Kelly said, “Not seeing anyone. I’ll clear the yard.”
He heard more gunfire from the road. “Could be more at any time. I’m coming out to put out the fire. Don’t move. Stay there and cover me.”
He slung his rifle over his shoulder and hefted the extinguisher, keeping close to the shop wall. He took the corner cautiously, but no one shot at him. He emptied the fire extinguisher at the burning rags. The shop wall had caught. He sprayed from side to side.
