Spore Series | Book 3 | Fight

by Soward, Kenny

  “That son of a bitch.” Tears streaked down his cheeks. “I should have let him live a little longer.”

  Kim shook her head and opened her arms. “No. We’re better off now.”

  Bishop wrapped his arms around her and lifted her until she stood on the tips of her toes. His embrace was like bands of steel.

  The kids joined in, Riley crying in relief while Trevor laughed.

  “My family,” Kim sighed. “You guys saved me. You saved me hard.”

  Chapter 35

  Moe Tsosie, Chinle, Arizona

  Morning light dawned across the desert as Moe and Sage rode up to his front porch on the outskirts of Chinle. He dismounted from Rust and left the horse standing there while he waited for Sage to dismount.

  Her boots hit the ground, and she threw her arms around Moe’s neck, lifting herself so her face was just inches from his. “You did it,” she said, hugging him tight.

  Moe paused before allowing his arms to slip around her, relaxing his hands on the small of her back. “We did it together,” he spoke into her ear.

  Sage drew away and planted a firm kiss on his lips, sending a thrill through his entire body. She drew away and fixed him with a firm look. “Now, let’s get to the caves.”

  They buckled their pre-packed items to the horse’s saddles. As they worked, Moe thought about the refugees they’d seen tearing up people’s property. They’d get to his house eventually, burning it or destroying everything inside. His mother had Tobe and Waki’s old possessions packed away in the back bedroom, and he hadn’t made room for a single picture.

  “I’m ready to go,” Sage said. She mounted Copper and turned him in a full circle. With his hands on Rust’s saddle, Moe glanced westward with narrowed eyes. Sage shot him a worried look. “Come on. What are you waiting for?”

  “I have to get one more thing,” he decided, wanting to grab just one or two mementos. “Wait just a second.”

  He leapt up the front porch steps and entered his home. He scooped up two of his favorite pictures off the coffee table and rushed down the hall to the back room. Lifting a lid off a plastic storage bin, Moe searched through the loose objects until he found what he was looking for. Tobe’s old picture book. His brother was an amateur artist, and he had always loved going through the book when Tobe was alive to see what he’d added.

  Revving engines caught his attention, so he tucked the book and pictures under his arms and rushed through the house to the back porch. A handful of cars and a military Jeep flew down the road toward him. Moe ran through the living room, dropping his mementos on the couch before busting through the front door.

  “Go!” he shouted at Sage as he snatched his rifle from where it hung from Rust’s saddle horn. “Get out of here!”

  Moe slapped Copper on the rump as the first pickup truck flew past his house and skidded to a halt. A rifle poked out the back window, and Moe unloaded three bursts through the frame to send the person flying backwards in the seat.

  Copper took off running with Sage as more vehicles flew in. Rifles spat gunfire at him, and bullets slammed into the house siding. He slapped Rust’s rump to get the horse out of the line of fire before diving up his porch and into the house, swiping at the edge of the door to pull it shut behind him.

  Flying lead thwacked the horse’s side, and Rust screamed in pain and pounded his hooves on the ground. Moe leaned over and watched through his bay window as the front glass shattered and Rust staggered and fell.

  Gritting his teeth in rage, he gripped his rifle and put his left shoulder to the front door frame. Bullets pounded the house for another three seconds and then stopped as more car doors slammed.

  Moe threw open his front door and stepped through, pointing his rifle at three men who were jogging toward his house with excited looks. He sprayed them with three bursts, watching red dots pop across their bodies.

  He popped his empty magazine and rammed another one home. A handful of people got out of a sedan and opened fire on him. Bullets smacked the ground and the side of his house as Moe charged his weapon and lifted it to fire.

  He unleashed a furious barrage, his vision honed to a small square of kill zone. A man and woman went down with head wounds. Two others fell, grasping their legs and screaming in agony.

  Others retreated behind their cars, winning him a few precious seconds to check on the horse. Moe backed up and moved around the animal to place his hand on the horse’s snout. Rust labored to breathe, and bullet holes peppered his sides and pumped blood down his glistening coat.

  “I’m so sorry, boy,” Moe said, shaking his head. “My good boy.”

  The horse gave a low nicker and nudged upward against Moe’s hand. The camp people gathered behind one car, and he sensed an incoming rush.

  Moe stood and put Rust out of his misery with a single shot before he fired another burst at the car. Then he rushed up the porch and into the house, slamming the front door behind him.

  He knelt in front of the couch, resting his chest on the cushions and squeezing his eyes shut against the pain of losing another friend. He gripped the rifle and made a low growl in his chest. Raising up, he peered out the bay window to watch four people spread out in the front yard.

  He crawled through the dining area and dove at the back door, slamming it shut as bullets pounded the wall, spraying him with wood chips.

  The house had no basement, though he might climb into the attic. Moe turned and belly crawled through the dining area as someone shouted. Rounds from a dozen rifles fired at once, ripping through the house like it was made of paper. Someone had their rifle on fully automatic, and a long spray of rounds filled the front of the house, shattering glass and turning the air into wood particle confetti.

  Rounds cut through the master bedroom and popped holes in the walls above him. Moe stayed low until their magazines ran dry, and the firing ceased. People whooped and hollered with delight as he jumped to his feet and pulled the draw string for the attic door.

  The door flipped down, and he grabbed the bottom stair and jerked it down with a clatter.

  The back door burst in, followed by a rush of feet. Moe turned and sprayed a burst at the first person to step into the hall, and blood sprayed the wall as the person jerked and fell. Those coming behind saw their fallen buddy and jumped back out of the way.

  Moe turned, climbed the ladder, and threw himself on the attic floor. Climbing to his feet, he stalked to the far end of the space, head banging against the angled roof. The darkness was nearly complete except for light filtering up through the attic door and some entering through the slatted vent.

  As people shuffled on the floor below him, Moe stooped and peered through a gap in the vent. A woman jogged around the front of the house, moving toward the back. He stuffed the barrel of his rifle out through the vent gap and squeezed the trigger, zippering the woman from head to belly button.

  Shots peppered the floor in front of him, and tiny holes of light appeared.

  “Stay in the kill zone, you idiots,” Moe grunted through clenched teeth before aiming his rifle diagonally and ripping off several bursts of rounds. He crossed to the other corner and ripped off two more bursts. People below him wailed and moaned while others cleared the hall in a pounding of boots.

  Moe stood in the confined space, listening as sweat poured down his face. Gun smoke and dust stung his nose, but he dare not cough or else give away his position. People shuffled their feet below in Tobe and Waki’s old room and Moe shifted to his original spot as gunfire ripped the floor where he’d just stood.

  He pointed his rifle down and let rip, tearing the floor to pieces and hitting some flesh. They responded by firing lead up at him, filling the attic with dust so thick he could hardly see. Moe threw himself backwards into the vent, and the entire section of plywood ripped free. He tumbled backward through the air and hit the desert floor on his right side. Something popped in his shoulder, and he clenched his teeth down on a yowl.

  Rolling to his feet,
Moe tried to pick up his rifle, but his right arm wouldn’t work. He scooped it up in his left hand and ran with it cradled in his arm, hoping to lose them in the trees down by the base of the canyon.

  Voices shouted, and feet pounded the dirt. He glanced back to see someone had spotted him and pointed as they shouted at the others. He sprinted through a patch of brush and crossed the road where it curved around to the left. The canyon lay a hundred and fifty yards straight ahead and down.

  Cars started up and gunfire chased him as he leapt a bush and landed hard inside a gully that wound down into the canyon. A blast of pain ripped through his ankle, and Moe fell back against the gully’s rocky side. He turned, crawled, and tried to stand, only to fall to his knees again.

  A man leapt into the gully ahead of him and came around the curve, firing. Moe fell against the gully wall and returned fire from his hip. A round struck the man in the shoulder and spun him to the ground like a fallen top. Moe finished him with one shot.

  Boots ran up to the gully but stopped before leaping in. Voices conferred in hushed tones as they plotted out how to take care of the menace.

  Moe stayed pressed against the gully wall, but raised the barrel of his gun and rested it against his chest. He’d blast the first person who stuck their face over the edge. He swallowed and held his breath as he waited for them to rush him all together.

  A smooth, round grenade rolled over the edge of the gully, bounced off his chest, and landed in the dirt at his feet. He dropped his rifle, squatted, and scooped up the grenade, lobbing it back over his head with one smooth motion. The grenade just cleared the edge of the gully when it exploded, fragments dicing the opposite wall and showering him with dirt.

  People screamed and cursed in pain. Moe scooped up his rifle and made for the canyon, limping along the winding gully as it grew shallower. With a glance over his shoulder, Moe noted several men writhing in the dirt as others attempted first aid. Two women argued with each other, but one caught sight of Moe slipping away. She shouted to the half dozen still standing around.

  “Shoot him!”

  “Carver wants his head!”

  Moe ducked as they fired at him, fortunate they weren’t actual soldiers. He felt his old body breaking down. His right ankle refused to support his weight, and his right arm sat awkwardly in its socket. He had thirty more yards of open ground to cover before reaching the canyon drop-off. He’d raise his chances if he could make it that far, though they could easily follow him into the canyon and finish him.

  The vibration of helicopter blades rose from the depths of the canyon. Moe ducked as a chopper broke the surface in a rush of noise and wind. Dust blew around him like a dervish, and he stared up at the aircraft, hoping it wasn’t one of Carver’s.

  The craft was a marine military chopper, one he didn’t recognize. He stared at the bottom as it angled to the left, powerful and menacing as it hovered.

  Moe’s pursuers backed away slowly, unsure themselves if it was friend or foe. Only when the gunner fired M2 machine gun rounds between Moe and the camp people did they back off.

  As if adding to the warning, the gunner lifted the barrel of the gun and fired a burst at a sedan a hundred yards away. Tracers lanced across the morning sky, and the huge .50 caliber rounds chewed into the car until the tires exploded and the engine hissed.

  The gunner swung the barrel back at his pursuers, and they dropped their weapons and fled. Moe sat up with a sigh and waved at the pilot as the chopper settled to the ground thirty-five yards away. As the engine wound down, one armed soldier got out and stood at the front of the aircraft. He watched the fleeing camp people, making sure all of them left the immediate area.

  A pilot got out of the cockpit and ran toward him with a braid of black hair bouncing against her flight suit, though her sunglasses blocked her eyes. Moe raised his left hand in a wave, and the soldier stopped five yards in front of him.

  “Are you hurt?” she shouted over the noise of the chopper.

  “My right arm is out of its socket,” he replied, voice miserable with pain, “and I sprained my ankle.”

  “We can help you with that,” she said. “I’m Captain Melissa Bryant, United States Marines.”

  “Good to meet you, Captain,” he smiled. “I’m former Marine Staff Sergeant Moe Tsosie.”

  “That makes sense.” Captain Bryant nodded as if confirming some suspicion.

  “Why’s that?”

  “We were flying in from Flagstaff when we got reports the Chinle camp was compromised. We monitored the radio channels and heard those folks say they were hunting someone, maybe former military.”

  “That’d be me,” he winced.

  She took off her sunglasses and fixed Moe with blue eyes. “Can you tell us what happened here? What happened to Colonel Humphreys?”

  “Be glad to tell you all about it, Captain Bryant.” He glanced at his shot-up house but limped toward the helicopter instead.

  “Here, let me help.” Bryant got under his shoulder and took the weight off his ankle.

  “Thanks, Captain.” Moe sighed, took a few deep breaths, and began. “So, I was on a return trip from Bakersfield, looking forward to a few days of rest...”

  Chapter 36

  Randy and Jenny Tucker, Indianapolis, Indiana

  Randy zoomed around the warehouse, working the forklift controls as if he’d been doing it his entire life. He snatched skids filled with product and delivered them across the warehouse to the staging point. If the stackers hadn’t caught up with the number of skids he’d laid out, he lifted them straight to a rack, placing it expertly before extracting the forks and spinning away.

  As he raced to the other side of the warehouse, he caught sight of Dodger jogging alongside him and waving. He let off the accelerator, and the forklift slowed to a halt.

  “Morning, Dodger!” Randy called.

  “Hey, Randy.” Dodger dressed in his usual skin-tight black jeans and T-shirt to fit his skinny form.

  “Did you hear the incoming radio call?”

  He gestured to the forklift. “Dude, I’ve been on the forklift all morning. Not sure when I’d have time to monitor the radio. And who’s got a radio?”

  “I get your point.” Dodger made a face. “John’s bringing in a fresh group of recruits. Found them out scavenging for the Colony this morning.” The scout turned and jogged toward the offices and decontamination area.

  Randy was headed in that direction anyway, so he hit the accelerator and caught up with Dodger. When he reached the skids of decontaminated product, he jerked the wheel to the right and caused the forklift to lean and squeal to a halt.

  Some workers shot Randy sarcastic looks, as though they were used to his antics on the floor. One older man even called him Evel Knievel and rolled his eyes. The double doors to the main hall flew open, and John stepped through followed by a dozen of his fighters and new citizens.

  Randy could tell the newbies by their mismatched clothing that they’d just come from the fitting rooms where they’d picked post-decontamination clothes. He and Jenny had been lucky enough to go back twice to seek better fitting outfits, a continual rotation that enabled folks to adjust what they wore based on their job requirements.

  Randy had stuck to jeans and T-shirts while Jenny wore shorts because of her manual labor. They were still working things out after only two days in the camp, and he looked forward to finding a pair of steel-toed shoes that would protect his feet in the warehouse.

  His eyes roamed over the newcomers, recalling how he’d felt his first day in the camp. Before BD, Randy wouldn’t have judged anyone by their physical appearance alone. In John’s camp, he couldn’t help but scan each person to determine who might be scouts or warehouse workers, or who might be fighters.

  Randy spotted a familiar young man with black hair and a bullish appearance, and his jaw fell open. Leaping down from the forklift, he strode straight toward the newcomers.

  “Hey, Kirk!” He called with a wave and a grin.r />
  Kirk jerked his attention up, and his eyes widened when he saw the redhead approaching. “Hey, Randy!”

  “Where’s Stephanie?”

  Kirk shook his head. “Aw, man. She didn’t make it out of the Colony.”

  “But I saw you two escape after Jergensen died,” Randy said, doubtfully. “You were the first ones to bolt. You had a huge head start.”

  “Stephanie fell, and I couldn’t get back to her. The soldiers were all over us.” Kirk dug his hands into his pockets, and his eyes fell to the floor before he raised them. “I found my way to the suburbs, scavenged some food. John’s group found me this morning.”

  “That’s some luck.”

  “Yeah.”

  Part of Randy wanted to accept the man as a new member of John’s group, yet another part wanted to punch him in the face. Kirk had tried to cut the twins down on their first scavenging run, making their first few hours miserable.

  “Was Stephanie recaptured?” Randy pressed. “You know what they do to people who attempt escape.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Kirk admitted, and his eyes flashed with anger. “I think she made it, but I was too busy avoiding being shot.”

  “No, I get it,” Randy said, backing off. He glanced over to where John spoke with some of his scavenging team. “Well, good luck, man. If you need anything, let me know.”

  “Thanks.” Kirk’s expression softened. “Where can a guy get something to eat around here?”

  Randy pointed across the warehouse. “That way, but follow the line around the outside so you don’t interfere with the warehouse workers.”

  Kirk’s eyes followed to where he pointed before he looked all around at the facility. “Thanks, man. See you soon.”

  The former Colony scavenger sauntered off with his hands in his pockets, and Randy watched him go with narrowed eyes.

  Chapter 37

  Jessie Talby, Yellow Springs, Ohio

  Jessie sat at Bryant’s bedside as the soldier slept soundly. He wore no shirt, though his blankets came to his waist. Aside from his hip injury, he’d sustained a stab wound in his side. Paul had used clean washcloths to cover the wound and taped it down with silver duct tape.