Fall of Man | Book 2 | Homefront

by Sisavath, Sam

  A shotgun blast from outside the front yard!

  Boom!

  She was turning to look, her right hand instinctively reaching for the gun hidden behind her back, when there was a second shot.

  Boom!

  Outside, Pete was sprawled on the driveway, his hands thrown over the back of his head while a man in a white suit and tie lay dead on the curb just beyond her yard. There was a nice coat of blood over the front of the man’s shirt.

  Troyer was racking his shotgun, a spent shell flickering through the air before vanishing into the tall grass. The cop moved toward the dead man and stuck his boot under the body, before turning him over onto his back. Emily didn’t need to get any closer to see that the man was missing a large chunk of his right shoulder and most of the top of his head, though he still had enough of a face for her to see the blood-smeared eyes. A metal rod the size of a baseball bat was rolling down the street, before settling against the front tire of Greg’s van.

  “What happened?” Emily asked as she helped Pete up from the driveway. She’d wisely not pulled her own gun and exposed it.

  “He came out of nowhere,” Pete said, brushing his clothes. He didn’t look hurt, though it was a little hard to tell since he had fresh scrapes and cuts on his forehead, chin, and elbows. “If Troyer hadn’t seen him first, he’d have driven that rod right through me. What the hell is that, anyway?”

  Troyer walked over and, after scanning the streets for new threats, picked up the pole. “Not a clue. He’s been putting it to use, though. It’s all dented, and there’s dried blood all over it.”

  The cop tossed the pole and backtracked up the driveway toward them. Emily took note of how cautious he was, how his eyes never stayed at one spot for very long. The pump-action remained in front of him, ready for action.

  He definitely knows how to use that thing, all right.

  Savannah had come out of the house and helped Pete collect the boxes of supplies, including duct tape and a portable radio, before the teens vanished back inside.

  Emily waited outside for Troyer to reach her. “Nice shooting.”

  “Meh,” he said, flashing her a tad-too-conceited grin. “I should have tagged him with the first one. Had to waste a second shell. I guess I’m a little rusty.”

  “Guess so.”

  “Come on, before another one of them decides to take a run at us.”

  “You saw more?”

  “Three, at least. They’re hiding, though. Smart bastards.”

  “Yeah. They’re that, all right.”

  They walked the short distance into the house. She didn’t feel better until she had closed the door and quickly locked it. They hadn’t bothered to reinforce the door again, mostly because the deputies hadn’t felt the need to. They were that overconfident, and maybe they had every right to be, given their weapons.

  “I noticed something, though,” Troyer was saying.

  “What’s that?” Emily said.

  “I haven’t seen them use guns yet.”

  “Guns?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Hard not to notice, when you’ve been out there as long as we have.”

  Emily stared at him for a moment.

  “What?” Troyer said. “Something I said?”

  She shook her head. “It never occurred to me that I haven’t seen one of them use a gun. I know guns aren’t lying around everywhere, but you’d think at least one of them would get his hands on one, right? It would make killing easier. But instead, they’re running around with knives or something else.”

  “It’s almost like it’s personal for them,” Troyer said.

  “Personal?”

  “Up close and personal. Like they want to enjoy it. Feel it.”

  Emily continued to watch the deputy closely. He wasn’t really imposing, even though he was much taller than her and not exactly skinny underneath his tan uniform. He didn’t have the bulk of Chrisman or Barton, but there was something about him that made it pretty obvious he was the alpha of the trio. You could always tell without trying when one was around.

  “What?” Troyer said. “You’re staring again.” He grinned. “I have food stuck in my teeth?”

  “No.” She forced a smile. “It’s just that, we never thought about that. The gun thing.”

  Troyer chuckled. “Well, folks say I can be pretty insightful.”

  Barton had reemerged from the backroom and walked over to them. “Trouble?” he asked Troyer.

  “Oh, now you bother asking?” Troyer said. “Kinda late there with the concern, don’t you think? If there’d been real trouble, the two of us would have been Swiss cheese by now.”

  Barton snorted. “You would have called if you needed help. So, did you?”

  “Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

  “So, I was right.”

  “This time.”

  “All the time.”

  “In your dreams.”

  The older man snorted, then looked over at her. “Emily, right?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “This your place?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Not too shabby, now that I’ve gotten a good look around.”

  “Must have cost a pretty penny,” Troyer said.

  She nodded. “It did.”

  “Price of real estate notwithstanding, do you know how many homes are in Arrow Bay?” Barton asked.

  “Two hundred. Why?”

  “We killed six of them when we docked earlier, coming from Pebble Creek.” Then, to Troyer, “How many showed themselves this time?”

  “Just the one,” Troyer said.

  “I heard two shots.”

  “I tagged him in the shoulder with the first and finished him off with the second.”

  “Getting rusty.”

  “Blow me.”

  Emily couldn’t tell if they were bantering for her benefit or if this was just a thing with them, but she did conclude they were used to one another. That kind of easy back-and-forth contempt only came with familiarity.

  “So, seven dead psychos so far,” Barton was saying. “You’d think there’d be more.”

  “There are more,” Emily said. She walked over to the window and pulled the curtains side. “The house across from us belongs to the Landrys. That woman in my front yard.”

  “The fat one?” Barton asked.

  “That’s her. I don’t know what happened to Mr. Landry, but I’ve seen someone else moving around in the place. It’s another one of them.”

  “He’s waiting to strike,” Barton said.

  “Exactly,” Emily said. “He’s in there now, watching us.”

  “We saw that. Back at Pebble Creek. They’re clever little buggers. We’d all be in real trouble if they started using guns or teaming up.”

  “Good thing they’re not,” Troyer said. “Yet.”

  “Let’s hope it stays that way,” Barton said. Then, to Emily, “You only saw one of them in there?”

  “I think so,” she said.

  “Has to just be one,” Troyer said. “They’re lone wolves, just as liable to murder each other as one of us.”

  “So he’s all alone in there,” Barton said, resting one hand on the butt of his holstered pistol. “Sounds like a problem we can take care of right here and right now.”

  “He killed the mailman outside,” Emily said. “Then Mrs. Landry. He’s dangerous. Maybe we should just leave him alone.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s really dangerous. Maybe too dangerous.”

  “We’ll see about that,” Barton said.

  Men. As predictable as snow in the Alps, Emily thought.

  Troyer was grinning at Emily as if he knew exactly what she was doing.

  “What?” she said.

  “Nothing,” he said. The deputy walked to the door with Barton. “Be right back. Maybe put something hot on the stove for us in the meantime.”

  “Power’s down,” Emily said. Then, s
miling back at him, “But I’ll see what I can do.”

  Chapter 12

  When the deputies decided to go kill Don, they left their duffel bags behind in the backroom. It was the opportunity Emily had been waiting for, that she was hoping for. She knew there were guns in there. Another shotgun, maybe. Or if she were really lucky, a rifle. Sheriff’s deputies had been issued military-grade M4s for years now, and there was a very good chance there might be one inside one of the three bags.

  The problem was that Troyer and Barton also left Chrisman behind.

  She watched the two deputies approach Mrs. Landry’s house across the street now. They certainly looked comfortable in their uniforms and were even moving in a way that made her believe they had law-enforcement training. Troyer was slightly ahead, shotgun swinging left, front, and right, while Barton kept pace behind him, protecting his six by watching the streets and sidewalks. There was no question they’d handled weapons before.

  “Why are they wasting time killing your neighbor?” Greg asked as he slid against the other side of the dining room window from her and looked out the crevice between the two bathroom doors. “Shouldn’t we be trying to conserve as much ammo as possible in case this thing drags on?”

  If this thing drags on, we’re already in trouble, Greg, she thought but kept to herself.

  Emily said, “Maybe they just don’t want Don sneaking up on them later.”

  “You think so?”

  “Probably.”

  “You don’t sound convinced.”

  She shrugged. “They have guns. I wouldn’t worry too much about them.” Looking at the dead man in the suit and tie that Troyer had shot earlier, she added, “As fast and crazy as these psychos are, they’re not faster than a bullet, or bulletproof.”

  The cops had reached the front door, and Troyer tried opening it before glancing back and shaking his head at Barton. Locked.

  “I guess your neighbor doesn’t want people barging in on him unannounced,” Greg said.

  “Guess not,” Emily said.

  The two deputies took a step back, before Troyer delivered a solid kick to the spot right over the doorknob and the door swung violently open. It must have been dark inside, because Troyer turned on the tactical flashlight fastened underneath his weapon’s barrel before taking the first step forward. Barton eyed the streets one last time, then turned, flicked on his own shotgun’s flashlight, and followed Troyer inside.

  “You still don’t think they’re cops?” Greg asked.

  “I don’t know,” Emily said. “They look and move like cops.”

  “Probably because they are.”

  “Maybe. I just know that even if they are law-enforcement, it doesn’t mean we can completely trust them.” She glanced back to make sure Chrisman hadn’t come out of the backroom where he was babysitting the duffel bags to catch her talking. “Depending on how long this emergency lasts, being a cop won’t mean very much.”

  “I don’t understand…”

  “Cops maintain the law, Greg. If there are no more laws to uphold, they just become people with guns.”

  He didn’t say anything, even though she could tell from his reaction that he hadn’t considered that. Instead, the big man looked back out the window. She didn’t know if she had convinced him, not that it really mattered. She just needed Greg somewhere in the middle. He was a good man, she could tell that right away; when push came to shove, he would always choose the two-month-pregnant woman. (Even if she happened to be just six weeks, but who was counting?)

  Emily glanced up and down the street to see if anyone had noticed the two deputies moving between houses. She couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched and hadn’t been able to since all of this began.

  They were out there. Her neighbors. People she knew and those she hadn’t met yet, like Pete and Savannah.

  They were out there.

  Waiting. Biding their time.

  Come out, come out, wherever you are.

  Of course, no one came out, and she didn’t expect them to. The dumb ones died two days ago at the start of all this, leaving just the smart ones. Though maybe smart wasn’t the right word. Maybe pure survival instinct was more appropriate.

  Gunshots from across the street.

  Shotgun blasts.

  “Looks like they found your neighbor,” Greg said. “What was his name again?”

  “Don,” she said. “Don Taylor.”

  “You knew him well?”

  “He was one of the first people to welcome Cole and me to the neighborhood.”

  “What did he do?”

  “CPA. But he’s unemployed right now.”

  Another boom! from a shotgun.

  “He’s a goner, all right,” Greg said.

  “Maybe,” Emily said.

  “You think he can take on two guys with shotguns?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Definitely not.”

  We’ll see about that, Emily thought.

  She was focused on Mrs. Landry’s house, hoping to get a look at what was happening, when there was a scream.

  Except it had come from behind them—from the back of the house.

  They both spun around, Greg looking just as shocked as she was.

  “Chrisman,” Emily said almost breathlessly. Then, even more urgently, “And Pete and Savannah!”

  She hadn’t gotten Savannah’s name out before she was racing across the living room and toward the back hallway.

  “Emily, wait!” Greg shouted behind her, but she was already too far gone to stop now.

  And she didn’t want to anyway because she heard another scream. It was made by the same person as the last time.

  Savannah.

  Emily reached back and drew the 1911 as she reached the open door. They had left the backroom door open, which was why she’d been able to hear Savannah’s screams so easily.

  “Emily!” Greg shouted behind her again. “Wait, goddammit. Wait!”

  Like last time, she ignored him and burst through the door and into the backroom.

  In the blink of an eye, she saw:

  Chrisman, both hands gripping Pete’s head from behind, smashing the teenager into the brick wall. The boy was leaving a bloody stain that grew bigger with every crunching impact. Savannah was behind them, screaming uncontrollably as if the sound of her voice could stop Chrisman from killing her boyfriend.

  If the cop noticed Savannah behind him, screaming like a madwoman, it didn’t do anything to stop him. The deputy seemed completely engrossed in Pete, or what was left of the boy. There wasn’t very much, because it looked as if Chrisman had been slamming poor Pete’s head into the wall for a while now. There were thick chunks of flesh and bone dripping to the floor where there was already a thick puddle.

  “Hey, motherfucker!” Emily shouted.

  Chrisman stopped momentarily—maybe it was the motherfucker that Emily had added, hoping it would get his attention since even Savannah’s continued screams didn’t seem to be doing the trick—and turned around.

  Well, that worked.

  Chrisman’s pupils were wide open, but there weren’t the strands of blood splintering from the corners of his eyes like fingers that she thought she’d find. There was absolutely nothing wrong with Chrisman. At least, nothing like what had happened to Don or the others.

  So why the hell was Chrisman bashing Pete’s head into the wall?

  Chrisman let go of the boy, who collapsed to the floor with a resounding thump and stayed down. He couldn’t have gotten up if he wanted to.

  From behind her, Greg’s voice: “What the fuck!”

  Chrisman glared at her. “What are you doing back here? You’re not supposed to be back here.” Then, for the first time, his eyes snapped to the gun in her hand. “Where’d you get that?”

  Emily ignored him and said, “Savannah! Step away from him!”

  The girl did, running away—

  —even as Chrisman went for his gun.

  The man
might have appeared absolutely insane to her at the moment—though a different kind of insanity; not the psycho type—but he was smart enough to reach for his holstered pistol instead of spending the extra few seconds it would have taken to unsling his shotgun.

  Not that it did him any good.

  Emily stepped toward him and squeezed the trigger. The first 9mm round hit Chrisman in the shoulder, and his body twisted slightly. It didn’t stop him from continuing to reach for his gun, though, and he’d gotten his fingers around the grip when Emily shot him again—two more times in the chest.

  Chrisman dropped to his knees, and for a moment Emily thought he might try to get back up. It sure as hell didn’t look as if three bullets were enough to put him down, and she was ready to spend a fourth one to finish the job.

  But she didn’t have to, because Chrisman slumped forward to the floor on his chest and face.

  Emily hurried over to Pete, but she didn’t bother to check the boy’s vitals. The way he lay on the carpet, as still as can be, told her all she needed to know. The widening pool of blood underneath him was also a big hint.

  “Is he dead?” Greg asked behind her.

  Emily wasn’t sure who the he Greg was referring to, but she guessed it didn’t matter. Whether it was Chrisman or Pete, the answer was the same: Yes.

  She looked over at Savannah, standing against one of the walls. Her hands were plastered over her mouth, tears spilling out of her eyes as she stared across the room at Pete. She must have known that her boyfriend was dead, too, because at that moment Emily didn’t think anything could pry her away from the wall.

  Greg rushed over to the girl and put his hand on her shoulder. She spun and turned into his chest, surprising him. Greg quickly got over it and wrapped both arms around her as she sobbed against him.

  The contractor stared at Chrisman’s body before looking over at Emily. “The others will be back soon. What are we going to tell them?”

  “The truth,” Emily said.

  “The truth?”

  She nodded. “That he turned and killed Pete. I had to shoot him in order to stop him.”