The Perseid Collapse (30 page)

***

Alex dragged himself through the dirt, squirming through a thick tangle of bushes less than forty feet from the first SUV. Through the driving rain and dense foliage, he caught glints of steel and glass. He could see enough of the SUV to confirm that they hadn’t activated the front windshield wipers since his previous visit. Their view of the trees and bushes beyond the guardrail would be a blur of cascading raindrops.

He raised his head far enough off the ground to observe the SUV on the other side of the short bridge that spanned Salmon Falls River. He had a clear line of sight. All three men still stood behind the black SUV, pointing their rifles in the direction of a small crowd gathered in front of several motorcycles. Two of the militiamen stood near the front of the SUV, while the third man lingered near the tailgate, partially obscured from Alex’s sight.

He’ll be the first to go.

Alex spun his body and took a seat on the mud-soaked ground, splaying his legs and bending his knees. He rested his elbows on his knees to fully steady his rifle. Satisfied with the stability of his firing platform, he took his right hand off the rifle to grab his handheld radio. He hadn’t heard from Charlie, and it had been longer than thirty seconds.

“Charlie, are you in position?” A few seconds passed without a response. “Charlie, what is your status?” Nothing.

Damn it, where are you?

“Ed, can you see Charlie?”

“No. He disappeared in the trees. Do you want me to move the Jeep closer?”

“Negative,” Alex replied. “Charlie, are you there?”

“I’m here, I’m here,” Charlie finally responded. “Damn bushes knocked my fucking earpiece out. Sorry, guys. I’m at the edge of the road with a clear shot at the exposed side of the SUV. Ready to go.”

“All right, this is it. Remember, Charlie, don’t start shooting until you hear my rounds headed down range,” Alex reminded him.

“Got it, Alex. Ready to do this.”

“Here we go,” said Alex, clipping the waterproof radio to his vest.

He settled into the rifle, nestling the stock deep into his shoulder. Through the 4X ACOG scope, he located the partially obscured militiaman near the back of the vehicle and placed the tip of the red chevron reticle in the center of his head. There would be no need to compensate for bullet drop at this range. At an estimated range of roughly fifty yards, the .223 bullet would retain a flat trajectory, even in the pouring rain.

He took his eye off the scope momentarily, feeling nauseous and warm. Maybe this was a mistake.
The plan had just enough moving parts to descend into complete chaos. What if they couldn’t break through this side of the bridge quickly enough? They needed to be driving across the river, unopposed, when reinforcements arrived. Everything depended on his ability to accurately shoot three men within the span of seconds. If any of them survived to seek cover and return fire, they’d have to abandon the bridge attack and retreat. Alex didn’t have a plan for that.

He put his eye to the scope and breathed slowly for several moments, easing the trigger back.
Crack.
The rifle bit into his shoulder, but he kept the scope’s field of view on the target. The man crouched and aimed toward the two-story buildings in Milton Mills, edging into full view.
Alex spotted a small, paint-chipped hole at the edge of the SUV. His shot had been off by an inch.

Not a good start.

He sighted in on the confused militiaman and fired three rapid shots. The man clutched his neck and dropped to both knees, teetering forward to fall face first into a puddle.

Unable to determine the source of the gunfire, the two remaining men darted for the edge of the bridge. Alex placed the red chevron on the lead runner and fired another tightly spaced three-round volley. He didn’t wait for the results, shifting immediately to the second target. Alex’s bullets arrived before the man reached the perceived safety of the metal guardrail, knocking him to the pavement as Charlie’s fusillade erupted.

Alex changed magazines and slid down the riverbank to put some earth between Charlie’s gun and his approach. He scrambled across the slippery mud and climbed the jagged rocks set against the bridge. He slowly raised his body, aiming the rifle in the direction of the SUV. With both eyes open, he stared through the ACOG scope, processing the entire scene. Movement beside the SUV brought the rifle left, his eyes quickly finding a target. Two trigger pulls punched the militiaman over the far guardrail and out of sight. Alex crouched lower and scanned for additional movement. The gunfire had stopped.

“Alex, this is Charlie. All targets are down. One in the car; one on the road in front of the roadblock; one over the side.”

“Roger,” Alex replied. “I’m moving up to clear the SUV. Hold your fire.”

“Got it.”

Alex heaved himself over the guardrail and crouched below the hood just as Ed’s voice broke onto the radio net.

“They’re panicking at the other bridge,” Ed said nervously. “We need to get out of here.”

“I’m working on that. Bring the Jeep down, and pick up Charlie on the way,” said Alex.

He edged past the bumper, angling his rifle to examine the driver’s side of the SUV. A body rested against the side of the vehicle, legs sprawled forward in an awkward pose. Blood and broken glass covered the wet pavement around the inert form. Alex fired a single bullet into the man’s head, unwilling to take the chance that he might have one trigger pull left in him as a surprise.

Moving in a low crouch down the side of the SUV, he glanced upward and noticed a head protruding through the shattered driver’s window, blood dripping steadily from the brim of the boonie hat attached to it. Alex stood up and opened the door, yanking the body to the pavement and spilling the remains of the man’s brains onto his boots. He felt the sudden urge to vomit, which he fought while tossing his rifle inside and jumping into the brain-splattered driver’s seat. The keys were in the ignition, thankfully. He didn’t relish spending any more time than necessary in this mobile charnel house. He started the Toyota Land Cruiser and put it in reverse, creating a gap large enough to fit Ed’s Jeep, which barreled toward the bridge.

“They’re coming!” was all he heard from the Jeep’s open window.

Alex turned the wheel right and jammed the Toyota into the guardrail, blocking the road. He removed the keys from the ignition and climbed over the blood-slick center console, opening the passenger door. He hit the pavement running, rifle in one hand and keys in the other. A few seconds later, he reached the Jeep, pocketing the keys and grabbing the roof rack bar. With his feet firmly planted on the passenger side running board, he slapped the front door with this hand.

“Go! Go!”

The Jeep lurched forward just as two cars appeared on the far side of the Toyota. Bullets snapped overhead before they reached the SUV on the far side, prompting Alex to release his right hand from the roof rack and swing his rifle over his left arm
.
Using the crook of his left elbow for stability, Alex fired several rounds in the direction of the cars before Ed eased the Jeep to a halt. He leaned down into the rear passenger window to yell at Charlie, who was halfway out of the rear driver-side window, firing at their pursuers.

“Charlie! Move the roadblock. I got this!”

Alex hopped down from the running board and went prone on the pavement, hoping to present the smallest possible target to the men less than one hundred and fifty feet away. Incoming rounds cracked off the asphalt, forcing him to roll against the Jeep’s rear tire. He zeroed in on a man trying to squeeze through the small opening between the rear of the SUV and the guardrail. With the chevron reticle centered on the man’s chest, Alex fired three times, dropping him in place.

Were they really attempting to take the bridge on foot?

Staring past his ACOG scope, he saw at least two more men attempting to move forward under covering fire.

Let’s see what we can do about that.

A bullet skipped off a puddle less than a foot in front of his head, ricocheting into the Jeep’s rear tire, flattening it with a hiss. He rapid-fired the rest of his magazine at the approaching men, then scrambled to the front of the Jeep to shield himself from the incoming fusillade. He changed magazines and looked up to see Ed peeking over the dashboard, waiting for Charlie to move the roadblock, flinching with each bullet impact.

The SUV behind him roared to life and jerked forward, clearing the road into Milton Mills. He stood to give Ed the thumbs-up just as the front windshield shattered in place, leaving a one-inch hole in the middle of an opaque, milky blue screen. Alex jumped out of the way, sure that Ed wasn’t about to spend another second in the kill zone. True to his prediction, Ed gunned the Jeep down the road, barely swerving in time to avoid running into the pack of motorcycles parked on the left side of the road.

Alex tucked behind one of the metal posts holding up the guardrail, and turned his attention to the two men advancing across the bridge. His first salvo yielded at least one hit to the closest militiaman, collapsing him against the guardrail. A few of the bikers lying in the grass on the other side of the road rushed up to grab the rifles dropped by the militiamen Alex had killed at the beginning of the battle. Alex expended his magazine, providing cover fire.

Within seconds, semiautomatic rifle fire from the Milton Mills side of the river tore into the militiamen stranded in the middle of the bridge and started to obliterate the SUV on the other side. Alex took advantage of the extra rifle fire to deliver well-aimed, single shots at the sparse targets that appeared behind the Toyota. He struck one of them in the head through the half-shattered rear cargo compartment window, which stopped incoming fire from the Maine side of the bridge. Moments later, one of the cars parked behind the SUV spun its tires on the wet road, tearing off north on Foxes Ridge Road, leaving the Salmon River Falls crossing quiet.

Alex stood slowly, making sure the retreat was genuine. Sensing no movement on the far end of the bridge, he walked over to the dazed bikers, who had just begun to lift themselves out of the gravel next to the road. Halfway across the road, he dropped to one knee and vomited onto the pavement. Charlie jumped down from the SUV a few moments later and braced himself on the guardrail. When he turned around, Alex seriously wondered if Charlie should continue the journey. He wore a pained look across a dark red face, gasping for breath.

“You all right?” Alex asked.

“Better than you,” he said, followed by several deep breaths.

“When you’re feeling better, grab a few extra magazines for each of us. Leave the rest for them.”

“I’m fine right now,” said Charlie. “Ed’s the one you need to check on.”

Alex glanced at the Jeep idling past the bridge. Ed sat upright, motionless. Maybe this would be the end of the journey for both of them.

“Better than shitting your pants,” he heard over the rain.

A man with a thick gray beard and hair tied back into a ponytail lifted himself off the road and approached with a smirk. Wearing full leather riding gear, sunglasses and a red bandana tied across his forehead, he looked like a
Sons of Anarchy
recruiting poster. He slung the rifle over his right shoulder and extended a hand, oblivious to the rain beating down on him.

“I brought a change of pants just in case,” said Alex, stepping forward.

“I believe a thank you is in order. Jim Koch.”

Alex gripped his hand and shook it vigorously. “Alex Fletcher, and the thanks is all mine. Not sure how that would have gone without the backup,” he said, coughing.

“Looked like you had it more or less under control.”

“I think you’ll need these to move that SUV, if it still works. Hope you didn’t have a big lunch. The front seat’s a little bit messy,” he said, holding up a set of blood-drenched keys.

Jim swiped the keys out of Alex’s hand. “What the hell are you guys?”

“Nothing, really,” Alex said. “Just wanted to get across that bridge.”

“Hate to point this out, but you’re headed in the wrong direction,” said Jim.

“We have kids in Boston. I dropped my son off at Boston University on Saturday for early orientation.”

“Dude, Boston got hit hard. Everyone with any sense is getting out of there. We’re headed up to my brother’s place in Standish. Shitheads here wouldn’t let us cross unless we gave up our rides. Not much we could do about it without some serious hardware,” said Jim, patting the AR-15 he had taken off the road.

“How long have you been here?” asked Alex.

“Two hours. Figured these idiots would bail when the rain hit. We saw three families take that deal.”

“There was no deal,” said Alex.

“What do you mean?”

“There’s a church about two miles up the road. They take the cars there and execute the occupants in the forest—as far as we could tell,” Alex informed him.

“Looks like that’s our next stop,” Jim said, inserting the magazine in the rifle and pulling back the charging handle.

“We shut it down—hard. Nothing left for you to clean up.”

“Sounds like you’ve had a long day, man. I’d buy you guys a drink, but under the circumstances…” he said, looking around and shrugging his shoulders.

“If I see you again, I’ll take you up on that offer,” said Alex. “What route did you take to get up here?”

“Came up from Woburn. No problems at all until this shit,” said Jim.

“Any news from Boston?”

“National Guard units rolled into the areas north of the Charles pretty quickly—almost too quickly. Cambridge, Watertown and the areas closer to the city are pretty stable. South of the river is a clusterfuck. The military isn’t letting anything across the Charles, and nobody north of the river is complaining. Sorry to be the bearer of bad news,” said Jim.

“That’s the first real SITREP we’ve received since this whole mess started.”

“Ex-military, right?” said Jim.

“Marine Corps. Iraq War. Yourself?”

“Army. First Gulf War.”

“An oldtimer,” said Alex.