American Apocalypse (18 page)

I stood up, looked down on him, and kicked him in the head. “Be seeing you in hell, asshole,” and I turned to go find Max. Max was busy checking an M-16 or an AR-15—I
never could tell the difference—that he had just pulled from a rack in the back room. “Do me a favor. Go look for some masking tape in the office while I load these magazines.” I came back with a roll and he started taping the magazines together. He only had four—didn’t seem like a lot. In the meantime I checked the selection on hand. They had a Mossberg twelve-gauge. Not my weapon of choice by any means, but you go with what you can dance with. I racked it; it was empty. “In the cabinet,” Max said. I checked and found double-aught and slug rounds. “Load it all double-aught. This is going be close range.” Max watched me. “Stuff your pockets with a handful and let’s go.”

We went through the kitchen. I grabbed a bottle of water. I pulled my shirt away from my neck and dropped it inside. Max did the same. We leaped over the counter and he grabbed a couple flares.

“Stick them in your pants. This is the plan: I want you on the roof. As soon as they pull up I want you to toss the flares: one to the road, one in the woods to their side of the house. I will be in the woods on the other side of the road. Go!” I moved.

I went around to the back of the house. I could hear vehicles coming fast. There was no way to get up on the roof. I looked around . . . no ladder!
Shit! The other side!
The guard had parked his truck next to the house. I jumped up into the truck bed and then on top of the cab. This was going to be really freaking close. I backed up as far as I could go, tossed the shotgun ahead of me and made my leap, praying at the same time that the shotgun would hold fast.

“Ow!” I was hanging halfway off the roof as I watched my shotgun slide off and into the grass at the side of the house. Cursing life, I struggled to pull myself up. I couldn’t get a good grip on the roof and I felt a fingernail rip off.

I could see the glare of headlights on the gravel, so I used every bit of juice I had left to swing a leg up and over. That gave me the leverage to pull my body up. Panting, I lay on my back looking up at the sky. I hadn’t realized how many stars you could see at night out in the country. I elbow-crawled up to the crest of the roof, leaving a water trail behind as I went. My water bottle had burst. I reached in and set it next to me, poor little water bottle. I was on the back side of the roof so I couldn’t see anything that was happening in front
.

I heard a vehicle pull up while another accelerated away from the building and down the road. I could hear gravel crunching under boots and voices in front. I knew what Max had said, but I also knew that it had turned into the wrong plan. The people below entered the building; I heard someone yell “Clear!”

Tossing the flares no longer made sense to me: It would just alert the other truck—which was still in sight although heading farther away—and the people who were already in the house. I heard a loud “Damn! Damn! When we find them I am going to kill that eye-gouging, tea-spilling, knife-wielding prick!”
Damn, that guy knew how to cuss
. Too bad it was me he was talking about. I heard “Clear!” twice more and then nothing. I guess they were putting it together based on what they had found. I wanted to move up to the peak of the roof and see if I
could spot Max but I knew better. I was afraid to even shift my weight.

I heard boots move through the house and then on the porch. A voice from somewhere in front and underneath me said, “Spread out. They are around here somewhere. We are going to walk the road, two to each side. Bobin, kill the lights. I doubt they have night vision.”

Night vision!
I understood now why Max had given me the flares—not just to illuminate the area, but to blind their night-vision gear. The lights went out. I counted to ten.
Damn
, this was going to take some luck and timing. I pulled out the two flares. One was broken; the other was good, I hoped. I twisted the ignition end off and yanked it.
Yikes!
Next time I was going to have to remember to shut my eyes. I tossed it. I was aiming to drop it about ten feet in front of the porch and a little to my left. Then I started rolling like a log toward the end of the roof. I am pretty sure I heard a “What the fuck?” as I went over the edge. I don’t think it was me, either.

I knew the landing was going to hurt. I just didn’t expect the kind of pain I felt up in my thigh. At first I thought I had landed on the shotgun. I hadn’t. I rolled over a little. My hand reached down and I felt metal. I pushed myself up enough to look at my leg. I had landed on the head of a rake. Half of the rusty metal teeth had just bitten me. Well, isn’t life a bitch sometimes. This pair of pants was going to be a complete write-off for sure.

At the same time I heard gunfire. Max was engaging them, and I was too busy bleeding to help. I yanked the rake head out of my leg and threw it into the bushes. I started feeling around for the shotgun and amazingly, I
found it. A little voice in my head activated itself, telling me
Pump and release the safety
—where was the freaking safety? Ah, there it was. I used the shotgun as a crutch to get to my feet. Man, this was
really
going to hurt in a few minutes.

I limped to the end of the house, holding the shotgun at waist level, almost ready to shoulder it. I figured I would come up behind them. From the sounds, I guessed they were behind the vehicle they had driven, using it for cover. My cycling the pump must have been heard, as one of them came around the corner, moving quickly. He literally ran into the barrel of my shotgun. I didn’t even think. I just pulled the trigger. He was wearing a camo vest, and the blast caught him full in the chest. It launched him backward, somewhat spectacularly, I thought. At least the movies had got that part right. Being so close, the muzzle flare had set his vest on fire as he went airborne.

I stepped around the corner, jacking the shotgun as I walked. Out of the corner of my eye I watched the ejected shell as it flew away. It was red; the metal base glinted in the light just as the firefly had earlier. One person, a woman, was sitting on the ground, her back to the front wheel. She was bleeding heavily from her upper arm. The other one, who looked to be a man from the body shape, was using the rear wheel and bed of a crew cab as shelter while he returned Max’s fire.

The woman had a pistol in her hand, resting in her lap. Next to it was a cell phone. Amazingly, it started ringing. Beethoven’s
Für Elise
as a ring tone, how nice. The man behind the back tire heard it also. He looked at her, and his head turned to follow where she was looking. Her hand was going for the pistol.
C’mon, baby, answer the
phone instead.
I took most of her head off with the buckshot. I was jacking it again, but I knew it was going to be too late. The guy was turning. I could tell my shell would be ejecting about the time his barrel aligned on me. An unhappy ending to what had been such a fine evening up until five minutes ago.

I saw Max coming out of the bushes, running toward me.
Hi, Max!
I remember thinking. The Colt was in his hand. The guy behind the wheel had exposed enough of his upper torso for Max to take the shot. The man got off one shot as he went down. The single round whizzed past my head, missing by an inch or two—it sounded just like a turbocharged bee. The movies had gotten two things right. They must have good tech support. Then my leg gave underneath me.

“What the hell?” If I ever found who left that rake out, I was going to kick his ass. Max didn’t stop running. He dived over the hood of the truck, did a roll, and came up about three feet from me in a crouch. He put a bullet in the wheezing, burning man, an act of mercy that was. He didn’t bother to ask; he just pulled out his knife and cut the fabric away from where I was bleeding. Four holes were punched in the side of my thigh. They were bleeding—profusely, at that.

“Hang in there. I’ll be back,” Max said. Before I knew it, he had run into the house, grabbed the first-aid kit, and returned. “Okay, let’s go.” He helped me up. With me leaning on his shoulder, we headed for the farm truck. After he helped me in the passenger side he handed me the first-aid kit. “Look for the largest pads and hold them against those wounds. You up to this?”

“Yeah, just drive. I’m good.” We were hauling ass down the road. Well, semi-hauling ass. The truck started shaking at fifty-five. These kinds of roads and this kind of vehicle were not designed for high speeds, anyway. The white crosses scattered along the shoulders provided ample testimony to that.

“What about the other truck?”

“Don’t worry about them. They will count on us running for home. They will set up an ambush point somewhere along the route before it begins feeding into busier roads. Based on all the blood you left behind, they’re going to figure you’re badly wounded. So they will watch the local hospital—or have a friendly employee watch
for them. Plus, I am sure they have friends in the sheriff’s department. So, we are going to see some friends of mine in the other direction. Remember to keep that pad pressed against that wound or you’ll be doing half-price shopping at the shoe store for the rest of your life.”

“Where we going?”

“Up by the West Virginia border. I’ve been thinking, Gardener: You are going to have to die.”

I laughed. “That seems to be tonight’s theme. Any reason why?”

“You can’t come back with me. You have really pissed off some people. I’m not sure what was behind the ride in the golf cart. Probably they just wanted to kick your ass and it got out of hand. What happened back there at the house makes sense only as payback for your teeing off on their friends. That makes it unofficial.”

“Unofficial? You mean they were
unofficially
trying to kill me as opposed to
officially
?”

“Yeah, if the colonel had wanted you dead, in all probability it would have happened. But he would not have gone off all half-assed like that. Which is why I am going fishing for a few days, and then I am headed back without you. Hey, look on the bright side: When I announce you’re dead to everyone, why then I’ll be able to tell you how few people care by the number of reactions.”

“What if I don’t want to die?”

Max had just fished out his cell phone. He stopped and set it down. “Listen to me. When he comes for you—and he has to now—he will kill you. And it won’t be
High Noon
, either. You won’t meet them in the parking lot, where the fastest man lives. You will be asleep. It will be three in the morning. You will hear a loud bang as
the sledgehammer opens your door; then you will hear a
ping
and a
thunk
as the grenade hits the floor. Or, you’ll be standing around somewhere, and the top of your head will come off. If those don’t work, they will take Carol or Night and hold them as hostages. You will have no choice but to go to them on their ground. Then you and their hostage will die.”

I didn’t reply. I turned my head and watched fields and woods go by.

“Who gave us this job?” Max asked.

“The chief.”

“Right, if it doesn’t happen in the ways I described, then perhaps the chief calls in Homeland Security. Asks them for a SWAT team based on a tip he received. One way or another, you will die. It’s up to you how many friends you want to take with you.”

He was right. I shook my head. It didn’t feel right, but that did not change the facts.

“So what do I do while I’m dead?”

“Nothing that would make you uncomfortable, I am sure.” I laughed, as did he.

“What I need to do is get you some first-aid, the kind that doesn’t show up in reports.” Max picked up his cell phone again.

I rested against the door. I was tired, really tired. I think I faded out for a while. I tuned back in to hear him say, “I don’t give a shit what your problems are. It’s payback time. Come through or I come looking for you.” He snapped the phone shut. “Don’t worry. He will take care of you. His sister-in-law is a nurse. She is meeting us there. We are only twenty minutes out. Hang in there.”

“So, what happened with Martina?” That already seemed a hundred years ago.

“I had her take me back to our room.”

“Why?”

“She didn’t want to fuck me—she wanted to fuck the medal. I got a lot of that. For a while it was okay; then it wasn’t.”

I shook my head. Not a whole lot you can say to that. We drove for a while. Max told me to stay in contact by e-mail, but we were going to need throwaway accounts. Using a pen on my forearm I wrote the e-mail address he gave me, [email protected]. Max continued, “Use that to talk to me for now. Create a new account on Yahoo or Hotmail. Don’t use your old e-mail accounts or even check them for a while. Don’t call anyone.”

“So how long am I going to be dead?”

“Until the chief and his crew bug out is my guess.”

I wasn’t feeling real talkative. The pain was really beginning to talk to me. The rake tines must have buried themselves an inch and a half deep in my flesh. Max rolled down the window and tossed his phone out onto the road that was blurring by. “Just in case; we used to track our targets that way.” He turned on the radio. There was nothing on worth listening to. The truck didn’t have a digital receiver so we had limited, crappy options.

Out this way you didn’t get all the ethnic noise. Back home the Hispanics, Koreans, and Ethiopians owned the AM band and half the FM. Most of the FM stations had been replaced by robostations. The big radio communications companies in the past couple years had either gone bankrupt or put their resources into digital pay radio.
From what was coming through the one functioning speaker in the truck, it sounded like plain old American hellfire and damnation was big here. Underground radio was beginning to pop up more and more on the free bands, especially around the cities and universities. The D.C. area didn’t really have any because of the heavy Homeland Security presence. The feds could identify the location of a transmitter far too quickly to make it worthwhile.