American Apocalypse Wastelands (26 page)

I knocked on his door and heard him grunt. I did the same for Ninja and then went into the kitchen and started the coffee.

Getting ready for a new morning was not the same as it once was, especially a morning like this when full dress was required. Once upon a time it was: Pull on some pants, grab a shirt, and go. No longer, especially for something like what we were doing today.

I was going to be wearing a battle dress uniform in the Woodland pattern. I called it my GI Joe suit. I already had my underwear on. I put on a cup over them and then I pulled on the pants. Next came a brown T-shirt that was borderline—it almost failed the sniff test. I shrugged and pulled it over my head. Socks came next. I skipped the sniff test with them.

Then I put on my armor. Luckily, it was getting cooler and this op would be over by 0830. Otherwise, wearing armor in the summer really sucked. I wiggled it around and adjusted it. Next was the belt for the pants and then my gun belt. I was wearing the bayonet now, so I slid it in and out of the sheath three times for luck.

I put my kneepads on next. Max wore only one kneepad when he got geared up. Most of the time they ended up around my ankles, but I liked wearing both. I would never admit it, but wearing them and everything else made me feel like a medieval knight.

I slipped the Colt into my gun belt. I stuffed my BDU pockets with a water bottle, an apple, and a piece of bread. In another pocket went my personal wound kit, which fit inside a metal Band-Aid box. Then it was time to pull on my boots and lace them up. Finally, my fisherman's vest went over the armor. All I had to do was put on my hat and I was ready.

The others were doing the same thing, just not to the extreme that I carried it. Old Guy wore a vest and a gun belt, and slung a daypack over his shoulder. Ninja wore a load-bearing vest that he always kept ready to go. He had a ballistics vest under it, and he usually took forever to lace up his boots.

I poured coffee for everyone. We didn't eat. When everyone was ready and had taken that last piss, we headed out. We took two cars—Max's truck and Old Guy's Chevy—just in case one of them broke down. Tommy stayed behind to keep an eye on things at the farm, and Max was doing the same in town.

We picked up Hawk and Diesel and hit the road. There was no other traffic. I couldn't get used to that. Roads were supposed to have traffic, a lot of it. No traffic always creeped me out; it was as if everyone had been abducted by aliens, or had all gotten the secret memo that I never got.

We stopped about a half mile from the turnoff. We parked the vehicles off a road being reclaimed by Queen Anne's lace and burdock. It led to a lot that still had an old Don's John on it. The land had been scraped a couple of years ago in preparation for site work that had never happened.

We walked single file, with Ninja at point and me next in line, carrying a cooler with the Molotovs in it. It was awkward to carry. We walked on the opposite side of the road from where the house was. There was a bush and tree line running parallel to the road on both sides. It was thick enough this time of year that I felt comfortable approaching the farmhouse access road this way. It was also easier in the darkness.

 

From the access road to the house, it got a little trickier. Hawk dropped off to find a place to set up in his blind. Ninja and Old Guy continued on the road a bit and then started working through the woods, which stopped about seventy-five yards from the house. From there they would
have open ground to cross, not quite a lawn, in order to get behind the house. I told them to watch for the dogs, as that would probably be where they were.

Diesel and I were going to cut along a streambed and come out about fifty yards in front of the house. Ninja and Old Guy had the advantage of old cars, a shed, and whatnot that were strewn between the back of the house and the barn. The only thing we had for cover was the slope of the ground as it headed down toward the creek.

We synchronized our watches before leaving. I always felt like I had stumbled onto a cheesy movie set when we did that. I handed Ninja his Molotov cocktail and made sure he had matches. I had almost forgotten about them until Night reminded me to take some.

Now I was lying there in the weeds bothered by something. The vibe just didn't feel right. The house didn't feel right.

I mean, it was a piece of crap farmhouse, but that was no surprise. The truck that the witness had seen was parked next to the barn. Another truck, an older F-150, was parked next to it. Off in the distance a dog was barking, but that wasn't anywhere near here.

Diesel was stretched out in the weeds about fifteen feet from me.
Shit
. I wanted to crawl over and ask him if he felt it too, but we were running out of time. The guys in the back would be going in two minutes.

CHAPTER THIRTY

I opened the cooler, pulled out two Molotov cocktails, and set them in front of me. Then I got to my knees, slung the shotgun over my shoulder, and looked over at Diesel. He was staring at me, waiting for me to move.

I grabbed the bottles and started running for the front window. While I ran I scanned the house, checking the windows for movement. I stopped and set one of the Molotovs at my feet.

The boom of Diesel's shotgun was simultaneous with the window exploding. I extended my arm back for Diesel to light the Molotov I held. Through the ringing in my ears I heard him yell, “Up!” In a beautiful arc, I tossed it through the window.

On the other side of the house I heard the blast of Old Guy opening the back door for Ninja. I was already moving to the front door. Diesel fired double-aught buckshot, slug, and double-aught again, repeating through the load. He hit the door right below the knob.
Shit! It didn't open!

I ran up the steps leaving the other cocktail behind while I pulled the shotgun off my shoulder. I got it down
and had a decent grip on it two steps before I hit the door sideways with my shoulder. The door popped open, no resistance at all, and I kept going, fighting to keep my balance.

The smoke from the fire in the next room was already picking up. It didn't stop me from registering the fact that the room was empty.
Fuck!
I spun around. For a microsecond, Diesel and I stared at each other. Then we bolted out the door. Already I could hear gunfire from the back.
Shit!

Diesel was in the lead. I stooped as I went by and grabbed the Molotov, tossing it away from the house and me. About three strides from the corner of the house, Diesel went airborne like a ballplayer diving for second base. He came down right at the edge of the building, his upper shoulders, chest, and head extended past the corner. The shotgun was at his shoulder, his cheek against the stock.

I was outside of him by two feet and didn't stop. I came around the corner moving fast, knowing now that Casey, the little fucker, had conveniently neglected to mention how they all slept in the barn.

Him and the fucking sheriff—if I had to take a vacation to do it, I was going find both of them and kill them.

In front of me and to my right was the barn. One truck was parked in front of it; the other, on the right side. The barn had huge double doors, almost the height of the building. Set into one of them was a normal-sized entry door. That door was open. In front of it, I could see someone shooting toward the back of the house with what looked like an AR-15.

At least that little shit had gotten something right. Off to the shooter's right, at the corner of the barn, another male with a similar weapon was firing at the house. I could hear handgun fire from the side of the barn but I couldn't see who it was.

Diesel got their attention with a blast from the shotgun. I didn't see anyone go down or even look mildly discomforted.
Should have brought an M-14, dude
, a voice inside my head scolded. The shotgun blast from Diesel also let them see me hauling ass in their direction. I cut to the right and headed toward an outbuilding that I hoped I could get to for cover.

That was when I saw or sensed a movement out of the corner of my eye. The barn had a loft with a window that was open. Someone was up there with a rifle. I was moving fast at an angle when he shot me.

My armor vest had ceramic plates in it. I got lucky, if you want to call it that, in two ways. The shot hit a plate, and it hit at an angle. Later, I realized it was an impossibly lucky angle. It still hurt plenty and it knocked me off-balance and stride. My momentum carried me forward in a tumble that ended with me going down hard to the ground.

I heard the boom-bam of the Barrett just about then. As I hit the ground I remember thinking,
About fucking time, Hawk.

The good news was I had gone down behind the outbuilding I had been trying to get to. I was sitting up and working on clearing my head when I heard the sound of dogs barking.
Jesus
, I thought,
the shit just keeps coming
.

I got to my feet with difficulty and slung the shotgun. My intention was to pull the Ruger, go around the side of the outbuilding, and kill every motherfucker I saw.

I took two steps and got hit by seventy-five pounds of muscle and teeth.

 

The beast knocked me on my ass again and then clamped its teeth down on the outside of my right leg. The hungry sonofabitch was growling and shaking its head and wouldn't let go.

The trouble was, I am left-handed and I was pinned down on my holster side. The Colt was gone, probably shaken loose in my first fall. Life is a bitch—but sharp carbon steel can fix a lot of problems

I grabbed the hilt of the bayonet, pulled it from the sheath with my right hand, and passed it to my left. Cujo was sending intense flashes of pain through my nervous system, and his eyes, which I had no problem seeing, stared at me with evil doggie hate.

I cut off his head. A K98 bayonet is sixteen inches long, and mine was made early on in the war, so it was quality steel. I kept it sharp, too. The hardest part to get through was the spinal column, but that only took an extra couple of seconds and a few more pounds of pressure.

After I safed the shotgun, I tried to stand up, unsuccessfully. I reversed it, used the shotgun as a crutch, and tried again. Then I started to circle the outbuilding. Damn
, I hurt
. I grayed out for a second but stayed on my feet.

About fifteen yards from me a man behind one of the trucks was exchanging rounds with someone near the house. I blew his head off with the Ruger. There were two bodies lying in front of the barn. One had a pair of mangled legs.

I saw Diesel coming toward me at a run. He was moving pretty fast for someone running crouched over. I kept
walking toward the barn, giving a quick look to the house. Someone was down. It looked like Old Guy. I stopped at the white truck, dropped the shotgun, and used my free arm to brace myself against it.

“Hey, Gardener! You have a dog's head attached to your leg!”

“Yeah. No shit. It hurts, too. So what do we have?”

He tore his eyes off the dog's head. It was still staring at me and, if possible, looked even more pissed than before. “Old Guy is down. He's still alive, I think. Ninja is somewhere in the trees. I think he's covering the side door. I'm pretty sure he is okay.”

“Okay. Go get Old Guy and drag him around that tractor. Do what you can for him. I'll cover you.”

“On it.” He took off running again. I slid down to the cab, using it to steady my shooting arm. The barn was quiet. I heard a shotgun boom from the trees. Ninja was on the job. I watched as Diesel slowed down enough to grab Old Guy by the collar and drag him to safety.

I turned and started walking toward where I had tossed the Molotov. It was maybe fifty yards away, but it felt like two miles. I bent over, almost fell over, grabbed it by the neck, and started back to the barn. When I got about twenty feet from the main door, I let the shotgun fall to the ground. I dug into my pocket for the lighter I had brought, flicked the Bic, tossed the Molotov through the open door, and waited.

About a minute later, maybe less, two men came running through the flames inside the door. They had AR-15s at their hips and were firing as they came out. I shot one in the head. The other stopped like he had run into a wall and then went flying backward. The Barrett had
spoken. I did the math in my head twice and came up with five both times.

Diesel was headed toward me, moving fast and looking the other way so he could keep an eye on the barn. We stood there for a minute watching the flames. Behind us, the house was further along in the burn-to-theground race. I noticed for the first time how hot it was standing there.

“Diesel, you okay?”

He nodded his head.

“Get Old Guy and move him down toward the creek. Be careful. We still have one unaccounted for.”

He was halfway there when Ninja came out of the woods pushing a woman in front of him with the barrel of his shotgun. My face was starting to feel like it was sunburned from the heat of the fire. I knew I should move but I wasn't sure that I could still walk. I let him come to me.

“Holy shit, Gardener! You have a dog's head hanging from your leg!”

“That's King!” the woman screamed, looking at the head.

“Lady, the King is dead. Ninja, get her in front of us and help me walk.” I put my arm around him and we headed down the front yard until I told him to stop.

“Hey!” I yelled. The woman looked back at me. “Get on your knees and put your hands behind your head.” She sank to her knees, her back to Ninja and me. “Ninj, I need you to police the area. Don't take any stupid risks but try to get those rifles.”

“What about—”

“I'm fine. Go before it gets too hot and the rounds start cooking off.”

As soon as he left, the woman said, without turning around, “I think me and you could work something out.”