Ragnarok Rising: The Crossing (The Ragnarok Rising Saga) (47 page)

Just in front of the store was a parked car. It was an older sedan and would provide good cover, if we needed it. I quietly opened the door and peered outside. I couldn't see anything, so I crouched and slipped out the door. Once in front of the car, I peeked over the top of the hood and glanced around the parking lot. There were a few other parked cars, but no signs of anything moving.

Motioning for the others to follow me, I crept around the driver's side of the vehicle and made my way towards the back bumper. There were buildings on either end of the parking lot, but they were easily thirty yards away. I wanted to get across the main street as quickly as possible. Once we were on the other side, we could hide among the buildings and make our way towards our goal. The most difficult part would be crossing the road. Other than abandoned cars, we'd be completely exposed.

By the time we'd made it to the edge of the road, the sun was rising steadily into the morning sky. The humidity was creeping up and it had all the makings of a very hot day. I was already starting to sweat beneath my body armor. I crouched low and waited for the others to catch up to me. While I waited, I looked carefully in both directions. There still wasn't any sign of movement. That was really starting to worry me. Something should have been moving, even if it was the dead.

"What now?" whispered Randall.

"I'm not sure," I replied, still looking around. "Something just doesn't feel right."

"It's awfully quiet," he observed, glancing around.

I was preparing to move
into the road, when I caught movement towards the back of the building. I froze and held out my hand and lowered it towards the ground. Everyone grew quiet and got down, without question. Near the alley-way, I could see an emaciated looking zombie. It was obviously female, but in bad shape. Her face and arms were savagely shredded and her white dress hung off of her in tatters.

The cloth of her skirt was flowing around her in the breeze a
s she was kneeling over a puddle of water. She seemed to be reaching for her own distorted reflection. With the cloth billowing around her and clinging to her hands, it gave the eerie appearance that she was washing her clothing in the water. My jaw went slack and a cold chill ran down my back, turning my blood to ice water. It was a scene right out of Scottish legend. The old tales that my grandfather told me while I sat at his knee. Those old legends he shared when the snow fell deep and the wind howled outside our window. They haunted my dreams throughout my childhood.

"The
Bean nighe
," I breathed, mouth agape.

"What the hell is that?" asked Randall, keeping his voice low.

"It's an old Scottish legend," I said, not taking my eyes off of her. "It's an omen."

"What does it mean?" asked Copeland.

"N...nothing," I stammered, my mind racing.

The old legend ran through my head in the frightening tone my grandfather had when telling me tales of the old country.
The
Bean nighe
was called the "Washer Woman" in old Gaelic. She was an omen of death. The legend said she foretold the death of the person who's clothes she was washing. According to legend, there was no way to find out who the clothes belonged to without catching her. I only hoped they weren't mine.

My family were
all Northern Scots. Since Scotland had been held by the Vikings for centuries, there was a long line of Scottish, Pictish and Viking blood in my family tree. The old stories struck deep chords in the psyche of every child who grew up listening to them. They certainly did for me.

"It's just a fucking zombie," muttered Randall. "It's not some Scottish ghost."

"Yeah," I said, tearing my gaze away from the specter. "It's nothing."

As if on cue, she stood up a
nd wandered away down the alley, disappearing from our view. I still felt a chill beneath my armor, despite the growing heat of the morning sun. I had to remind myself that those were just tales that my grandfather told me. I had bigger problems, at the moment. It was time to get moving.

"Let's go," I muttered, and headed
into the road.

In the middle of the road was a small SUV with the windows broken out of it. I did a quick scan of the interior and instantly regretted it. The back seat held two booster seats for small children. Both still had the seatbelts buckled and there was blood everywhere. It was enough to make your stomach heave.

I turned away and motioned for the others to move up to me. Copeland and Kimberly crouched and ran to me, not bothering to look around. Randall and I covered them, but I still didn't see any signs of movement. Once they were safe beside me, Randall started across the road. He hadn't made it more than a dozen paces when the report of a rifle sent him sprawling to the ground. I saw it all like it was in slow motion. The round struck him in the right shoulder and spun him around. Blood flew from the wound and he cried out in pain.

I turned to look for the source of the shot, when a bullet struck the roof of the SUV, only a few inches from my face. I dove down and stayed below the edge of the window. I pushed Copeland and Kimberly down and covered them with my body, as best as I could.

"Hey, Grant!" called an all too familiar voice, mockingly.

"What the fuck do you want, Armstrong?" I called
back, anger filling my voice.

"Not much," she answered. "Sheriff Rosewood wants me to make you tell us where your camp is. I just want to shoot you in the face for what you did to my hand."

"I was aiming for your head," I replied, trying to draw her out.

"If you want to live through this," she jeered, "you'd better tell us where your camp is.
It won't be long before this place is crawling with the dead."

"Then you won't be any better off than we are," I replied, glancing at Randall.

He was applying pressure to the wound and biting his lower lip. I could see that he was still losing blood, but he wasn't dead. I motioned for him to come towards us and he gave me a slight nod. I had to keep Armstrong's attention off of him or he'd never make it.

"Don't bet on it," she called out. "We've got vehicles and you don't. We can get out of the area, long before they arrive. You won't be so lucky. Last chance!"

From where I crouched, I started looking around. I could see three different Lacland County Cruisers parked around the area. I hadn't paid any attention to them before because they were parked with other vehicles. Shouldering my Beowulf, I took careful aim at the first cruiser.

"Don't bet the farm on that," I muttered.

My first shot struck the cruiser in the passenger side front fender. The heavy .50 caliber round did exactly what it was designed to do. The Beowulf was designed to take out vehicles that attempted to run roadblocks and checkpoints. My second shot struck mere inches away from the first, leaving two ragged holes in the fender. Coolant and oil began to pour from the underside of the vehicle.

"One down," I muttered, smiling.

"What the hell are you doing?" she squealed, her voice a panicky shriek.

"Evening the odds," I replied, sighting in on the second cruiser.

I put two rounds through the radiator of the second vehicle and watched as steam poured out from the grill. The hood popped up and smoke rolled into the sky. Weapons began to bark and chatter as they returned fire. I lay on top of the two girls as bullets began to strike the SUV from multiple angles. I felt a slight tug as a round passed through my rucksack. That one was too close for comfort.

The weapons that were firing at us were all small arms. None of them were automatic weapons, and the chatter was from someone pulling the trigger entirely too fast. It was undisciplined fire from untrained shooters. I knew that they only had
six deputies, and I had shot one of them on the roof of the jail. That left five. Then there were a ten firefighters, cops and some civilians. They didn't have anyone else, as far as I knew.

Raising the Beowulf, I emptied the magazine at the one remaining patrol vehicle. I wasn't really expecting to score any significant hits, since I was only covering Randall. They stopped firing, undoubtedly diving for cover. The loud roar of the Beowulf was enough to make anyone dive for cover.

I grabbed Randall by the pack straps and started dragging him towards the SUV. It was the only cover we had. We would be completely exposed if we tried to run back to the store. I dragged Randall the last few feet to the side of the vehicle and dove down. I couldn't help but smile when I saw the damage I had done to the one remaining cruiser. I had taken out one of the rear tires and punched a hole in the gas tank.

I yanked my D.A.R.K. kit off of my belt and threw it to Copeland. She was an EMT and would be able to help Randall far better than I could. She deftly caught it and went into a flurry of motion. Despite her lack of combat training, she was ice cold when it came time to take care of the wounded. Randall was in good hands.

Fishing in my pack, I found what I had been looking for, an emergency flare. With an evil grin, I removed the cap and struck the igniter. It sputtered and flared bright red, growing quickly in intensity.

"Eat this," I yelled, and threw the flare in a high arc towards the cruiser that was leaking fuel.

"Oh shit!" I heard Armstrong yell. "Run!"

The flare hit and bounced under the
damaged Charger before rolling right beneath the leaking gas tank. There was a sudden "whoosh" and fire erupted all around the vehicle, completely engulfing it in flames. In seconds, it was belching black smoke high into the air.

"Kill that son-of-a-bitch!" screamed Armstrong.

Once more, weapons fire erupted from multiple directions. A round creased my cheek as I dove for cover, leaving a bleeding line across my face that felt like fire. Copeland continued to work furiously, applying a compress to the shoulder wound and wrapping it tightly. Kimberly stayed low to the ground and covered her head with her arms.

I quickly changed the magazine in my Beowulf and
tucked the empty back into my cargo pocket. The incoming fire was too heavy for me to risk sticking my head up. I knew the SUV was really taking a beating, but so far nothing had gotten through. It was only a matter of time before they realized just how badly they outgunned us. Then they would come in from every direction and we'd be overrun.

"Grant," hissed Randall through pain clenched teeth. "We can't stay here."

"I can't move him, yet," snapped Copeland, steel in her voice that I'd never heard before. "I can't get the bleeding to stop."

"Fucking assholes on TV," grimaced Randall.

"What?" I asked, glancing at him in surprise.

"People on TV get hit in the shoulder, all the time," he said. "Most of the time they shrug it off like it's nothing. This shit hurts like hell."

"The bullet is still inside," explained Copeland. "I can get it out, but I can't do it here. I need someplace to lay him down and cut open that wound."

"Aw, shit," mumbled Randall.

Suddenly, the pitch of the gunshots changed. I heard the unmistakable sound of an automatic weapon kick in, followed by a second. I glanced up to see two of our Humvees come roaring down the street from the south with gunners on both turrets engaging groups of Armstrong's people.

"Hell yeah!" I screamed, holding my rifle in the air.

The two Humvees screeched to a halt, not twenty yards away from us and familiar faces began to pour out. I could see Webber and Winston were on the SAW's in the turrets. Spec-4, Southard, Gunny and Snake came running towards us, weapons at the ready. In seconds, the SAW's fell silent and you couldn't hear any of Armstrong's people returning fire. Silence filled the streets. That wouldn't last long, the firefight would bring every zombie for a mile or more right down on us.

"How the fuck did you find us?" I asked, grinning from ear to ear.

"Well," said Spec-4, grinning. "We heard gunfire and figured you'd be involved."

"We just
knew that it would be you drawing all that fire," said Southard. "Last we knew, there were only a few of you."

Before I could answer, gunshots pierced the silence. The first round struck Southard in the throat, just below his helmet strap. The second entered just above his body armor. Blood erupted from the wounds as Chuck fell backwards to the ground.
I turned to see Armstrong emerge from behind an abandoned car, her Glock pistol in her left hand.

I stood to bring up my weapon and felt the impact of three rounds in my chest. I watched in slow motion
, as I fell to the ground. Through the burning pain in my chest and trying to draw a breath, I watched in horror as Armstrong continued to advance on us. Spec-4 and Gunny both opened fire, each hitting Armstrong with a controlled burst from their M-4's. She went over backwards and collapsed to the ground, blood pouring from her chest and abdomen. The pistol fell from her lifeless fingers and clattered to the ground, discharging one final round, creasing Gunny's left leg.

I turned to look at Southard
only to find him with blood streaming from his nose and mouth. He was trying to sit up and reaching out towards me. His mouth opened and closed as he tried to get his breath, while his eyes were wide open in shock. Through the ragged holes in his throat, blood was spurting at an ever decreasing rate. It looked like he was trying to say something to me.