SurviRal (22 page)

Chapter Sixteen

The gunshots in the distance seemed to spook the doe. She stopped grazing, lifted her head to look in that direction briefly, and then moved back behind the cottonwoods.

“Damn,” Wade said to himself. “Just my luck.”

He lowered his bow and weighed his options. If he waited, she might come back out on this side of the trees. If he tried to approach the grove, she would probably spook out the other side. Maybe she would then stop in the open long enough to get a shot off. Or maybe she would sprint for the hills. Wade didn’t want to lose her. He decided to sit still.

That turned out to be the wrong decision. A motorcycle sound from across the highway grew loud and the deer sprinted away. The next thing Wade knew, a man with a rifle on his back pulled into the cottonwoods on a dirt bike. Was he trying to poach Wade’s doe? If so, he wasn’t very good at it. But current events had every neophyte with a gun out trying to be a hunter.

Wade watched him lay his bike down, swing his rifle around, and creep through the trees. He looked to be in a hurry. But he was going the wrong way. The deer ran southwest. This guy was stalking something directly north.

Wade grumbled to himself and began cautiously moving through his own cover back in that direction. Most of the brush was short, so he had to walk hunched over to remain hidden. He wanted get to the top of the small hill he was on and see what the dirt-biker was after. If it was another deer, this idiot was more likely to scare it into Wade’s range than he was to kill it.

It was a little strange to be out bow hunting while congress was in session. But Wade knew he was hardly the only vacancy on the bottom of that stupid screen. He doubted the voters would fault him for his attendance record under the circumstances. Wade was fed up with it all. Yeah, he probably should have stayed up in his own district, where the acting President wanted him. But rumor had it the coward was going to resign anyway. What a hypocrite.

If he did, that would cause problems for the incumbents at the next elections—whenever those would end up being. They would all be heavily scrutinized for any signs of weakness. Still, the voters in Wade’s district weren’t likely to replace him for a few absent sessions during the pandemic videoconferencing schedule, given the power outages everyone had to deal with.

No, they were more likely to oust him for becoming a figurehead for the freaks. How in the world did that happen? All Wade tried to do was prevent a food riot. And look what resulted. His speech became propaganda for a marching army of liberal lunatics. That was going to be tough to live down. The irony of it all. Wade never gave a freak the time of day, and now he was suddenly their hero. Maybe he should move to Carol Belcher’s district and run there. He’d be a shoe-in. Boy, that would really piss her off, too. Wade laughed at the idea as he reached the taller brush on top of his hill.

Things weren’t supposed to be like this. He was supposed to be working his magic with the coop committee he weaseled his way into. They had a good record so far. Two of their tack-on measures went right through with no debate, and they were added to completely irrelevant bills. One of them got slapped on the day before voting. These guys he aligned himself with were good.

And now it was Wade’s turn. He was supposed to be getting the Black Forest boys a juicy marijuana growing gig. Big money there; probably enough to buy him the next three elections. But the docket had gone all screwy and Wade’s committee was falling apart. Congress wasn’t getting to anything. The CDC had taken over everything in the country, even the House of Representatives. All Congress did now was stamp their approval on everything the CDC wanted. Nothing else was getting done. The pot farmers weren’t tremendously understanding people. Wade knew they were upset.

He tried to stop thinking about it. The deer. He told his wife he’d find some fresh food for dinner tonight. He almost had one there, before the motocross dummy showed up. What was that guy up to? Wade made his way through the brush to the edge of the hilltop and peeked through.

People. No deer. He saw only people. Three of them, maybe 250 yards north on the east side of the highway. Two guys and a girl. They were hunkering on a rocky mound. The guys had rifles at their shoulders. They were shooting. Those familiar pops could only be coming from twenty-twos. What were they shooting at?

The dirt-biker suddenly appeared directly across from Wade, coming out of another small cottonwood grove. He made his way up to the top of the opposite hill. Good brush cover there, too. No deer in sight.

Wade lifted his binoculars to his eyes and focused on the rocky mound. Those people down there looked familiar. Wait. Were those the folks he drove to Palmer Park last week? It couldn’t be. He focused on the girl. She seemed to sense someone watching her, as she turned and looked in Wade’s direction. Yes! That’s them! He recognized her face and body. What was her name? Jenny, wasn’t it?

* * *

“I feel like someone’s watching us,” Jenny said.

“You’re right about that,” Harold responded. “Two of them are watching us from the ditch, and firing an occasional useless shot. I wonder how much ammo they have left. Can’t be much.”

“They’re hurting, too,” Clint added.

“No,” Jenny said. “Watching us from behind.”

“We better listen to her, Harold. My wife has a strong intuition about these things. The one with the rifle rode off in that direction. He might be hunting us.”

Harold glanced southward. “There’s not much we can do, other than keep an eye that way. This mound is giving us some cover. Wish it was steeper. The biggest problem would be if he moved up on that higher hill southeast. We’re more exposed to that one. He better have a damn good scope to try and hit us from there, though. If he does try to snipe us, it’ll probably be from the hill directly south.”

“I’ll keep an eye on it,” Clint said. “I think that’s the greater danger now. You keep watching the ditch. Those guys should be low, like you said. Not to mention one has a useless right arm, and I know I put one in the other’s rib cage.”

“That was a good shot, Clint.”

“Thanks. Not a head shot, but…”

“Don’t take head shots. Aim for the upper torso.”

“So do like you say, not like you do?”

“Please.”

A new shot fired at them—but this time from the south hilltop, just as Clint feared. A hard slug struck the mound.

“Damn!” Harold said. “You were right. Can you see him?”

“No, he’s in the bushes. But that was too close. Honey, get on the other side of Harold.”

Jenny scurried away as another shot came from the hill. Clint retuned fire, but it was a blind effort. Jenny ended up down the slope some, a safer distance from the sniper fire.

But then the shots from the ditch returned. Jenny lay flat and covered her head with her arms, one of which held the 9-millimeter pistol.

Shots from the hill started coming at a rapid pace. A slug ricocheted off a rock next to Clint. He tried to stay low.

But the pistol crossfire also returned. Clint looked at the ditch in time to see the two bikers come out of it and start sprinting across the road directly for them, firing an occasional shot as they ran. They had obviously concluded they were against .22 rounds and decided to take their chances against them in a close-up gunfight, not knowing about the larger caliber pistols they would meet when they arrived.

Clint was trapped. Something told him if he moved he would be an easy target for the sniper, who seemed to be focused on him. Harold took his time aiming at the on-rushers. Jenny straightened her arms and aimed her pistol at them as well. But they were moving targets, running fast, committed to the charge.

Clint quickly realized Jenny and Harold were about to become the new targets of the sniper. He turned back to the south hill and tried to get a fix on where the rifle smoke was rising from. As he suspected, a slug hit the ground between him and Harold. That was too damn close.

The sniper then came out of the bushes. Was he charging them, too? Damn this little twenty-two. The sniper was firing something in the thirty-caliber range.

The sniper didn’t charge. He fell forward from the bush and landed on his face. Something appeared to be sticking out of his back.

Clint spun to the side. The rushers from the ditch were getting close, well within in pistol range now. Clint knew that he, Jenny, and Harold were fortunate not to be hit yet. No doubt that was attributable to the fact they were moving, and one was a righty now shooting with his left. They probably planned on stopping at close range to take effective shots—which would be in about five more seconds.

Clint aimed at the closest one. Gunshots came from his right. Before he could shoot, his target dropped. He moved his aim to the other attacker and fired. A direct hit in the torso stopped him. But now the biker could aim his pistol more efficiently. Clint fired three more times, rapidly. Three more slugs impacted his chest, shaking the attacker visibly. But his arm was still raised. Clint’s magazine was empty. He scrambled for a new one in the case. More shots came from Harold and Jenny. By the time he had a full magazine in his hand, the last attacker was down.

Clint looked back to the hill. A new figure was standing in the open, next to fallen one. He held what looked like a bow, and waved his other hand in the air. The bowman shouted something Clint couldn’t understand.

Harold stood, keeping both hands on his revolver as he covered the downed attackers. They weren’t moving. All the same, Harold approached them cautiously before putting one additional slug in each of their upper backs. They still didn’t move. Harold lowered his weapon and visibly relaxed.

The bowman on the hill yelled again.

“Friend of yours?” Harold asked, pointing to the hill.

“Why do you suppose that?”

“Sounds like he’s yelling ‘Stonebreakers.’”

* * *

Ironically, one of the reasons Clint doubted the literal existence of angels was because of something their pastor once said, during a rare moment when Clint wasn’t daydreaming through his sermon. The pastor explained that the word
angel
from the Old Testament Hebrew could just as accurately be translated
messenger
, and some of the Greek references in the New Testament best translated as
courier
or
deliverer
.

Clint remembered Jenny calling Wade an angel after helping them the first time. Here he was again, showing up from nowhere at the most opportune of times and once more playing the part of deliverer. It was …weird.

“Look at this,” Wade said, pointing to the back of the golf cart. He shook his head. Clint walked around to see what he was on about. It was plate that said Rocky Ford Country Club.

“Reverend Gordy has apparently never read
Thou Shalt Not Steal
.” Wade kicked the rear tire. “Or, more likely, thinks it doesn’t apply to him.”

“You’re familiar with his commune?” Clint asked.

“Yes. They keep to themselves, mostly, doing God only knows what. On occasion they come to town on recruitment campaigns. Real pain in the ass then. But not as much as these blasted Solution Crusaders.”

“We’ve encountered a few of those. I take it they’ve adopted your speech without your personal endorsement?”

“That’s putting it lightly.”

Jenny and Harold came back through the grass.

“No luck?” Clint asked.

“No,” Jenny said. “She must have kept on running.”

Jenny made obvious strained attempts to keep from looking at the bodies on the ground. “Can we leave this place? I’m going to walk down the highway some.”

“Yes, we’ll go,” Wade said. “Let’s take the cart back to my mother-in-law’s. I’ll drive. I’m going to return this. Maybe Marty will give me a free round or two in appreciation for getting it back.”

Without waiting for a vote, Wade lifted Clint’s mountain bike and wedged it in the rear rack with Harold’s. He then fit his bow there as well, before coming around to take the driver’s seat. After only a short hesitation, Clint, Jenny, and Harold climbed in. Clint and Jenny took the back seat. The electric cart started right up. Wade drove them back up the 71 two blocks before turning right on a paved cross street. He made several more turns before stopping next to an untended field in a rural neighborhood, where he checked his cell phone.

“Got a few bars here,” Wade said. “I better call my friend at the Sheriff’s office.”

“Do we have to get involved?” Harold asked.

Wade shot him a stern glance as he dialed. “We’ll see.” He put the phone to his face.

“Yeah, it’s Wade. Where are you, Deputy?”

Short pause.

“That’s close enough. I hate to do this to you Mark, but there are seven fresh corpses that need cleaning up on Highway 71, about two and a half miles south of town. Three are from that damn Gordy commune. The others look like bad guys.”

Pause.

“I came across them when I was out for a stroll, that’s all. Looks like the scene of a massacre. You better get some units over there, fast.”