Tread Fearless: Survival & Awakening (The Gatekeeper Book 4) (3 page)

Mark even taught him how to work on guns, which is why he figured Carlos was the one to tip off the gang to begin with. Though he was careful never to show Carlos more than a couple weapons, Mark realized it was probably enough to warrant the gang’s attention of him now that things were lawless. Mark realized he was probably seen as a sure thing when it came to guns and ammo, and that was probably what the gang most wanted.

Back when the disaster began, even before the ash started to fall, Mark watched how the kids roamed the neighborhood streets for several days, knocking on doors and asking for help. The grocery stores were empty, but it was too early to be really hungry. Still, the local shakedown had begun and still, Mark refused to admit it was time to leave.

At first, they stayed away from Mark’s house, but when the ash began to drift gently down like fine gray dust, everything changed. People seemed to lose their confidence, and were seen walking around as if in a daze, looking for food and water. Shortly after that, the gang element formed and the young men, the boys he liked, turned against the neighborhood they grew up in.

They became armed and aggressive, and began to evict neighbors from their homes. When eviction warnings went unheeded, the gang invaded the homes and threw families out on the street, or worse yet, beat them badly and left them lying unconscious or dead. Mark saw more than one family walking away, carrying only what they could in their arms. And still, he refused to believe he was in danger.

He could, after all, take care of himself. And he wasn’t worried about food or water either. He had a three-month supply of both, as well as all the necessary survival equipment to survive without power, but he just didn’t want to leave. He couldn’t leave, so he turned a blind eye to what was going on around him for the sake of his guns. As a result, Lisa lay dying in the bathroom.

The siege continued on into the night, and though he had targets to shoot at, what frustrated him the most was that he knew some of the
kids shooting back at him. Kids he saw around the neighborhood, who had even worked for him, were now his enemy.

After several hours of standoff, one that included the occasional and random gunshot at his house, Mark decided it was time to let them in. He was tired of being a sitting duck. That, coupled with an encroaching weariness, and Lisa’s diminishing constitution, shouted at him to resolve the matter once and for all. Outnumbered ten to one, but angry and desperate, he simply decided to face the problem head-on.

He removed a military grade smoke canister from his range bag and pulled the pin. From his place against the wall near the bookshelf, he leaned forward and tossed it out the front window. It sailed cleanly through the air, shedding the spoon with a springy sound, followed by a pop and burst of orange flame from the bottom. The canister was spewing a thick white cloud of smoke before it rolled to a stop on the yellowed front lawn.

Mark waited for the cloud to billow out. And as it eagerly swallowed the still night air like a genie released from its bottle, a thick, dense cloud formed around the front of the house. When the smoke began to drift through the front windows, Mark stood up and walked to the front door. He opened it and returned to his position near the bookshelf, only this time he lay prone with most of his body behind him in the kitchen. He was now ready to greet the first men to enter his house uninvited.

A flashlight beam cut across the smoke cloud, and then another. Voices were heard and orders issued, but the smoke was an unexpected surprise, and the gang seemed more interested in watching it deploy than to fire into it.

Mark rubbed his eyes to clear the fatigue, and raised his weapon to his cheek to scan the distance through the open doorway with his red-dot sight. There was no movement to be seen - nothing to shoot at - but he was ready and anxious to draw some blood of his own. Yet even if he
saw a target, he would have waited. He wanted the gangbangers to think he was gone.

He patiently watched from his position behind the bookshelf, finger lightly on the trigger of his well-tuned and equipped M4, and waited for the gang to make their move. With a good line of sight through the front door, and a little eagerness on the part of the gang, and their lack of tactical training, Mark figured he could take out anyone who entered the house before they could even see where he was.

Now, with the smoke cloud almost completely dissipated, Mark heard orders being issued from across the street. It was their leader, and Mark desperately wanted to get a bead on the guy.

The entire gang was excited to see the front door standing open, and they were debating on how to proceed. Some advised caution, and others encouraged a rush on the house. Mark voted for the rush, though his vote wasn’t heard.

“Time to make things interesting,” thought Mark, as he reached into his range bag and removed a licensed suppressor. He quickly snapped it on the end and assumed a comfortable, prone supported firing position. For Mark, the suppressor would do more than reduce the sound of his shots, it would eliminate the flash. And he wanted to stay hidden for as long as possible.

Mark watched as three gangbangers studied his house from the middle of the street. One scanned the open doorway with a flashlight, but he didn’t seem interested in coming any closer. He was the only one with a flashlight, so the other two waited for his movement. They all seemed very hesitant, though Mark had yet to drop a single one of them. Nevertheless, he willed them forward with his mind, sending a message that the house was empty – no one was home.

Mark could have dropped two of them from where they stood in the middle of the street, but he wanted them in the house before he fired. He wanted to create as much confusion as possible, throw them completely off balance. He wanted them to think they had the upper hand, and then take that from them with a few well-placed shots.

The two gang members on either side of the flashlight-carrier turned to look at him. The young man shined the shotgun mounted flashlight at the front door, but didn’t seem convinced it was safe to enter.

“What’chu waiting for, man?” said the one on his right.

“I don’t know. It don’t feel right.”

A harsh voice from across the street yelled, “Get your sorry asses in there . . . now!

Without looking over his shoulder, the flashlight man began walking slowly toward the front door, shotgun at the low ready. His two partners followed behind, in a loose triangle. Mark was glad to see them moving together. All three were armed, and carrying their weapons at the ready, but entirely and carelessly focused on the front door and nothing else. When they reached the walkway to Mark’s front door they stopped again.

This time, the verbal threats from the gang leader were direct and very pointed. The three men looked at each other, nodded, and rushed blindly into the house. They entered like ducks in a row. Mark waited for all three to enter the living room before he dropped them with four quick, muffled shots. The rough cough of the suppressed M4 sounded loud to Mark, but he knew the gang wouldn’t know what happened.

The three gangbangers didn’t manage to get off a single shot, and they lay dead as stones just over the threshold into Mark’s house. Happy with the opening move, Mark reloaded his rifle with a fresh magazine and waited.

A shout from across the street cried, “What the hell was that?”

“Shut up!” replied the same voice that ordered the initial assault on Mark’s house.

Mark knew it was the leader’s voice. If only he could get a bead on him and break the siege once and for all. He rose to his knees and scanned for more targets before moving cautiously to the shadows near the gas fireplace. He wanted a better view of the action across the street, and hoped to find his high-value target, the gang leader, as quickly as possible.

After a brief pause, Mark heard the leader yell, “You two . . . go see what’s going on in there.”

“No way, man. I ain’t get’n shot for you!” replied a scared, and still unseen voice from the dark.

“Yeah, me too,” replied another.

“You’ll do it or I’ll shoot you myself,” yelled the gang leader. Mark still didn’t see anyone, but he scanned toward the direction of the voices and waited. Suddenly, a gangbanger foolishly shined a flashlight on someone standing up behind a car across the street. Without a moment’s hesitation, Mark sighted on the man’s head and fired a single suppressed shot. The gang leader’s last words were, “Get that damn light outta my . . .” before he fell dead to the ground.

“Daaammmn,” came an indiscriminate voice from the gang. “Thomas, you just killed Slider!”

“No I didn’t. I didn’t do nothing, man. I just put my light up.”

Mark went to the living room window, and wanting to capitalize on the turn of events. He flipped his weapon to automatic and sprayed the cars where the conversation was taking place. When the bolt locked to the rear, he dropped the spent magazine and loaded another, this time with his own supply of green-tip ammo. Sparks flew as the steal penetrators punched through the car with a chorus of wicked shrieks.

Shouts of confusion pleased Mark, but none more than when one of the steel rounds punctured and ignited the fuel tank of one of the cars. Lit fuel began pooling under the car, illuminating the night with an eerie yellow-orange tint. He saw shadows move quickly away, and sent a few additional rounds that direction.

A solid sounding “Wump!” was heard as the remaining fuel in the gas tank exploded. There was barely enough fuel in the tank to rock the car when it blew, but the effect was still appreciated by Mark. Still, he knew it would burn for several hours.

Mark heard the sound of vehicle tires peeling away, and he knew the siege was over, at least for the time being anyway. After quickly scanning the area, he closed and locked the front door. He then collected
the weapons from the three dead gangbangers, tossed them into the hall closet, grabbed his range bag, and went to get Lisa.

She died sometime during the battle with the smoke grenade. Mark was numb with grief and loss. He felt completely responsible for Lisa’s death, for putting her in danger, and not insisting that they leave when they had a chance. No amount of guns was worth the life of someone he loved. Or more importantly, no gun was worth the life of someone who loved him. He knew he wasn’t an easy man to love, nor was he one to easily commit to a relationship. But his Lisa was different – had been different. Now she was dead, and it was all his fault.

Mark mentally collected himself and commanded his body to move. The gang threat was still very real, and he knew he had little time to prepare before they would return with a vengeance. With tears streaming down his face, Mark removed the valuable military tourniquet from Lisa’s leg, and after rinsing it with bottled water, he slipped it back in his range bag. It was the first time he ever used a tourniquet, and it stung even more to know that he used it on the woman he loved, and that it wasn’t enough to save her.

After wrapping Lisa in a fresh bed sheet, Mark carried her to the cache pit in the back yard and carefully laid her at the bottom. After sliding in the dirt that had been piled onto heavy plastic sheets, Mark quickly refilled the grave and tamped down the loose dirt with the shovel. He couldn’t make himself use his boots. Something about walking over Lisa, even though she was covered by four feet of dirt, seemed wrong to Mark.

Tired and sweaty, he stared at the raw earth and couldn’t help but feel anger for how quickly his life had changed for the worse. The only person he cared about was just taken from him, and he was totally numb. When Mark’s hand inadvertently came to rest on the butt of his pistol, he considered using it to end everything, to take his life and join Lisa on
the other side. Living no longer mattered; it meant nothing to him, and he was ready to end it all.

Mark released the safety strap and was about to pull the pistol and put it to his temple when an image of a woman filled his head. She was beautiful, like Lisa, but with dark brown hair instead of Lisa’s light brown, and green eyes instead of brown. Still, the woman in his vision looked remarkably like Lisa, or maybe Lisa’s sister, if she had a sister that is. Mark didn’t know what to think of the vision. He had never had a waking vision before, or any vision for that matter, but he was lost in it, completely captivated by what he was seeing.