Compass Call: Survival & Awakening (The Gatekeeper Book 3) (18 page)

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xcept for a few individuals seen walking around inspecting their homes, the neighborhood once again looked like a ghost town. No one seemed interested in working outside other than to dump a waste bucket in the drainage ditch, or toss bags of trash on the side of the street. Despite the relative absence of ash, all the typical neighborhood activities seemed forgotten. Things like yard work, or kids playing in the street, were now a distant memory. John wondered why his neighbors seemed more interested in isolating themselves rather than talking and working together. It was as if they had already abandoned themselves to their fate and were waiting to die.

Soon the trash would become a problem too big to ignore, and John wondered how they would respond. He implemented strict trash and human waste control measures at his house, but he saw how futile it was when no one else in the area did the same. Still, it was better to maintain some discipline than abandon all hope. He always appreciated preparedness, but never really understood the depth of its importance until it related to survival psychology.

Tired of looking at the quiet and dirty neighborhood, John turned his attention skyward while he walked. He was immediately struck by the beauty of the setting sun. He estimated the sun was still some two hours before it would pass below the horizon, but the early sunset was absolutely spectacular. The colors were more defined and vivid than any he had ever seen. Rich shades of yellow, orange, red, and violet were splashed across the sky, resembling rainbow sherbet, or a vast impressionistic painting. It was breathtakingly beautiful, but he had
difficulty appreciating the scene when he considered the cost. Many lives had been lost, and many more would be taken, just to see such a beautiful sunset. John adjusted his rifle sling and turned his attention back to the road. With a quickened pace, he eagerly sought the company of his family and friends, and offered a silent prayer of gratitude that he was prepared for what lay ahead.

A mild breeze pushed hair across his forehead and he noted the change in the wind’s direction. When the meeting first started the wind was blowing against his back, from the south. He stopped and faced to the right and waited for another telltale gust. A small gust blew against his face and he nodded, it was blowing out of the north. John was all too familiar with how quickly the weather patterns in Texas could change, but a north wind was rarely good, especially in the fall and winter months. Northern winds brought cooler temperatures, but now they would most likely bring ash as well. He was certain very little of the ash to their north was washed away by the storm, because there was just too much of it laying around.

As soon as he returned home he decided to tape the cut he made in the pool cover. He realized it was careless to leave it open all day, especially since it was the only known water supply for the entire neighborhood. He would also break out a box of N95 breathing masks. Everyone would need eye and breathing protection when the north wind started to carry the ash back to them. And he was absolutely certain it would carry ash with it. He turned to look, but saw no apparent sign of an approaching weather pattern. His only hope was that the sun wouldn’t once again be blotted out. He decided he didn’t want to see another darkened or diffused sun through a blanketed sky.

John passed Corbin’s house and looked to see if anyone had tampered with it. A dead man, Corbin’s father, rested inside. His body was tightly wrapped in black plastic and silver duct tape, making him look like some kind of cocooned alien insect. If anyone did discover his body, they left no sign of it. The house looked the same, felt the same, as it did when he left it the other day.

When he cleared the front fence of Corbin’s house, a deep and distant rumbling reached John’s ears. He quickened his pace to a slow jog and stopped on the street corner to get a better read on the direction of the sound. The rumbling was steadily increasing, and John realized it wasn’t from one source, but rather many sources. It was the unmistakable sound of many loud motorcycles moving together on the highway in front of the development.

At first, John thought they had driven past the neighborhood entrance because the rumbling faded. But then, after a short moment of low rumbling, the sound increased dramatically. He ran into the middle of the street and looked down the road, toward his house. It was about twelve lots to the point where the road dropped away from John’s field of vision, or a distance of about a quarter mile, but he saw the motorcycles as soon as they crested the hill. They came up the middle, slowed, and then came to a stop at the intersection.

John quickly unslung his AR and tapped the loaded magazine to verify its firm placement. After chambering a round, he moved to the far side of the road and assumed a kneeling position behind a small tree. Keeping his AR at the low-ready, John watched as several bikers congregated around the lead bike. He saw one of the men wave his hands to the right, and the bikers took off in that direction.

John couldn’t see many details from his poor vantage point, but he couldn’t miss the fact that they were heading away from his house, traveling deeper into the neighborhood. He counted some twenty motorcycles, but it was hard to get an accurate count because several of the bikers rode next to each other in some form of undisciplined staggered column formation. Half the bikes also had passengers on them, which meant some twenty-five to thirty gang members were present altogether. The noisy machines moved through the neighborhood like a long, black, oily rattlesnake, ready to bite anyone who dared show
himself. But from what John could see, he was the only one still on the streets.

When the bikers pulled away, his first impulse was to run home and prepare a defense. But in a flash of insight, John realized where the gang was going, they were heading for Paul’s house. John was certain Luanne didn’t know where he lived, but she did know where Paul lived.

He sprang to his feet and sprinted towards Paul’s house, cutting through the middle of the development by leaping over fences that marked the various property lines. When John cleared the sixth fence, he slowed to catch his breath and carefully approached the house that sat catty-corner to Paul’s. For the first time since the disaster, John was grateful he kept himself in shape. The run winded him, but his heart rate was reasonable, and not likely to bother his aim.

The run brought him back to the morning when the ash first started to fall, when he stepped out for an early morning run. He had no idea that, in just a few short days, everything around him would be different, which included his running through the middle of the neighborhood with an AR-15, and preparing to engage a group of more than twenty hostile and vengeance minded bikers.

John went prone and crawled between two bushes at the corner of the house. It was a fairly decent concealed position, one that offered him good fields of fire, but nothing in terms of cover. Still, he was fine with that for the time being since he didn’t plan to engage the bikers unless it was absolutely necessary. He knew that if he did engage them, it would be better to move and keep some distance.

The bikers stopped in front of Paul’s house and revved their engines, as if they dared someone to come out and complain. John hoped, beyond hope, that none of Paul’s neighbors would be stupid enough to step outside and confront them. Anyone who dared expose themselves to the bikers would quite literally be committing suicide.

Taking them on single-handedly was also suicide, but he was confident he could disperse them with ease. He had three, thirty-round,
magazines with him, which was more than enough ammo to eliminate half the bikers before they could even organize a response. But after emptying one magazine, he would have to withdraw and fall back to an alternate fighting position. John continued to fast-forward the imaginary battle in his head, and mentally identified two alternate fighting positions if it came to a running gun battle.

John saw the leader, the big biker from his vision, wait for the other motorcycles to assemble in front of Paul’s house. As soon as they formed up around his, he pulled a long, black machete from a sheath on his back and began to wave it around in the air over his head. In response to that signal, the entire motorcycle gang throttled their engines and assaulted the air with their unmuffled machines. The noise was deafening and John longed for his earplugs. The sound was so intense that he was surprised it didn’t break windows. The bikers continued to rev their engines as the leader circled the machete over his head. Finally, with a downward swing of his machete, the men cut their engines and blissful peace returned.

John watched several bikers dismount and take up security positions on the flanks of the formation and on either side of Paul’s house. He noted their movements, and made mental notes of their behavior for future reference. They were organized and confident, but he was glad to see they lacked military precision.

Two men, those closest to the leader, leaned their bikes against kick-stands and grabbed their shotguns. They walked up to Paul’s front door and blasted away the handle. A heavy boot kicked in the door and the men stormed in, ready for a fight. The leader signaled two more men to follow them in. About five minutes later, one of the bikers emerged and yelled that the house was empty.

The gang leader whistled once, made a fist with two fingers extended, made a fist again, and motioned with a throwing action. Three bikers opened their saddle bags and produced two Molotov cocktails each. The biker at the door hollered into the house and two
bikers followed him out. Just then the garage door went up, which explained where the fourth biker had gone.

The gang members shouted and became very excited when they saw Darrel’s pickup truck parked in Paul’s garage; it was all they needed to justify their attack vengeance. John realized it was a mistake to leave Darrel’s truck parked at Paul’s, but there was no better place to leave it. Besides, he didn’t think they’d respond so quickly. The only reason he didn’t torch the truck himself was because he planned to use it again. He was just glad he didn’t park it at his house.

When the last biker cleared the garage, several of the mounted bikers began firing their weapons at the house. Their leader issued a long, shrill whistle blast with his mouth and the shooting immediately stopped. He cussed them out for wasting their ammo, and then hawked a loogie and spit it on the ground.

From what John could see from his concealed position, the shotgun and pistol fire did little damage to Paul’s house. A few windows were broken, but nothing serious, nothing that couldn’t be patched up with a little plastic and tape. He then noticed a biker armed with a black, military-style rifle and wondered why he hadn’t noticed it before. John raised his own rifle to his eyes, and through the four-powered scope, he saw a leather rifle scabbard mounted on the motorcycle’s far saddlebag. John quickly scanned for other scabbards but saw none.

Another reason John didn’t notice the rifle was that the man didn’t fire it. That would have been a sure giveaway, because M4-style rifles, especially those chambered for 5.56, made a very distinct sound when fired. But that was true for all rifles John was familiar with through military service and sport shooting. There were subtleties with same caliber rifles, like the 7.62, but even then the rate of fire could tell him something about the type of weapon by its sound.

John wondered why the man with the M4 didn’t fire his weapon at the house, but figured he was saving his ammo for a real target,
something more direct, and that made him dangerous.
He’ll be the first person I drop
, thought John.

The rest of the gang members were armed with a variety and combination of short-barreled shotguns and pistols. The leader was the only one armed with a machete, but he also carried a unique looking pistol-rig. Two stainless-steel revolvers hung in black leather holsters at each hip. The luster of the leather shined with stiff newness. Even the leather loops on the back of his pistol belt were filled with shiny, new, brass ammunition. The entire setup made him look like some kind of gunslinger wannabe.

John knew, just by looking at him, that the big man couldn’t draw and fire his pistols with speed and accuracy because they sat too high on his hips. He’d lose the advantage of open holsters just by their poor positioning. John was absolutely confident he could outdraw the man with his own weapon in a tactical holster, and he wondered if he’d ever have to prove it. He was, after all, very proficient with drawing, reloading, and shooting his own pistol, thanks mostly to the weekly practice sessions and monthly competitions. And if, for whatever reason, he couldn’t make it to the range, he’d practice at home with dry fire training cards and snap-caps. Proficiency, John learned, had everything to do with muscle memory, and he doubted the biker leader took the time to properly prepare himself. John figured he carried the pistols mostly for dramatic effect because it made him look more like the character on his Desperado’s patch.

A biker talking to the leader pointed to Darrel’s truck, and from what John could read from their conversation, the man seemed interested in salvaging it. But the leader shook his head, said something to the man, and signaled to the three bikers, armed with their gasoline filled wine bottles, to lite their fuses. With a hand gesture, the leader signaled the men to throw the Molotov’s into Paul’s house. The six firebombs sailed through the air and crashed into the house and open garage. Fire immediately spread through the garage with a whoosh, but the house itself seemed quiet and unaffected. Suddenly, flames
could be seen licking up the curtains. Black smoke began to pour from the broken downstairs windows.

The bikers began to cheer and whoop as flames engulfed the house. John wondered if it was their first act of domestic terrorism since the ash began to fall, but he really didn’t care. He also wasn’t angry. Paul and his family were safe, and they really didn’t need their house anymore. Besides, given what happened there, burning the home to the ground felt right to John even if the burning was facilitated by the men who made it necessary. John appreciated the irony of it, but he doubted the bikers would.