Hard Rain Falling (Walking in the Rain Book 3) (9 page)

I would miss Grady… and I barely knew him. I was learning that sometimes you have to laugh, even in the face of horror and death; often, especially then.

CHAPTER TEN

Lori drove with the seat pulled all the way forward so her feet could reach the pedals. With the UMP45 resting in her lap, she looked more than a little cramped, but I held my tongue. The girl still looked tense and it had little to do with the road conditions. Someone had cleared the stalled vehicles from the lanes of the Indian Turnpike and in some places stalled cars lined the concrete shoulders. So while the route looked clear, even I could figure out this was prime real estate for an ambush.

We rode in the middle of the convoy, behind the two modified five ton trucks, and in front of “our” Humvee. Specialist Markum was now driving our Humvee and carried the electrical repair parts for the Bradley Fighting Vehicles as his cargo. He also had a gunner perched in the cupola, covering our advance with a medium machine gun.

They could have used the five tons, if they hadn’t already been converted into rolling pillboxes. The canvas sides of the truck concealed the firing ports of two machine guns mounted inside the beds of the trucks, one on each side. Someone had taken steel plates and armored up the sides but left the soft canvas cover as disguise. Crates of belted ammunition, spare barrels, and extra bodies to man the weapons took up just about all the cargo capacity of the truck beds. I could only presume the cabs of the trucks had seen a similar upgrade in armor. These trucks didn’t go fast and I assumed their fuel efficiency suffered, but I thought the trade-off worth it.

Redneck APCs. I liked the inventiveness of it, but I also figured the armor would come off once we got the Bradleys up and running. Not to mention, those M113s Lt. Germann had were almost entirely EMP resistant. I wondered why this Captain Bisley wasn’t using them too; probably because he didn’t have any.

I watched the early afternoon speed by at a blistering 40 miles per hour, my eyes in constant scanning mode. I knew the soldiers in the other two trucks were doing the same but I wasn’t one to trust others with my safety… not anymore. As my eyes worked, my brain spun with thoughts about everything that had happened today. I woke up in my safe little barracks bunk this morning, feeling fine and dandy. Ready to face the world. I imagine Jay got up the same way, full of optimism and good cheer.

Now he was dead, most of his brains blown out, and his mama would have to settle for a closed casket funeral. Assuming that was even still a thing. I didn’t know how the Guard was set up for burial details. Most of the dead I’d seen since the lights went out were left where they lay once the salvaging was done; or, more rarely, they were eaten.

So, while I was aching from fresh bruises, my lungs still a little itchy from the smoke, and filled with new fears, I remembered that I had already survived this long on a steady diet of paranoia and fear. My distrust was fueled by the near constant sights and sounds of society randomly collapsing. I had the image of a flat tire shredding under the friction of need as thousands, tens of thousands, died from bad water or a lack of food. This was the new reality.

I was accustomed to barbarous acts by starving groups or desperate individuals. That was my world for the first three months of this new era, and even having Amy along only tempered my fury at times. Now I had bigger fears; complete with missiles and drone strikes and the whole weight of the feds.

I wasn’t ready to take on the government. We could try to be polite and refer to these guys as random DHS thugs, but I know Lt. Germann and Sergeant Jenkins knew this was bigger than some petty warlord setting up shop. Maybe these were rogue actors, but they still had all the toys from before and they still worked. No one—not even the youngest private, or me—failed to notice that not only did the ambushers have cool stuff, but that cool stuff still worked.

You could protect your electronics from an EMP or CME, just like the Keller family did, by storing them in a specially designed container often referred to as a Faraday cage. These protected items suddenly became worth more than gold after an event that fried all those unprotected circuits, and here was a whole SUV chock full of working electronics. The radio still worked, though we picked up nothing but static on the FM stations.

However, on the AM side we heard the FEMA loop playing the same message I’d first heard about several weeks ago from Hazel. Mrs. Keller, the “lady of the manor” as I secretly thought of her, but not in a bad way; was Darwin Keller’s wife and partner in all things. I wondered how they were doing and said a little prayer for their safety.

I never made any big deal about my faith. I did believe in God. I talked to him from time to time, but so far he’s been giving me the silent treatment. I don’t think it was because of all the new business I’ve been sending Saint Peter, since all the folks I’ve been killing were likely headed somewhere else. A much warmer place if the folk stories have it right.

“What are you thinking about?” Amy asked me from her position in the back seat. She had one of the new M4s laying across her legs, barrel pointed out. She joked that I wasn’t taking this one away from her like I did the last one. I agreed. That one had originally been stolen from the Oklahoma National Guard, so I thought returning it was the right thing to do.

Turns out, I was right. Captain Vanderpool seemed surprised and pleased by the gesture anyway. Halloran just didn’t seem happy to find automatic weapons in the hands of civilians, no matter how they ended up there.

“God,” I replied. I tried to avoid lying to Amy whenever I could. She was so smart I decided it was just easier that way.

“Wow. That was so not what I was expecting,” Lori chimed in, and then looked up into the rear view mirror to gauge Amy’s reaction. Since Lori had physically restrained Amy to keep her in the Humvee after the shooting started back on the interstate, I thought Lori might be worried about setting Amy off again, even though I knew better. If Amy said something was over and forgotten, then that was just the truth.

“Anything in particular about God? Or just trying to grasp the bigger picture?”

Again, that was my girl. Amy cut right to the point.

“I was wondering if prayers really work. I don’t mean, like, prayers for selfish reasons. You know, ‘please God, let me pass this physics exam’; that kind of thing. I mean real prayers for the safety of others. I was just saying a prayer for God to watch over the Keller family, that’s all.”

Wherever this conversation was headed quickly came to a screeching halt as the radio chimed. This was the SINCGARS radio, and not the same one the SUV sported when Lt. Germann’s comm. tech first got his hands on the vehicle. That unit was packed up along with the two hard sided laptop cases and the rest of the gear. Some looked like HAM based radios in various wavelengths and what I took to be a satellite uplink. If they still had the satellites, I knew we were really going to have trouble avoiding their attention.

The voice was that of Sergeant Jenkins, and the message was short and to the point. The rest of the convoy was diverting over the prison to help stop another breakout attempt. We were to proceed along with Specialist Markum to the armory.

I looked around at the three young ladies and got a cautious nod from each. Jenkins sounded worried, more so than usual, so I figured they could use the help. None of us were anywhere near trained, but I could shoot and I knew the girls could too. From all accounts, the town was already in shambles so I feared for what would happen if hundreds of prisoners—cannibalistic prisoners—descended on the town. Again, this wasn’t my fight and my dumb ass was still going to wade in anyway. When I looked back to check on Amy I saw she had a determined look on her face.

“Sergeant, this is Unit 451. If you’ll have us, we’d like to help. Over,” I said, speaking without trying to use any of the military jargon or codes; just using proper radio etiquette.

The long pause made me think Sergeant Jenkins was not even listening. Then he replied.

“Copy. We’re taking the next exit. If the Thompson girl is still driving, she should know the way to the prison from there. I’m still sending Markum ahead though; those parts are needed, right fucking now.”

I wondered what he meant by that, other than the obvious. In my ignorance, I figured the five tons would swing the course of the conflict. Of course, they had M240B machine guns mounted on the trucks. That should be enough to swing most any battle. I soon discovered otherwise.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

From the Indian National Turnpike, Lori exited onto Highway One and followed the two trucks while Markum continued on our tail until the lead truck turned off on North West Street. We followed but Markum kept motoring along. When I checked the map provided by Sergeant Jenkins, I saw the armory was only a few miles away from what looked like a whole complex of prisons. Great, they concentrated all the worst Oklahoma had to offer in one place… and we were headed straight to it. I was feeling the butterflies in my stomach.

I saw a cluster of buildings coming up on my left and tightened my grip on the CETME. Yes, I had all the tacti-cool guns in the world but the old Spanish designed rifle felt right in my hands. Back on the farm, I’d swapped one of my pistols to Nick for a claw mount and compatible Leopold 3x9x40mm scope. I hadn’t even taken the lens caps off in my earlier scuffle, but if I needed to hit a target out to 500 yards this setup would work.

“That’s the Jackie Brannon, Luke. Minimum security. I’m betting they just opened the doors on that place,” Lori said as we continued on past.

Indeed, the campus looked abandoned and some of the dormitory style buildings clustered in pods appeared to be stripped and burned. Then I started hearing shooting—a lot of it—and we seemed to be headed in the right direction for it.

I wanted to call Jenkins for a status update, but since we’d invited ourselves I was hesitant to joggle the man’s elbow. Just as I changed my mind and picked up the microphone, the man called with new orders for us.

“451, the captain has ordered us to join up as a security element for the mortar trucks set up at West and Chestnut. To get there, we will need to run straight up West, which means taking fire from the prisoners the whole way. Are you up for that?”

I looked around, mike in my hand. I saw the heads nod slowly.

“With you, Sergeant.”

With our agreement, Jenkins sketched out a hasty plan for our deployment. We quickly figured out the reason for the National Guard troops to be in such a bind. In addition to harassing fire from the prison itself, they had attackers moving in on both the north and west sides. These new attackers, unfortunately, seemed to have plenty of men and firepower. The guard maintained constant watch on all four sides but at the moment, the western post was under heavy attack and the northern position had fallen silent five minutes before we showed up.

As Jenkins detailed where he wanted the three vehicles deployed, Lori drove through a landscape torn straight from hell. The two lane road was like a deadline, and any of the ragged, emaciated creatures streaming out of the front gate of the massive white two story structure that tried to cross the street died. The dead prisoners in their filthy orange jumpsuits littered the overgrown grass fields bordering the roadway. They fell in windrows cut through their ranks like felled stalks of wheat. That was fine from my perspective, but more seemed to be streaming out the back and sides as well. I thought we might already be too late.

Then we skidded to a halt and I felt the first onslaught of fire strike the sides and windows of the SUV. Hmm. Bulletproof so far. I couldn’t see exactly where the bullets were coming from, but I got a sense the great majority of the shots came from further north of our position.

Amy started to jump out of her seat but I looked back and shook my head.

“Amy, the firing is too heavy to chance getting out from back there. Just hold your seat. Lori, pull forward another ten feet, please.”

It wasn’t rocket science. Yes, the Suburban was proof against small arms fire. I wasn’t completely sure about the tires, run flats or not. And yes, we wore body armor that was rated for up to 7.62x51—which did nothing to protect our heads or legs; or our arms past the shoulders, for that matter. The APCs, which I was pleased to see the Guard did have down here, was parked in a way that almost shielded us from the majority of the bullets headed our direction. Figuring the angle, having Lori move meant the bulk of the armored track would prevent most of the shots from getting to us.

Needless to say, I grossly underestimated the level of opposition we would be facing here. The two five tons were already turned broadside to allow the gunners on both trucks to fire on the northern positions, as well as to cut down the trickle of prisoners still trying to flee.

In the distance, I could just make out the twinkle of flashing dots coming what looked like a row of small apartment blocks. I estimated the distance to be about four hundred yards from our position. Then I heard a thumping start up from nearby. I’d heard that sound a long time ago, when I was a kid. Camp Pendleton.

Mortars outgoing.

“What was that?” Amy asked, glancing around nervously.

“That was a hurting headed out,” I replied, then clarified. “Mortars. The Guard have some set up nearby. We’re here to make sure they don’t get overrun. And now, I want to get out and see if I can help.”

“What about us?” Lori asked. I couldn’t tell what she wanted to hear.

“Guys, this is way more than I expected. They have machine guns and who knows what else. Please, could you just stay here and be ready to bounce? I know I’m being an overprotective prick, but…”

“Fuck it. This is more than I signed on for,” Summer blurted. “No offense, but that is just a storm of bullets headed this way.”

“Hopefully not for long,” I said, and the distant sound of explosions punctuated my words. The firing lightened noticeably and I risked cracking the door and sliding out. Fortunately, the way Lori parked placed my side away from the bulk of the fire. Inside, it had sounded like a hard rain falling. Outside, the roar of the massed machine gun fire was interspersed with a sharp TANG as bullets ricocheted off the metal armor of the M113.

I didn’t know much about mortars except what I’d seen in movies. I didn’t play first person shooter games much and so I missed the ‘Call of Duty’ effect; which meant, apparently, that because somebody could ‘use’ a weapon in the computer game, they mistakenly thought that skill translated to the real world.

I couldn’t operate a mortar, or a machine gun, but I could run the CETME just fine, even at these ranges. First though, I need a little separation. Staying low to the ground and fearful of being run over by a track, I duck walked over to a shallow depression about forty yards from the Suburban and still covered by the footprint, barely, of the Armored Personnel Carrier. Drainage ditch. Just like I figured. What I hadn’t figured on was finding it occupied.

The soldier almost shot me out of reflex. His rifle came up, and then he checked the move.

“Who the fuck are you?”

“Friendly,” I squeaked. “Let me get down and I’ll answer whatever questions you want.”

Not convinced, the soldier kept me covered as he waved his barrel slightly, giving the permission grudgingly.

Grateful, I made sure to keep my barrel up as I slid into the grassy dip in the earth. I saw a culvert behind the soldier and could make out two shapes huddled inside the tunnel.

“So, again, who the fuck?”

“Name’s Luke. Civilian doing contract work for the state. Not a soldier or spook, mind you, just basic security. I was escorting a few civilian refugees when we got the word about an attack here. Holy fuck, who are those guys?”

The soldier, who looked like a hard twenty five, shrugged. He was wearing the three stripes of a buck sergeant, and had a fancy bolt action rifle up on a tripod in addition to the M4 carbine he’d flashed a moment earlier.

“You need a spotter?” I asked, glancing tentatively over my shoulder the two wounded soldiers sheltered in the metal tunnel. I could see one was only lightly wounded, with a hastily bandaged tear in his arm, and he was trying to patch up another soldier suffering from what looked like multiple gunshots.

“Nah, not at this range. You any good with that thing? I could use some more suppressing fire on those apartments.”

“Yeah, I can help. Let me get set.”

Now, I wasn’t a sniper, and neither was Sergeant Barlow. He was a designated marksman for his platoon, and he was trying to take some of the heat off of them. I could get behind that objective. Moving further down the ditch gave me a better angle on the apartments, but also left me more exposed.

“Take a shot and move, kid,” Sergeant Barlow advised. “Make the shot, though. And keep doing it until you ain’t got no more targets.”

Wise advice, as it turned out. The ball ammunition I was shooting in the CETME was just about at the limits of accuracy out past 400 yards. That was okay. I wasn’t trying to hit a bull’s-eye. I remember one of my father’s buddies, a colorful guy named Nivens, who used to come out to the ranch a couple times a year to shoot with some of his buddies. Some of the other men were really dedicated long distance shooters. Popping gophers out to a thousand yards… with head shots; which was just insane.

When one of them asked Mr. Nivens what his rifle would do out to past 400 yards, the older shooter quipped that his old 1903A3 would still shoot ‘minute of dirt bag’. He wasn’t as technically proficient as some of his buddies, but he could keep up a steady rate of fire with that sixty year old rifle of his.

That’s what I was focusing on today. Just hit the attackers, nothing fancy. Shoot and move. I was hitting targets—men—and kept it up until I’d emptied one magazine, then another. These guys were determined, and didn’t seem to mind taking losses. Through the scope, I see they wore civilian dress and looked starved. Not concentration camp bad, but desperate. Hungry. Also, determined to keep the Guard forces engaged so the remaining prisoners could escape. That was not a good sign.

I was hoping the mortars and the machine guns would drive them out. Turns out they had their own machine guns. The fire began with a jerky, erratic style and seemed more focused on the tracks than anything else, but the tracers almost looked like a laser beam pointed at me at times. I managed to empty another magazine, and then the fire finally forced me down into the bottom of the trench where I exchanged a look with the sergeant.

“Who the hell are these guys?” I asked, as I began shoving rounds against the stiff springs in the magazine. I used up a box of twenty from my pack and grabbed another.

“Think it’s a gang, or group of gangs. Their leadership was locked up, and I guess they want them back.”

Fuck, I’d gone a whole week without even exchanging a harsh word with anybody, and now this; two firefights in less than eight hours. Well, a turkey shoot and this thing, which was shaping up to be a real fur ball.

Taking a second, I grabbed my radio and keyed it up.

“Lori, you there?”

“Yeah. This is crazy, Luke. There’s just too many. Where are they coming from?”

“Sit tight, but be ready to move. Most of the ones shooting at us are in those apartments. I think they are trying to keep us pinned down, but the mortars are cutting them apart.”

To punctuate my statement, I heard a muffled roar followed by an ear thumping explosion in the distance. Absently returning the radio to my belt, I looked over at the Barlow. He was grinning, an ugly thing that flashed yellowed, nicotine stained teeth at me.

“That’s our 105s. This will shake those bastards up,” he yelled, answering my unspoken question.

I knew that was field artillery of some sort. Howitzers. I heard the roar three more times, and then after the last explosion I dared peeking over the lip of the ditch. Yes, that should shake them up I thought absently, my eyes trying to find order in the chaos of the shattered buildings. Where once sat a pair of three story apartments separated by a parking lot, I thought there might be a few chimneys still standing and part of a wall broken off about three feet above the ground.

Amazingly, men began to emerge from the wrecked building and soon a ragged line of men began charging across the flat field towards our location. They were bloody and battered but still ready to fight, it seemed.

I brought my rifle up, bellied up to the lip of the ditch, and started picking off men. Since the return fire was reduced to what these men could dish out while running or jogging across the field, I didn’t bother with the bobbing and weaving. I just picked a target, fired, and went on to the next one. I hit more than I missed, and soon the rifle clicked on empty once again. Sliding back down once more, I swapped magazines and moved a little further out from the culvert.

Then the three M113s and our two five tons rumbled to life, belching plumes of black smoke in the late afternoon sky. Peeking over, I watched apprehensively as the three armored beasts seem to shake themselves and then peeled off in a precise order, advancing on the now smoldering ruins of the shattered apartments.

I grabbed for my radio and stood as one of the two gun trucks moved, the driver guiding his vehicle so the armored sides shielded the SUV. I saw the M113s open up on the pulverized grounds of the apartments and the approaching shooters even as Barlow took hold of one leg and yanked me back down into the ditch.

“Son, you is crazy! Keep your fucking head down,” he roared. I thought about the healed scar on my left arm and nodded.

“Sorry,” I mumbled, and leaned back against the grassy side of the depression.

“’It’s alright. Just because they’re getting hammered, doesn’t mean you can’t still get killed.”

I looked around and asked the question on the tip of my tongue.