Redaction: The Meltdown Part II (38 page)

Someone cried in pain.

He rushed forward.

Bullets whizzed passed his ear. Bark splintered off the tree to his right.

He sited his gun, sweeping it right. A flash of red. He squeezed the trigger.

Another yelp.

The M-4 spat behind him.

Fire burned across his upper arm. The fuckers had shot him! He roared, a primal sound that ripped from his throat and battered the house.

Falcon’s battle cry echoed behind him.

Two more shots rang out.

His right ear melted in a puddle of warm wetness. He let loose another round on a spot of yellow.

No shout of pain answered this time.

Damn. He’d missed. Ignoring the tree trunk offering shelter, he charged across the semi-circular drive. Gravel rolled under his boots like marbles. His left and right legs tried to go separate ways. Pain roiled through his groin. Switching it off, he headed for the gate.

Brainiac would be avenged.

“Shit!” Falcon swore behind him.

A bullet slammed into Papa Rose’s shoulder. Swinging his hand, he caught the gun in his left hand. Raising the weapon, he aimed at the yellow blob among the green. He fired. Once. Twice. Red burst from the yellow then it disappeared.

“That’s for B!”

The wooden gate loomed. Papa Rose didn’t slow. He twisted so his bad shoulder took the brunt of it then slammed into the gate. Wood screamed as the force shredded it. Metal rattled as the hinges gave up the fight. Blackness exploded inside his head.

Fuck that hurt. He shook away the encroaching pain. No time to be a wuss over a flesh wound. Mission incomplete. He stumbled through the gate. Dead grass crunched underfoot.

Falcon steamed by firing at men as they scattered. Bam! One tumbled down by the swing set.

Another shot. Another corpse by the above ground pool. Blood spattered the blue sides and an arc of green peed onto the ground.

Nearing the end of the mobile home, Papa caught a third near a rusting bicycle.

The man tangled with the bent wheel as he went down.

From the corner of his eye, movement snared his attention. Papa Rose zeroed in on it.

A little boy, just a hair older than Toby, screamed, “Daaa-Dee!”

What the fuck! Papa Rose shifted his arm just as he tightened on the trigger. “There’s kids!”

Jillie hadn’t said anything about kids.

A woman in gray sweats and a blue jacket tackled the boy, curling her body around him.

Or women!

Slowing, Falcon cleared the house. He raised the M-4 so it pointed slightly skyward.

A board connected with the former Green Beret’s head. His eyes rolled back in his skull and he went down.

Papa Rose aimed at the head peeking round the corner. “Drop it.”

The wood clattered to the ground.

Six guns swung in his direction.

He grabbed the woman by the hair and pulled her in front of him. With this back to the mobile home, he pressed the gun to her temple.

Falcon lay still. Blood dripped from the gash on his chin and out his mouth. More poured from his shoulder and thigh.

A man in slacks and a Polo shirt waved a pistol in his direction. “Drop your gun and we’ll kill you quick.”

Papa Rose smiled. “If that gun was loaded, you would have already shot me and my friend. Now, I have one for her and…”

The man in slacks glanced at the M-4.

Papa Rose tightened his grip on the woman until she whimpered. “And whoever is stupid enough to go after the rifle. Then I’ll just pull my other gun and shoot the rest of you murderers.”

“Murderers!” The woman on the ground uncurled. Tears streaked her cheeks, her fists pounded the ground. “We welcomed you into our camp and after eating our food, accepting our hospitality, you raped and beat and…”

The boy clutched her shirt and cried.

Thoughts clicked into place. The truck in the wall had been new. It must have belonged to Jillie and Toby’s attackers. Papa Rose inhaled through a rush of pain. Brainiac had been right. They’d been too scared to call out to them and he had more innocent blood on his hands. “Did the animals who attacked you last night drive a red pick-up with a light bar and lift kit?”

The woman on the ground wiped her nose on her sleeve before scurrying to the fallen man’s side. He moaned when she rolled him over. The child stuck closer than a shadow.

Papa Rose shifted his attention to the man in the polo shirt. “Did they?”

His forehead wrinkled but anger still tightened his features. “Like you don’t know.”

“Listen up asshole,” Papa Rose growled.

The folks with the guns backed up a step.

Okay, maybe cursing at them wasn’t the most diplomatic move. But dammit, they’d killed Brainiac. He took in a steadying breath and scanned the backyard. Six bodies lay unmoving. No telling how many more fell on the other side. His pulse throbbed at his temple. “Do either of us look like the fuckers who attacked you last night?”

Polo Shirt frowned at him. “It was dark.”

The woman looked up from cradling the man’s head in her lap. Blood bubbled through her fingers from where she pressed against the man’s chest. “And there were more of you than the six that came into our camp, acting like our friends.”

It was a Mexican stand off and he knew it. Something had to give.

Falcon twitched on the ground, just enough so Papa Rose knew he was conscious and willing to follow his lead.

Papa Rose released the woman, pushing her toward one of the men. “Take care of your wounded.”

The man caught her and shuffled her behind him.

“Listen very carefully and think.” Papa Rose hit the consonants hard, emphasizing the word. His gun drifted from target to target. His bullet wound began to throb and he felt cold from the lack of adrenalin. “You watched us for a good half hour and what did we do?”

Polo shirt shifted on his feet. “Turned on the well, directed the irrigation.”

“Exactly. Do you know why?”

The man licked his lips and glanced at his friends. Slight head shakes followed the semi-circle. “No.”

“Because Palo Verde is on the verge of exposing her rods and melting down.” Papa Rose dipped the gun toward Falcon. “We promised the Surgeon General, Mavis Spanner that we’d keep the plant going for three more days to allow as many survivors to get to safety as possible.”

His former hostage crept around the men standing guard. “You don’t work at the plant. We would know.”

“No ma’am. I don’t. But we were sent to help Glen.”
Thank you B, for learning the nuclear technician’s name.
He’d personally see to it that the squid got a chest full of medals. Too damn bad it was posthumously.

Polo Shirt scratched his chin, lowered his weapon slightly. “Glen Navarro or Hisslip?”

Papa Rose shrugged. “Never learned his last name.”

“But Glen will vouch for you?”

He wished. “Glen died about an hour ago.”

The gun raised again. “So you have no proof.”

“My proof that I’m not those animals is that I haven’t killed you where you stand.” Papa Rose aimed at Polo Shirt. “I have two bullets and haven’t fired. I’m willing to bet my life that all your weapons are empty.”

In one swift motion, Falcon swooped up the M-4. Still on his back, he aimed it at the man closest to him. “Hell, I just want to take out the rest of you for killing our brother.”

The six men retreated a step. The one on his left dropped his shotgun and raised his hands. It clattered to the ground.

Polo Shirt looked at his people. “But you came from the generating station.”

Papa Rose’s gut clenched. Ah, hell no. He braced his feet apart, waiting for the shit that just kept rolling his way. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“That’s where they were headed. They saw the lights on and figured they could set up base there.”

Falcon jumped to his feet. “Fuckin’ A.”

Papa Rose stumbled toward the gate. “The munchkins!”

Those assholes had already nearly killed those kids once. He’d be damned if they’d get another chance.

“What munchkins?” Polo Shirt chased them through the gate.

Papa Rose thundered around Falcon, slipped his hand around the man’s waist and heaved him along faster. “We’ll get to them in time.”

“Damn straight.”

Footsteps pounded beside them. Polo Shirt pulled abreast of him. “Where are you going?”

“We left our kids at the power plant.”
Please God let them be safe. Don’t take them away just when I’ve found them
.

“Tiffany! Tracy!” Polo Shirt stopped. “Bring me the ammo.”

Papa Rose’s chest heaved as he lugged Falcon to the truck. “You think they’re going to shoot us in the back?”

Falcon glanced over his shoulder. “They try it and I’ll drop ‘em where they stand.”

A red-headed kid, barely old enough to shave, shot passed them and opened the passenger door. “If you’re going after those assholes, we’re going with you.”

Five men sprinted around them and threw themselves in the back of the truck. No sooner had they landed than they began to search their pockets for more ammunition.

Ha! He knew they were out of bullets. Papa Rose folded Falcon in the passenger seat then slammed the door.

The kid climbed into the rear seats and shut himself in. “We think there were twelve of them but can’t be sure.”

Polo Shirt tossed boxes of ammunition to the men in the back.

Limping, Papa Rose climbed behind the wheel. He gunned the engine and stomped on the accelerator just as Polo Shirt took a seat in the cab.

“They all have guns but we’re not sure how much ammunition they have left since they wanted our weapons.”

“Did they get any?” Papa Rose fishtailed across the rutted field. He focused on the strip of road that led to the pavement.

“Two shotguns, no shells.” In the rearview mirror, the man paled. “And a few knives.”

Papa Rose clamped his jaw shut. He had a feeling the blades had been tested.

Falcon ripped the mud-splattered bandanna from his neck. With one hand, he wrapped it around his thigh. “What else can you tell us?”

“They deserve to die.” The kid leaned over the front seat and picked up the edges of the bandanna. He knotted the points and pulled it tight.

Falcon hissed and arched his back. “Tighter.”

The kid complied. His bloody fingers left smears on the seat as he sat back. “If your munchkins are little kids, they’ll probably just kill them right away.”

And that was supposed to be good news? Papa Rose laid rubber on the blacktop. Kicking aside the floor mat, he floored the accelerator. The needle climbed. One hundred. One ten. It wasn’t fast enough.

Polo Shirt plugged new shells into his shotgun. “I know it doesn’t help, but we’re sorry about your friend. We had to protect ourselves.”

“Yeah.” It didn’t help. It just reminded him, he had more blood on his hands. Papa Rose followed the curve in the road. The domed reactors glowed in the building storm.

“In future, this is what you do.” Falcon ejected his clip and slipped in a new one. “You send two or three folks out to greet the newcomers, hold the rest back and cover the welcoming committee. Before you open fire, get the lay of the land, see if your balls draw up tight.”

“Or your gut clenches or the hair on the back of your neck stands at attention.” Papa Rose ran it through his head, again and again. Brainiac shouldn’t have approached them like that. He strangled the steering wheel. No matter how the shells landed, it was a FUBAR moment waiting to happen.

“Anything feels off, then you fall back, keep vigil and if necessary, bring out the guns.” Falcon thumbed new bullets into the empty clip. “Always approach with the expectation of help. It’s called Plan B but it’s to be used first, not second.”

Plan B. The squid would be proud. Papa Rose sniffed. “Of course, we’re not using it this time.”

“Hell no.” Falcon straightened on the seat. “We’re going to tuck these bastards in for a long dirt nap.”

Chapter Thirty-Two

With his hand hooked around the metal rib, Trent swayed to the motion of the personnel carrier. Near his knees, the wood gate rattled and the metal chain clinked. Snow fell in soft wet flakes that melted when they hit the desert floor. Vermin scurried across the mud patches, leaving shallow prints that quickly filled with water.

Clouds covered the sky like a lead sheet, blotting out the sun.

Trent checked his watch. One minute until nine. Almost time.

Anticipation unfurled in his gut. Thanks to the overcast, he could see into the cab of the truck behind him. A wiry soldier stared at him from behind the wheel. Soon he would no longer matter. Keeping a small smile on his lips, Trent glossed over the driver to the other man. In the passenger seat, Ernest Pyle fiddled with the long, black handle of his flashlight, just like he’d been doing since they’d ditched the other two trucks nearly three hours ago.

When the truck headed up another incline, Trent swayed forward then set his hand over his heart.

The signal was sent.

Let the future begin.

Trent savored the sweet victory flooding his mouth and waited.

Ernest raised his flashlight and swung it toward the soldier’s head.

At the last minute, the driver raised his arm to block the move.

Fucker! Trent tightened his grip. Ernest wouldn’t let him down. Not in such a key moment with both their futures at stake.

Ernest hopped on his seat and swung the flashlight again. And again. And again.

Trent’s blood quickened. Go Ernest!

The soldier blocked one swing but another connected and his head snapped back. Letting go of the steering wheel, he raised both hands. The truck careened to the side of the dirt road. Its wheel caught in the ditch and its fender gouged the walls cut out of the hill. The men fell onto the seat, disappearing from view.

No! Trent ground his teeth together. He wanted to watch the fucking soldier die.

The black flashlight arced over and over the dashboard until finally crimson spotted the windshield. A red hand appeared grabbed the wheel and tugged it back to the road.