Matt Hilton - Blood and Ashes

Crack!

The sound imploded within my skull, pushing down the moan for the briefest of seconds.

Crack! Crack! Crack!

Flame — beautiful, blue, edged in yellow — shot from my gun in time with the jarring staccato rhythm.

My vision zeroed in on the glorious colours, which in the next instant were replaced by a seeping scarlet that clouded like ink in water. The red zone enfolded me.

Reality crashed to life around me.

Adrian fell face first on the driveway and didn’t move.

I fired another volley of shots, but I was shooting blind. No way could I tell where the bullet that killed Adrian had come from. Then I turned and rushed towards the others. Seeing Adrian fall they’d all stopped. Shock dominated them.

‘Get inside,’ I yelled.

Wishing to draw fire towards me, I ran from the family as they clambered for the front door, went over to Adrian and clutched at the man. I’m no doctor, but I’d seen enough dead bodies to know that Adrian had joined their ranks. Still, I grasped Adrian’s arm and began dragging him towards the cover offered by the parked cars. A round caromed off the roof of the Audi, the spent bullet spinning away into the woods on the far side. I pulled Adrian between the two vehicles. Judging by the direction from which the last bullet was fired, I was now out of the shooter’s line of sight but that meant nothing. A round from a rifle could pass directly through the body of a vehicle with little problem. Ducking low, placing the front wheel between us and the unknown rifleman, I rolled Adrian over on to his back. Adrian’s glassy eyes confirmed my initial prognosis, but I still pressed the tips of my fingers to the pulse point in his throat. There was only the putty-like feel of death.

‘Fuck sake,’ I sighed. Not very articulate, but it about summed up my feelings. I’d barely met Adrian Reynolds, and though I didn’t necessarily care for the man the senselessness of his death weighed heavily on my shoulders. It was a growing burden.

I popped up from cover, fired a short group of three rounds. Ducked low again.

A bullet shattered the windscreen of the Audi. Another punctured the front right tyre, thankfully the one on the far side.

I’d been counting my bullets. Eleven of seventeen were gone already. Feeling for a spare magazine, I found one tucked into my hip pocket. All the others were locked in the boot of my car. No way could I reach them without giving the shooter a clear target.

Crabbing to the rear of the car, I bobbed up again and fired the remaining six rounds in the clip. I swept my arm in an arc that took in twenty yards of the treeline in a little under two seconds. Even as I was ducking, my thumb worked the release on the gun and dropped the depleted magazine, and I rammed the other one in place. Then I was up and running, only vaguely aware of the scar tissue tugging horrendously in my thigh.

Bullets followed my trajectory towards the house, streaking by a foot behind as the shooter tried to adjust his aim on my charging figure. Then I threw myself at the door that the family had slammed behind them in their haste. The door crashed open as I thrust my way through it. I spun and kicked it to. A bullet cut through the wood, tugged at my shirtsleeve.

Swearing again, more savagely than before, I realised that this bullet had come from another direction. Evidently we were up against more than one attacker.

The door wasn’t solid enough to stop a bullet, but it would halt a man for a while. Risking another round, I twisted the locks and threw a bolt in place. Then I sprinted for the back of the house following the babble of voices and crying children.

‘Get away from the windows,’ I shouted, even before I reached the kitchen where they were gathered.

There was a splintering bang at the front door, someone ramming against it with a shoulder.

I twisted and fired a shot through the door and was rewarded by a shout of surprise. There was no pain in the words, which meant I’d missed, but at least the attacker fell back.

I’d still no idea how many were out there, or who they were. It didn’t matter now. The time for pondering such nuances was over and all that mattered was doing everything in my power to stop them getting inside. Millie and the children were, and always would remain, my priority, though, and I wanted to check that they were safely tucked away. Last thing I needed was for a stray shot to find its way to them. I headed for the kitchen.

What I found didn’t bode well for getting them to follow instructions. Millie had the two children enfolded in her arms as she crouched low behind a granite-topped island in the centre of the room. Both children were hysterical, screaming for their dead daddy who they’d watched gunned down. Millie was crying too, but her tears were more for the children than their father. Don was grabbing at his shirt front with both hands as he paced back and forth, muttering to himself.

‘Don,’ I snapped. ‘Get a hold of yourself, man. We have to…’

Have to what?

I wasn’t sure.

If it was just me, I’d take the fight to my enemies and show them the folly of their attack. But my actions now had to be governed by the need to keep the children safe.

I asked, ‘Where’s your gun? Did Millie bring it with her?’

Don looked to Millie who glanced up from the crying children. She looked forlorn. Lost. ‘I left it in the car,’ she moaned. ‘I’m sorry..’

I moved towards the back door. Threw the bolts in place. Turned back to Don. ‘What about Adrian, did he have a weapon?’

Don shook his head. ‘No, not that I know of.’

‘Check,’ I told him. ‘He may have one hidden somewhere so that the children couldn’t get their hands on it. A strongbox; possibly in his bedroom.’

‘You want me to go upstairs? I’m not leaving my family!’

‘OK. But at least grab a knife or something. If they get inside, we have to be ready to fight them.’

Even as I said those words they proved more than prophetic. It wasn’t a case of if but when the attackers stormed the house. They’d be coming soon, that was for sure.

‘Now, Don. You as well, Millie.’

‘But the children,’ she said.

‘They’ll be safer if you have some way of defending them.’

Don rushed across to a counter and opened drawers. He pulled at utensils, sorting through a clutter of silverware, and came out with a broad-bladed knife. He held it out to Millie who took it from him tentatively. Then he rattled through the drawer until he found a meat cleaver. Neither knife looked like they’d seen use in the past.

Taking my own advice, I dipped a hand to my left ankle to retrieve the military KA-BAR sheathed in my boot.

I glanced at the motley bunch of defenders. Knives wouldn’t do much to halt the concerted attack of enemies coming with rifles and handguns but they were better than nothing. Hopefully my SIG would even up the score a little.

Fleetingly I wished I’d thought to call Rink sooner. My big friend would have been a welcome ally just then.

I looked for a telephone. There was one on the wall next to the cooking range.

Not that I had the time to call Rink but a rapid 911 emergency wouldn’t go amiss. All I’d have to do was stab in the numbers and the emergency call would be picked up. Even if there wasn’t an opportunity to speak to the operator, I could leave the line open and the situation would be overheard. The cops would be coming.

Probably too late to help us, but I had to try.

Don had forbidden Millie from calling the constables, but that was under different circumstances. Fuck him, I thought as I reached for the phone.

‘We’ve already tried,’ Don said. ‘The line’s dead. I think whoever’s out there cut it.’