Bobby Akart - Desolation

He and Sanchez worked in near silence as one lifted the water and the other slowly closed the door. This also served to make the room darker, a benefit for the trained law enforcement officers. The two men slid along the wall and dropped into a crouch, using the minimal light to get a feel for the space. Mike’s eyes darted around the room in search of light sources. Closing the double doors to the corridor limited their visibility of the lower level, but the catwalk’s details had appeared.

“I see a doorway above this one. It’s producing the most light, probably from the windows overlooking the loading docks. There has to be an exit into the high school opposite this one. There are a couple of skylights on the back side of the roof, but I’m guessing they’re covered in soot because they don’t allow much light in.”

Sanchez continually scanned the perimeter. “They’re here, Mike. I can feel them.”

“Me too. Let me take the lead, and you watch our backs. Let’s make our way to the staircase leading to the upper level. I’d feel better if we got eyes on the two who were shooting at us from the windows. Plus, I’d rather have the high ground myself.”

Sanchez tapped the detective-turned-substation-commander on the shoulder. The two men, separated by a few feet, moved along the wall, keeping their bodies as low to the ground as possible. Just as they reached the staircase, the sound of gunfire outside the building stopped them dead in their tracks.

Tuesday, November 12

Marathon High School

For a split second, it wasn’t clear who was more surprised to encounter a man with a gun—Don Wallace as he raced along the viburnum hedge in his attempt to escape, or Hank Albright, who heard the man’s footsteps crunching through the dead zoysia grass.

Hank turned the corner and abandoned his cover behind the stucco wall just as Wallace appeared at the end of the hedgerow. Hank’s sudden appearance startled the left-handed Wallace, who tried to point his handgun in Hank’s direction. His nervous trigger finger fired into the ground beside his feet and then wildly to the right, ricocheting off the school’s flagpole with a loud ping .

Hank didn’t hesitate. He’d already racked a birdshot shell into his marine shotgun and fired at Wallace. The birdshot was designed to wound any would-be attacker before the second shell full of double-aught buckshot finished the job.

However, at a range of just forty feet, the birdshot caused significant harm to the man. Wallace’s right shoulder was ripped open, leaving tendons and muscle dangling from where his bicep once was. He spun around and landed on his knees, frozen in that position until he fell onto the sandy soil.

He was not dead. Hank carefully approached the man with his shotgun pointed at his chest. Wallace’s chest rose and fell as he gasped for air. Several pellets had torn through his clothing and hit his chest. Yet he still held his weapon in his left hand. He was about to raise it to shoot at Hank when more gunfire emanated from the breezeway connecting the warehouse building to the high school.

Two more men were racing in Hank’s direction, carrying handguns. Both were shooting at him, spraying bullets over his head and into the ground on both sides. Hank quickly backpedaled to get cover behind the stucco wall. He frantically searched for Erin, looking behind him toward the other end of the wall, but she was gone.

“Shit!” he whispered loudly to himself.

He was concerned for her safety and had no idea where she went. He intently listened for the approaching gunmen to gauge their location. He dared not look around the wall, as they might shoot him.

Then a single gunshot broke his concentration, followed by an explosion. This was followed by another a few seconds later. Then another coming from the other side of the utility wall. He put two and two together. Erin was shooting out their tires, eliminating their means to escape.

Hank shouldered the shotgun and pulled his handgun. He dropped to a knee and readied his weapon. Mike had always advised him to keep his body low to the ground to create a smaller target and because nervous, untrained shooters had a tendency to fire over the heads of their targets.

Without looking for a target, Hank quickly stretched his hand around the edge of the wall and fired in the direction of the man he’d shot earlier. If Erin was approaching, he wanted to distract the two gunmen.

They fired back at him, embedding several rounds in the top of the stucco wall. They missed their target. Erin did not.

The men’s gunshots gave her a point of reference to release several rounds from the AR-15 into the viburnum hedge. Two of the NATO 5.56 rounds found their mark, striking the gunmen in some manner.

Hank holstered his handgun and racked another shell into his shotgun. He didn’t hesitate to swing around the wall and immediately shoot toward Wallace’s location. The shot hit Wallace and another man who was kneeling on the ground next to him. The man’s body was flung backwards as blood and flesh flew across the dying grass.

The third man began running back toward the breezeway, half turning and firing his handgun toward Hank. The bullets missed badly and shredded the hedges. Hank rushed toward the man until he planted his feet and unleashed two rounds out of his shotgun in rapid succession. Both blasts tore through his shoulders and back, killing him instantly.

“Hank!” shouted Erin, who rushed around the hedges with the barrel of her rifle pointed toward the two men left bleeding in the grass.

“I’m good,” he replied. He walked back slowly, racking another round in his shotgun while keeping a leery eye on the breezeway. “Are you okay?”

“Fine. Are they …” Her voice trailed off.

Hank turned to kick their bodies. Neither of the dead men responded. Then, in unison, he and Erin picked up their weapons and tossed them into the shrubs.

“Did you disable their trucks?” he asked.

She glanced toward the loading docks and nodded. “What should we do?”

Hank looked around. A crowd of residents had gathered, remaining safely across Sombrero Beach Road to watch the action. Most were tucked behind the pilings of the colorful homes that faced the man-made canal. Others peered through their upper-level windows, watching the spectacle unfold. Hank focused his attention back on the task at hand.

“Let’s do what Mike told us. We gotta trust his abilities on the inside.”

Mike desperately wanted to leave the building to help his brother, but when the barrage of gunfire rang out, the remaining gunmen panicked. They began to fire their weapons indiscriminately throughout the warehouse. Containers of liquid were punctured. Bags of flour were torn open by the bullets spreading a cloud of white into the air. Canned goods were knocked off shelves, clanking to the floor, making it difficult to differentiate between the sound of their shell cartridges plinking to the concrete and a can of vegetables being knocked off a shelf.

While Mike was ready to dispatch the gunmen, he also wanted to stop the wasteful destruction of food. He used their panicked firing against them by identifying their locations in the near darkness.

One of the shooters was on the catwalk near the single door leading to the upstairs hallway. Mike slapped Sanchez on the leg and took off toward the stairway leading up a level while the panicked shooters continued to fire in all directions without any identifiable target.

Walking silently on the concrete and wood steps, they made their way up to the catwalk. Keeping their bodies close to the shelving attached to the outer walls of the room, they moved rapidly at a low crouch toward the gunman on the upper level, who was now leaning over the rail in search of a target.