R. Ruggiero - Brushfire Plague

“Pretty clever, eh?” Dranko said, echoing his thoughts.

“It has its pros and cons,” Cooper caught the glint of light on a scope and now saw two rifles trained on them from a windows across the street, as they rounded the barricade. He nodded appreciatively in their direction so that Dranko spotted them as well.

“I stand corrected, mostly pros. These guys know what they are doing,” Cooper said as it became clear that anyone trying anything untoward as they drove past the barricade would have two high-powered, scoped, rifles to contend with. At the range of less than fifty yards, even a minimally trained shooter would be able to hit whatever he was shooting at.

Cooper leaned over so he could shout out of Dranko’s window, “Nicely done. We’re up on 58th and Lincoln if you need anything.” The woman, who was clearly in charge, held a nickel-plated revolver in her left hand. Her ears were festooned with piercings, and her nose had two. Her black hair was shaved to a coarse stubble. She wore a denim jacket with the sleeves cut off. Her arms were alive with vibrant-colored tattoos of various animals and symbols. The unbuttoned jacket revealed a faded black t-shirt announcing a long-ago Joan Jett concert. Her black leather pants and motorcycle boots completed the garb of hard-knocks. Dranko appraised her as well as they passed. Something on his face must have given away his thoughts.

“Yeah, some of us carry guns too, my boys!” she called after them, laughing at her own humor. “We might call on you yet. Name’s Lucy if you need anything from us.”

Cooper gave her a broad smile, admiring her aplomb, “Mine’s Cooper. Likewise and good luck.”

“You too,” she shouted as Dranko completed the right hand turn and drove up 32nd. That short drive was without event and all looked normal, save for the noticeable absence of anyone on the street and a few windows that had been boarded up by their occupants. I wish people knew that a two-by-four won’t stop most bullets.

Dranko took the left onto Hawthorne and they immediately began passing wrecked cars, some burned, and a series of looted storefronts. They both wrinkled their noses as they smelled before they saw dead bodies in various places.

A bevy of motorcycles parked out front of a still functioning bar immediately caught their attention. A score of leather-clad bikers were scattered in front of it, some sitting and some standing, but all drinking.

“Take it slow, but be ready. Let’s see what they do,” Cooper whispered to Dranko, as if they could hear him.

A few bikers stood up and others turned toward the pickup truck as they approached. Cooper’s grip grew tighter on his rifle. He counted it fortunate that the bar was on the right-hand side, giving him a good line of sight.

Suddenly, like ants on a threatened hill, the bikers swung into frenzied action. Tables were lifted onto their sides, hands went for guns, and one biker stepped into the street and yelled at them to stop.

“Gun it!” Cooper shouted as he trained his rifle on the biker spokesman.

A loud report thundered inside the truck’s cab and the lead biker’s chest exploded as he was knocked backward from taking the .308 round from only twenty yards away. Cooper marveled that he could hear the spent shell casing making a loud metallic ring as it bounced off the rifle’s ejection port and landed inside the truck.

Cooper quickly moved to lay down shots intended to keep their opponents’ heads down, as opposed to aimed fire. His finger squeezed as fast as he could as he stitched fire from one end of the clustered bikers to the other. Dranko swerved the truck to their left, putting as much distance between them as possible. Cooper had only fired a few more rounds before they started receiving return fire from the bikers.

The loud crack of pistol fire shouted back at them. Half of their windshield spider-cracked as a round hit just in front of Cooper. He felt a round impact the passenger-side door and pass into the cab. Thankfully, he felt no burning sensation of being hit. Dranko didn’t cry out, as the round passed harmlessly through. Near simultaneous ting—ting-tings told him the pickup’s bed was being pockmarked by shells.

Cooper emptied the FAL’s magazine in this random-fire mode, hitting at least two bikers. When the last round had been shot, the bolt locked back open, telling him the weapon was empty. He dropped the rifle between his legs and grabbed the M-16. A shotgun blast destroyed the passenger-side mirror, and Cooper winced as shards of metal and glass impacted the right side of his face and head.

He cursed loudly as he switched the selector to full-auto and brought the M-16 to bear. He yanked the trigger back, firing controlled bursts, in rapid succession. He prayed the buzz of automatic fire would force the bikers to seek further cover. Having been on the receiving end a few times, he knew first-hand the terror that automatic weapons fire could instill even on those trained to withstand it. The sheer volume of bullets flying nearby instinctively made anyone believe the next one was guaranteed to hit them. He hoped its effect on untrained civilians would be even greater.

It worked. The volume of fire lessened dramatically as bikers scrambled for cover behind the tables or back into the building, desperately trying to avoid the buzzing rounds, the splintering wood, and the cratered pavement as the M16’s rounds struck home. Adding to the effect, one of his rounds struck a biker in the leg and he tumbled over, shrieking in a frenzy of pain.

Dranko’s hand jabbed him in the side, holding a fresh magazine, just as the M16 ran dry. Damn, he knows his stuff. Cooper hit the magazine ejector button, keeping his eyes on the bikers. The truck was now past them, as Dranko expertly drove around a burned out car using only one hand. Cooper’s eyes flew wide open as he spotted a biker, hovering just inside the bar’s doorway, covered in shadow. Enough light made its way inside that Cooper could see he held a scoped rifle and he was carefully sizing up his target on the moving truck; gauging speed and trajectory.

Cooper slammed home the fresh magazine and shouted at Dranko, “Evade!” Cooper racked the bolt to chamber a round as Dranko jerked the wheel hard, and to the right.

The biker’s rifle spat red-orange flame and the round passed just behind Cooper, shattering the rear window. He felt the sting of more glass burying itself in the back of his head and his shoulders. The bullet continued on its angle, passing just in front of Dranko’s face and smashing through the driver’s side window.

Cooper ignored his painful wounds and pulled the trigger to send a hail of fire toward the biker marksman. He burned half the magazine stitching the doorway frame. He couldn’t tell if he hit the rifleman, but the long, slender, black rifle disappeared back into the bar. For good measure, he emptied the rest of the magazine by spraying a long burst across the front of the bar.

As the pickup raced away, a few dispirited pistol shots rang back at them, but none came close to the truck. Cooper kept an eye on the bar as it receded in the distance. Thankfully, there was no pursuit.

“Must have thought we were easy pickings; the M-16 showed them otherwise,” he mused.

Dranko gave him a frantic look, the first time he had time to avert his eyes from the road, “You need medical.”

“Do I?” Cooper asked in disbelief. He brought his hand to the side of his head and flinched in pain as he found a glass shard and pulled it out. The hand returned, covered in blood. “I guess you’re right.” He suddenly became woozy and forced himself to breathe deeply.

“I hate the sight of my own blood!” Cooper complained.

Dranko gained the distance of several city blocks and then turned into a parking lot and rounded his way behind a burned out mechanic’s shop. He looked furtively around to ensure its relative safety and then grabbed a first aid kit from underneath the seat. He made Cooper turn around, facing rearward, so he could get a better look at his wounds.