Linda Andrews - The Meltdown

Skirting the front of the truck, Papa Rose met Falcon by the bumper. “Need a hand?”

Bloody handprints smeared the hood. “Never would have felt it if I was younger.”

Yeah, cuz a bullet through the thigh meat was a flea bite when you’re twenty. Papa Rose ducked under Falcon’s arm. Adrenalin deadened his own aches and pains. They raced for the gate. “What kind of toy is Santa going to bring you?”

Falcon snorted. “I’m looking for an M203 and some rounds. Two should do it.”

“What’s an M203?” Keeping pace with them, the red-haired kid ran backward and aimed his shotgun down the road.

“Grenade launcher that fits the M-4.” Papa Rose increased his speed. Twenty yards to go. He wouldn’t be upstaged by the little twerp.

Falcon kept pace but sweat ran down his cheeks in rivulets. “I want two, one for each truck.”

“Why not use the cannon thingy?” Red pointed to the turret.

“You mean the main gun?” Papa Rose clarified. He’d rip off his own testicles before admitting he’d never crewed a tank. Maybe if he had a little more time, he could have improvised. He was good at improvising.

“Yeah, the main gun,” Red agreed.

Falcon chuckled. “It’s gotta be running for anything to work. And we’re pretty sure it’s out of gas.”

“Plus there’s the fact that no one would leave the keys in the ignition.” It did have keys, didn’t it? Papa Rose shrugged off the thought. “You think there’s any SAWs left?”

“Don’t know if the Army or Marines guarded the plant.” Falcon glanced over his shoulder.

The Marines always got the good stuff. Papa Rose headed for the exit gate and the tank stationed there.

Gun shots sounded behind him.

Red fired his shotgun; the blast bounced off the small guard shack.

“Save your ammo until they’re within range.” Was the kid that gung-ho or stupid? Papa Rose slowed to a walk. A brown tarp covered the equipment stowed on the turret.

Red clamored up the side and dropped into the main hatch. “Ooh, this is so cool!”

“Kids today.” Falcon braced his hand against the side of the tank. “Hand me a round, will you?”

“Sure.” Papa climbed up the rungs, edged around the turret and whipped off the tarp. He scanned the boxes of 50 mm shells and two empty cannon rounds. “No good, they’re all for the tank.”

“Check the shack and cover your mouth.” Straightening, Falcon raised the M-4. “Looks like they ate their burgers inside.”

Great. All he needed was a side of anthrax. Papa Rose pulled up the collar of his tee-shirt and hung it on his nose.

The bastards’ trucks turned onto the road leading toward the plant.

“Looks like we’ve got incoming.” He sprinted around the gate to the other side of the building and threw open the door. Miniature plush animals sat around the computer. A screen saver threw nets of color over the monitor.

A soft whirring noise slipped through the windows.

Ah, fuck. The kid had gotten the Death Whisperer started. Papa Rose scanned the room. A small desk, two office chairs with butts imprinted on the seats and… His heart leapt with joy. And four M-4s complete with grenade launchers and scopes. Two duffels sat next to them. Crossing the room, he dropped to his knees and unzipped the bags.

Hot damn!

Gold tipped rounds lay in a neat row. He lifted one up and grabbed a rifle, loading it as he walked. Just as he reached the door, the fifty millimeter machine gun spat rounds.

Falcon grinned from the open hatch. “That’s for Jillie and Olivia, you bastards!”

Well, shit they were gonna have all the fun without him. Papa Rose slammed through the door and knelt on the road. Using the optic, he sited the first truck.

Puffs of smoke burst from the ditches. Two men fell out of the bed. The truck kept coming. He pulled the trigger. With a hollow thunk, the projectile rocketed across the distance. It hit the shiny grill off center then exploded.

The burst shoved the truck backwards. Glass sprayed everywhere in a twinkle of light. Flames licked the vehicle’s hood. Three men in the bed bailed out the sides, only to fall under Falcon’s spitting gun. Neither figure in the cab moved.

“That’s for Toby!” Papa Rose pushed to his feet, emptied the casing.

The second truck veered around the first.

Falcon’s bullets pocked the hood.

The bastards kept coming.

Fine with him. Papa Rose had one for them, too. He loaded the second High Explosive round and raised the carbine.

The M1 coughed; a missile whistled through the air.

God damn it! Papa Rose lowered his rifle. Falcon had said the stupid thing wouldn’t be loaded.

Color fled the faces of the men in the truck. Their eyes widened as their jaws dropped. Then the missile hit, penetrated the radiator and detonated. Doors, body parts and the hood blew in all directions. The engine block landed with a splat twenty feet away. Black smoke billowed from the wreckage.

Falcon’s gun fell silent. He ran his hand across his forehead and wiped off the sweat. “Well that sucks.”

“Yeah.” Papa Rose hitched the M-4 on his shoulder. He missed his chance to fire the damn cannon.

Red popped up through the hatch behind Falcon. A toothy grin split his face. “Did you see that! That’s so much better than the video games.”

“You did good kid.” Bracing his hands on both sides of the hatch, Falcon levered himself out.

The kid got lucky. Papa Rose swallowed the bitterness. “Nice job.”

An engine rumbled.

A truck broke through the smoke. He raised the M-4 and settled his finger on the trigger. A red dot tracked across the pocked windshield and stopped on Polo Shirt’s forehead. Papa Rose lowered the rifle.

Steam hissed from the engine as Polo Shirt pulled it along side the guard shack. Bullet holes burrowed into the sides. “Sorry about the condition.” He threw it into park and slipped out the door. “It should run long enough to get you to your children but not much farther. Pity. We could have used it to get some of us to safety.”

We? Some? If these survivors went, was there a need for him and Falcon to survive? Papa Rose lowered the truck’s gate then entered the guard station. Yes, there was. Toby, Jillie and Olivia needed them. A white box with a red cross hung on the wall. He lifted it off the screws and carried it outside.

Falcon limped around the corner, heading for the truck bed. “There’s plenty of other trucks.”

“And a van.” Papa Rose set the first-aid kit on the gate and popped open the lid. Sifting through the assorted contents, he selected some butterfly bandages, packets of antibiotic cream, sterile gauze and white tape.

Polo Shirt eyed the kit and licked his lips. “Yeah, but they won’t do much good without gas.

The back dipped as Falcon climbed on. “I think we can help with that.”

“You can?” Hope glittered in Polo Shirt’s eyes; he quickly banked it.

“Yep.” Damn. This new world sucked the big one. Papa Rose shoved the items he’d selected at Falcon then closed the case. “We’ll be safer if we travel in a group, share the load. People going it alone don’t last long.”

He held out the first aid kit to Polo Shirt.

The man hesitated before grabbing it and clutching it to his chest. “Thanks. If you can get gas, we’ve got our own vehicles already loaded and ready to go. My wife is a nurse, she can take care of that injury for you.”

“Nah. It’s just a flesh wound.” Falcon had scooted near the cab.

Papa Rose slammed the gate and winced as it jarred the graze to his shoulder. Flesh wound his ass. Falcon needed stitches. And his wound could use a little TLC if the nurse was pretty.