David Robbins - Denver Run

Screams and cries of agony arose from injured defenders.

More and more smoke covered the west wall.

“I’ll go check!” Spartacus volunteered, and ran off.

Hickok stood, gazing toward the forest to the west.

The soldiers hadn’t moved; they were formed into their ranks on either side of the dirt mound.

So!

Whatever they were using, it was apparent Brutus intended to subject the Home to a bombardment before launching his final assault.

What was that?

Hickok twisted, listening. He could hear explosions coming from every direction now. The other walls were under attack! He thought of Sherry, his wife, and forced the image from his mind. He had to concentrate on the matter at hand; too many lives depended on his judgment.

Spartacus hurried up. “Three hurt,” he announced. “I’m having them taken down the stairs.”

“Take everyone down the stairs,” Hickok ordered.

“And leave the west rampart undefended?” Spartacus asked in surprise.

“Do it,” Hickok stated.

Spartacus nodded and left.

Hickok moved to the stairs and descended to the inner bank. He stared up at the rampart, debating. Except for the demolished drawbridge, the stairs from the western rampart to the ground provided the only means of crossing the moat. Huge timbers had been imbedded in the bottom of the moat to support the stairs. It might be possible for the defenders to destroy the stairs, but why should they if they could turn the stairs into a strategic advantage?

Spartacus was supervising the evacuation of the west wall. The defenders moved in an orderly fashion down the stairs and gathered behind Hickok. Three of them, two men and a woman, were carried across the compound to C Block to be treated by the Family Healers. Another blast shattered a ten-foot section of wall before the evacuation was complete, but none of the defenders were injured.

“Are you the last one?” Hickok inquired as Spartacus came down and joined him.

“Yes,” Spartacus answered, then added, “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

Hickok faced the 66 defenders at his disposal. He pointed up at the west wall. “I don’t reckon we can hold the wall with the drawbridge gone. And I don’t see any sense to our standing up there getting our fool heads blown off waiting for the soldiers to attack.” He paused. Every eye was fixed on him. “I want a skirmish line formed about ten yards from the moat,” he informed them. “There isn’t much cover, but we won’t need much anyway. When those troopers come over the wall, they’ll be sittin’ ducks during the time it takes ’em to get through the barbed wire, over the parapet, and onto the rampart. That’s when you hit those clowns with everything you’ve got. Any questions?”

No one spoke up.

“Okay.” Hickok smiled at them. “Don’t look so worried! It’ll be a piece of cake!” he assured them.

“Form a line!” Spartacus interjected. “Keep about four feet between you and the next person. Hold your fire until Hickok gives the command.”

The defenders began forming their line.

Another shell struck the west rampart. Other blasts, muted by the distance, sounded from the north, east, and south walls.

“Do you have matches with you?” Hickok asked Spartacus.

Spartacus nodded.

“Good. Then you’ll be responsible for igniting the moat if we can’t hold them,” Hickok advised him.

“Should I await your signal?” Spartacus inquired.

“I’m not gonna have time for one if the fightin’ is in full swing,” Hickok said. “I’ll leave it up to you. If they start to ford the moat, get to the gas cans.”

“I’ll handle it,” Spartacus vowed.

The defenders had formed their skirmish line.

Hickok moved away from the west wall as another round hit home.

Brutus was conducting his barrage in a leisurely manner, to judge by the spacing between rounds, or else they were low on shells for whatever type of artillery they were using. Then again, maybe Brutus was deliberately extending the barrage as long as possible, intending to further agitate the defenders’ nerves and weaken their resolve.

Yes, sir.

If he ever got another chance, he was going to damn welt make sure that Brutus acquired a new nostril… right in the center of the prick’s forehead!

Day three of the seige.

One hour after the barrage began.

“It’s stopped!” Sherry declared.

The east wall had sustained hit after hit, and 11 of the 69 defenders had been wounded by hurtling shrapnel or chunks of brick. A wide gap had been blown out of the southern quarter of the east wall.

The three Warriors in charge of the wall stood near the gap, their anxious eyes on the cleared field beyond.

“They’ll be coming now,” Crockett remarked. He had exchanged his Remington for a Beretta AR-70, converted to fully automatic by the Family Gunsmiths. His buckskins were coated with dust.

“I never thought I would see the day where our Home was under an attack like this,” commented Samson, his camouflage outfit also caked with dirt. His Bushmaster Auto Pistols on his hips were fully loaded.

Sherry was thinking about Hickok. They had spent a few precious hours in their cabin the night before, and she had clung to him, covering every inch of his body with her lips, wishing the night would never end. She was terrified of losing him, the only man she had ever truly loved. Life without her flamboyant gunman was unthinkable. She wanted to be at his side now, instead of being on the east wall, her brown blouse and green pants as grimy as her companions, a M.A.C. 10 cradled in her tense hands.

“What are they waiting for?” Samson asked, interrupting her reverie.

“For the smoke to clear,” Crockett replied.

The tendrils of smoke were almost gone from the eastern field.

“Are the ropes all in place?” Crockett inquired, looking at the towering Samson.

“Yes,” Samson responded. “One rope every twenty feet.”

Sherry nervously licked her lips. The ropes were their only means of descending from the eastern rampart. Only the west wall had stairs leading up to the rampart; all of the other walls were manned by ascending the stairs on the west wall and following the rampart around to the appropriate post. Ropes with improvised grapling hooks had been placed along the east, north, and south walls, affording the defenders a ready avenue of escape if their positions became untenable. Unfortunately, at the inner base of each wall was the encircling moat. Defenders retreating from their posts would be extremely vulnerable as they attempted to navigate the moat to the compound beyond.

“Here they come!” Crockett suddenly exclaimed.

A great shout arose from the ranks of the 500 soldiers lined up 150

yards from the east wall. They surged forward, rushing toward the east wall, dozens of them holding assault ladders.

“They’ll try for this breach,” Samson mentioned, hefting his Bushmaster, his long hair swaying in the wind.

Crockett raised his right hand above his head. “On my command!” he shouted. Most of the defenders were crouched below the lip of the wall.

The troopers were racing full speed for the wall, some of them firing as they ran, ineffectual shots, the bullets striking the wall or missing entirely.

“Hold your fire!” Crockett yelled.

Only 40 yards separated the leading soldiers from the wall.

“Hold!” Crockett repeated.

Sherry felt a cold sweat break out all over her body. She thought of her family, safe in far-off Canada.

Then 30 yards.

“Hold!”

Then 20 yards.

“Fire!” Crockett screamed.

The defenders rose up and fired into the mass of charging men in green fatigues.