Steven Konkoly - The Perseid Collapse

“Very funny,” Charlie said.

“You did good, my friend. Really good—and you’re not even wearing your squirrel cap,” said Alex, patting his shoulder.

Charlie stuffed his hand into the left cargo pocket of this pants. “I have it right here!”

“Not now,” said Alex, yanking Charlie down from the top of the stoop.

Charlie absorbed the drop with stiff legs and teetered for a moment. Alex noticed that Charlie’s breathing was labored, as if he had just run up several flights of stairs. He’d be willing to write this off as expected stress-induced excitability if Charlie’s face wasn’t beet red.

“You all right?”

“I’m fine. Just a little excited.”

“Your face looks like it’s going to explode.”

“And you look as white as a ghost. You want your rifle back?”

“I don’t know. I’m kind of getting attached to this one,” said Alex, eyeing him warily.

“Well, too bad. This ACOG scope is useless for close-up shots, and I don’t like these angled thingies you put on this. So if you don’t mind,” said Charlie, holding out Alex’s rifle.

“I didn’t see you having any problems,” said Alex, exchanging rifles.

“I made it work.”

Charlie changed magazines and snapped the rifle back into his one-point sling, hustling to catch up with Alex. “Hey, what about that family that took off?”

Alex stopped for a moment and stared off into the forest beyond the parking lot, grimacing. “We don’t have time to chase them down—and I don’t expect them to come running to us with open arms,” he replied. “I wouldn’t.”

“Hate to leave them out there like this…” said Charlie, hesitating.

“They got their lucky break. Let’s go.”

EVENT +31:18 Hours

Milton Mills Crossing, Southern Bridge

Ed’s hands trembled on the steering wheel. Alex’s plan for getting across the bridge was crazier than the raid on the church. His handheld radio crackled, filling the cabin with Alex’s voice.

“I’m not seeing any indication that they are alerted or expecting us. Charlie, you see anything at the northern crossing?”

“Negative,” Charlie replied. “The road is clear.”

“Ed, how does the road look heading toward the church?” Alex inquired.

“It’s clear. I don’t buy it, Alex. They’re waiting for us.”

“We would have heard something on the radio. All we picked up was a report of agitated bikers at the far end of the south bridge. All three of the militiamen are positioned in the open, behind the SUV, aiming their rifles at a group of people assembled about twenty feet away. The guys in the closest vehicle are tucked away nice and dry. This is as good as it gets, Ed.”

“Somehow I doubt that.”

“I’m moving closer to the bridge, where I can fire at both vehicles. Charlie, I’m going to need your help with the nearest SUV. When I start shooting across the river, I want you to pump at least half of a magazine into the doors. If someone spills out onto the road, they’re yours. Once you see me on the bridge, reload and cover the road leading from the other checkpoint. Are we clear?”

“Crystal clear, Alex. Give me a few minutes to crawl into position. I don’t have a clear line of sight to the vehicle,” said Charlie.

Charlie even sounded like shit over the radio. His breathing hadn’t recovered from the first round of mayhem before Alex yanked him out of the Jeep for round two. He was pushing Charlie past his physical limits, and it was going to kill him, if it didn’t get them all killed first.

“Ed, I’ll radio you when I have the first SUV cleared,” said Alex.

“Roger. I have the Jeep running,” said Ed, shaking his head.

“I’m moving into position. Out.”

Out of your fucking mind is more like it.

Ed put one of his shaky hands around the grip of the .45-caliber Glock 37 lying on the front passenger seat, not feeling any comfort in the cold, utilitarian shape. He turned his head and stared through the rear windshield, catching glimpses of the road beyond the rear wiper’s useless arc. The rain had intensified again, drumming the Jeep’s sheet metal roof with an incessant staccato. The oppressive sound gave him hope that Alex might be right, that the men at the bridge could hear nothing more than distant, muted gunfire in the rain. His radio burst to life.

“I’m in position. What’s your status, Charlie?” asked Alex.

“Give me thirty seconds. I’m almost at the edge of the brush,” Charlie huffed.

Ed glanced at the wooden stock of his Ruger 10/22 rifle. Protruding through the space between the front seat backs, he could put it into action much faster than he had at the church. The rifle had been stuffed under the smaller backpacks, rendering it impossible to pull it free from the front driver’s seat. He’d hopped out and opened the rear passenger seat, yanking it free in a panic when the shooting broke out. He’d barely reached the corner of the church in time to save Alex—again.

One .22LR (long rifle) Interceptor bullet to the back of the head had dropped the guy hiding behind the SUV. The forty-grain, hypervelocity, hollow-point cartridge didn’t pack the same punch as Alex or Charlie’s .223 rounds, as Ed was constantly reminded, but it did the job. Twice by his count.

Alex dragged himself through the dirt, squirming through a thick tangle of bushes less than forty feet from the first SUV. Through the driving rain and dense foliage, he caught glints of steel and glass. He could see enough of the SUV to confirm that they hadn’t activated the front windshield wipers since his previous visit. Their view of the trees and bushes beyond the guardrail would be a blur of cascading raindrops.

He raised his head far enough off the ground to observe the SUV on the other side of the short bridge that spanned Salmon Falls River. He had a clear line of sight. All three men still stood behind the black SUV, pointing their rifles in the direction of a small crowd gathered in front of several motorcycles. Two of the militiamen stood near the front of the SUV, while the third man lingered near the tailgate, partially obscured from Alex’s sight.

He’ll be the first to go.

Alex spun his body and took a seat on the mud-soaked ground, splaying his legs and bending his knees. He rested his elbows on his knees to fully steady his rifle. Satisfied with the stability of his firing platform, he took his right hand off the rifle to grab his handheld radio. He hadn’t heard from Charlie, and it had been longer than thirty seconds.

“Charlie, are you in position?” A few seconds passed without a response. “Charlie, what is your status?” Nothing.

Damn it, where are you?

“Ed, can you see Charlie?”

“No. He disappeared in the trees. Do you want me to move the Jeep closer?”

“Negative,” Alex replied. “Charlie, are you there?”

“I’m here, I’m here,” Charlie finally responded. “Damn bushes knocked my fucking earpiece out. Sorry, guys. I’m at the edge of the road with a clear shot at the exposed side of the SUV. Ready to go.”

“All right, this is it. Remember, Charlie, don’t start shooting until you hear my rounds headed down range,” Alex reminded him.

“Got it, Alex. Ready to do this.”

“Here we go,” said Alex, clipping the waterproof radio to his vest.

He settled into the rifle, nestling the stock deep into his shoulder. Through the 4X ACOG scope, he located the partially obscured militiaman near the back of the vehicle and placed the tip of the red chevron reticle in the center of his head. There would be no need to compensate for bullet drop at this range. At an estimated range of roughly fifty yards, the .223 bullet would retain a flat trajectory, even in the pouring rain.