Mike Mullin - Sunrise

The truck was almost past my position on the berm. I threw myself off it, jumping toward the gunners.

I stretched out, elbow up as if I were doing a taekwondo high block, aiming for the side of the closest guy’s head. I hit him perfectly, my elbow connecting with his temple with a crack that was audible even over the gunfire. We went down in the bed of the pickup, our limbs thrashing and tangling.

I rolled, looking up just in time to see the other gunner draw a pistol and aim it at my head.

A shadow passed over me as the gunner’s hand tensed on his pistol. Ed soared over us in a flying leap, his broom handle held below him like a hawk’s talons. More than a foot of bloody broom handle sprouted from between the gunner’s ribs, driven through by Ed’s falling weight. The gunner dropped. Hot blood spattered my face, and the sharp end of the stake thunked into the truck bed beside my neck. I roared wordlessly, more from surprise than terror.

I threw the twitching weight of the man off me, rolling onto my knees. Ed was lifting the machine gun from its mounting on the cab of the pickup.

Bullets whanged around us as the column of men behind the trucks fired. The driver of the pickup thrust his arm out the window, trying to bring a pistol to bear on Ed. I lurched forward and grabbed the driver’s wrist in both hands, hauling it backward against the window frame. His elbow broke with a crunch, and the pistol slipped from his hand into the road.

Ed had freed the machine gun from its mounting. He turned it around, braced it against the back of the cab, and opened up on the men behind the truck.

The rear window of the truck shattered from the gun’s recoil. Thousands of pebbles of tempered glass rained down in a tinkling sheet. Ed adjusted the machine gun, bracing it against the strip of metal above the window, and opened fire again.

Men died. Some fell quietly, becoming inert piles of bloodied flesh and clothing. Others screamed, falling into writhing heaps of agony. Those who didn’t fall under the Ed’s scything gun scattered, running back the way they had come.

Ed’s ammo ran dry, but by then our side had taken full control of the other truck and machine gun. The fight was over. I slid out of the bed of the truck, collapsed to my knees, and vomited onto the frozen road.

I hadn’t seen Uncle Paul since the beginning of the fight. Not far from me, someone was frantically working on Mayor Petty’s right leg, cinching a belt around his thigh—an improvised tourniquet. Blood pulsed from half a dozen wounds spread across both of his legs.

I pushed myself upright, catching sight of Uncle Paul as I rose. He was about fifty feet off, kneeling by Aunt Caroline. Uncle Paul was cradling her head in one hand with his other pressed to her stomach. Her face was nestled against his coat.

“Alex,” Aunt Caroline said as I approached,

“you’re okay.” She forced a wan, bloodless smile.

“How are…” I noticed the tears streaming down Uncle Paul’s face and the blood welling between his fingers.

“Can’t feel my legs,” Aunt Caroline replied. “Paul says they’re fine. His ears turn red when he lies.”

Uncle Paul fixed his stare on me. “We need to get her to Dr. McCarthy. Now.” His voice was ragged.

“I’ll get a truck.” I ran back to the pickup Ed and I had liberated. The cab was empty, but the truck was still running. Ed was helping two other guys lift Mayor Petty’s considerable bulk. I grabbed Petty’s shoulder, and we slid him into the bed of the truck.

“Drive,” I told Ed. “I’ll help load. We need to pick up Aunt Caroline and get back to Dr. McCarthy. Fast.”

Ed nodded and vaulted out of the bed.

I ran ahead of the truck with three others. We loaded the injured into the bed and dragged the dead to the sides of the road while Ed inched the truck forward. By the time we got to Aunt Caroline, the bed was full. People lay practically atop each other, and the floor was awash in blood. We laid Aunt Caroline on the open tailgate, and Uncle Paul crouched next to her, holding on to her with one hand and the side rail of the truck with the other. I helped a woman who’d been shot in the foot hobble into the cab and squeezed in beside her. Ed goosed the gas, and we raced back toward the farm.

I was out of the cab, sprinting to get Dr. McCarthy, even before the truck rolled to a stop. I found him on the leeward side of the partial stockade wall. A large fire had been built there, and five pots of water were suspended above it on a wire. The tables from Uncle Paul’s kitchen and dining room were beside the fire, one clear, the other stacked high with blankets, bandages, towels, and medical instruments.

“How many injured?” Dr. McCarthy barked.

“Sixteen on this truck,” I gasped. “More coming on the other truck and on foot.”

“Truck? Never mind. Run to the house. Get Belinda. And round up anyone who’s steady enough to help.”

I turned toward the house. Dr. McCarthy was already gone, running the other way, toward the truck.

Belinda, Alyssa, and Max were in the living room, caring for convalescents from the last disastrous fight between Stockton and Warren.

Alyssa gasped as she caught sight of me. “What happened?”

I glanced down—my clothing was caked with blood. Some of the blood had already dried and started to flake off; some of the blood was still fresh, glistening in the firelight. “It’s not my blood. Dr. McCarthy needs help. Sixteen injured. Badly More coming.”

They dropped what they were doing. Belinda ran past me with Alyssa at her heels. I grabbed Max’s arm as he tried to pass by “Max—”

“Let go! I can help too.”

“Your mother is out there. She’s hurt.”

Max hesitated, looking at me over his shoulder. “Is it—how bad?”

“It’s not good. She’s been shot.”

“I’ve gotta go.” He tugged on my arm, but I tightened my grip.

“You’ve got to hold it together. Help Dr. McCarthy and Belinda. Can you—”

“I’ve got it.” He turned, fixing a determined gaze on me.

I let him go, and he left at a run. I dashed up the stairs to the girls’ room, entering without knocking.

Darla wobbled to her feet. “Alex, Christ—”

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” I said. “The blood’s not mine. Rebecca, Dr. McCarthy needs help outside. Anna, you and Darla stay here and take care of the people downstairs.” I leaned in as if to kiss Darla’s ear and whispered, “Keep Anna here. Aunt Caroline’s hurt. Bad.” Darla nodded. Everyone leapt into motion, and I went to look for Ben.

I found him in the exact same place he’d been that morning, reading the exact same book. “Ben!” I yelled. He didn’t even look up. “Ben!” I finally had to walk into the room and grab the book. My glove left a bloody smear on the page.

“You are covered in blood, Lieutenant,” Ben finally said.

“It’s not mine,” I said for at least the third time. And what was up with calling me Lieutenant? I didn’t have time to ask. “Can you—”

“I presume the attempt to retake Warren failed?”

“Miserably,” I said, but Ben just kept talking.

“You should have used misdirection or surprise. An attack on Stockton or from an unexpected—”

“I know, I know!” I shouted, but Ben kept right on talking. “Shut up for a second, would you?”

Ben started moaning and rocking back and forth in his chair. I cursed myself for an idiot—yelling at Ben was never helpful. “Can you help Dr. McCarthy?” I asked.

“Ben is not qualified as a field medic,” he replied, still rocking.

“Right. Sorry I yelled.” I turned to go.

“Lieutenant!”