John O'Brien - Sanctuary

“I’m in the hall by the bedroom door,” I say pressing the mic button at my throat, wanting to let them know exactly where I am positioned. “Everyone okay?”

“Copy that and we’re doing fine,” Lynn answers. “How does it look out there?”

“So far so good,” I reply.

I look back to the front keeping both eyes open and using a parallax view, - this allows a greater width and depth of view while seeing the aiming dot as well – I see the front door jar and shake with each successive thump against it. It is holding and I imagine the night runners are getting pretty sore shoulders but the couch is against the jamb rather than the door itself so there’s a little give with each thump.

I hear the glass of the kitchen window breaking and see the couch wedging the bookcase shake but it too holds firm for the time being. I feel my heart pounding in my chest and have a trapped feeling. I always liked having a way out if things went awry but don’t see an option here. We can’t escape through the patio door as the drop, although livable, will take us out into the night with no protection. It’s also on the other side from where we parked the Humvee so that option offers nothing. Kind of fucked up where I parked on that one , I think.

I suddenly hear loud, heavy breathing through my earpiece. It sounds like Bri. She must have just turned on her radio and may have set her radio to VOX (voice-activated) which makes her mic activate and transmit with any sound. Or she may be accidentally holding the mic button down. It will hold up the frequency if we need to communicate so I rise to tell her.

A particularly loud bang hammers the front door and I hear her take a deep, sharp breath in. “It’s okay, Bri. We’ll be fine,” I hear Robert say dimly coming through Bri’s mic. “That’s Dad out there and we’re here. It’ll all be okay.”

“Bri, your mic’s on,” I whisper into the closet standing by the entrance. I hear some moving around inside and, with a click, the breathing in my ear stops.

Another terrific thump sounds against the door as I settle back into position. The front door shakes even more. My breath quickens as I see it rock backwards with the next hit. There is a pattern of a shriek and then a slam. My hope that they would tire quickly is not coming to light. If they do manage to get the door down, at least they will have to funnel through one or two at a time. I pat the mags in my vest, comforting myself that they are there and available. Taking two out, I set them by my knee. I would have taped two together end-to-end for quicker reloads but that makes it difficult to carry in the pouches.

A slam comes against the door for about the hundredth time and the jamb by the latch splinters. Oh fuck! I think seeing the jamb itself beginning to give way. That is the last thing I wanted to see and my thought quickly goes towards my kids and Lynn. I should never have come down . I quickly turn my radio to VOX as I may not be able to take the time to reach up and click the mic as my hands may be too busy. I want to stay in communication regardless of what happens. My adrenaline rate increases but a calm settles in.

The jamb gives way but the door comes against the couch and it doesn’t open any further. It’s not even a door width open but the latch is no longer secure. The screeches outside intensify as if the night runners know they are almost inside. The interval between bangs against the door increases. The jamb where the hinges are screwed in begins to splinter as the latch did moments before. The trapped feeling intensifies. A part of my mind searches for an avenue of escape but realizes that none exist.

“Very well motherfuckers! Bring it,” I whisper to myself, getting myself in the frame of mind needed, steeling myself for the inevitable.

Another solid thud and the top hinge gives way. With the sound of wood cracking and a screech of metal being torn, the door caves inward, the top falling across the couch at an angle. The night runner shrieks, no longer muted by closed door, rises in volume as our little bit of sanctuary becomes open to the outside. I see movement through the small cracks the angled door leaves though not enough to get a shot through. The door is picked up, twisted, and pulled outside. Now we are fully exposed.

“They’re in,” I call seeing the first night runners enter into the now open doorway.

I rub my thumb over the selector switch to verify I am on auto and put my dot on the first to enter as it scrambles over the couch still sitting in front of the door. I opt for the auto selection in case any of my rounds miss or glance off, then there’s a chance they’ll hit and slow up any night runners that are behind. The entry way outside is congested with night runners waiting to get in. Pulling the trigger lightly, my carbine pushes against my shoulder as I send three rounds streaking outward.

The hallway flashes with pulses of light and the muted coughs resonate loudly in the enclosed hall. My three steel core bullets meet up with their target in a tight pattern with speed and power hitting the night runner full in the face. The force of the rounds striking destroys the bone structure and knocks the lower jaw loose before ricocheting inside its cranium and exiting, taking the entire back of its head off. A massive, chunky mist sprays out from behind as it collapses face forward onto the couch. The cream-colored couch absorbs the blood trickling from the night runner, turning red where the night runner’s head comes to rest making the couch look like a tissue after being dabbed on an open cut.

Two night runners jostle at the door before entering and climb over their fallen member. More shove from behind and the entire doorway is filled with pushing night runners. The multitude of screams outside tells me that many more are outside. The vast number is more than I anticipated, although I know I should quit anticipating anything with them. I switch my M-4 to semi as I worry about the ammo. Running low has happened too many times now – and once being too many.

I center my dot on one coming over the body and couch and put just enough pressure on the trigger to break it. A flash in the hallway signals another bullet exiting the suppressor. The round speeds toward the night runner and hits it in its left cheek, entering the cavity of the mouth as if unobstructed. The back molars and side teeth splinter into tiny shards leaving just the stumps and roots attached to the gums. The round then angles upward slightly before slamming into the lower part of the skull and breaks apart with the largest part of the bullet exiting out just above the ear. The skin flaps open and splatters a coating of blood on the foyer wall. The night runner’s head is slammed against the same wall with a solid thud and slumps backward, coming to rest on its back along the back of the couch.

Only registering the hit in the back of my mind, I switch to the second night runner scrambling over the couch and discharge another projectile. The shot hits the clavicle and angles upward into its throat. Blood splashes outward in all directions as major arteries and veins are hit and the night runner falls forward, its head hitting the tiled entryway with a solid smack. It lies still with it feet resting on the first night runner and blood quickly forms a large puddle on the floor.

Night runners pour in behind these first three. I’m not going to be able to hold them back with mere single shots. I switch to auto once again and hope that my rounds last longer than the night runners. The roar from the host is deafening as the sound waves concentrate down the narrow hallway. I begin placing bursts into the crowd that is pushing their way inside, no longer worrying about killing shots. Bodies are piling up on the couch and by the kitchen entry, but their entry is coming faster than I can put them down. Like an incoming tide, they are slowly gaining ground. I faintly register the sound of my spent cartridges hitting the wall next to me. Each time I reload, they gain even more ground. The empty mags are accumulating at my knee like the night runners piling up on the couch and floor beyond.