William Weber - Surviving America's Collapse

John scanned right. A spotter on the roof of a nearby house was whistling and pointing in their direction. Then an engine roared to life and tires squealed. The older black pickup tore out of a driveway. The windows were tinted but in the truck bed were two men with automatic rifles.

“Run!” John shouted as he tossed Frank the medicine. Bringing up the rear while the others raced off ahead, John kept an eye out for the pickup which he knew was about to come barreling around the corner onto Lakeview. Running away from a gun battle was a great way to get shot in the back, which was why he would cover his friends’ retreat.

When he heard the truck approach, he dropped to the ground behind a group of stone steps and rested his AR into a supported firing position. It had been years since he’d fired a shot in anger, but instinct was quickly settling in. He quieted his breathing as the pickup appeared. The two men in the back fired wildly at Frank and the others. John squeezed the trigger three times in quick succession.

Two of the shots landed low. The third cut through the truck’s sidewall. The two men standing in the truck bed banged on the hood and the truck sped east on Woodland. John laid off a handful more shots, forcing the men in back to duck for cover. It seemed as though he’d frightened them away, which was good enough for him.

Frank and the others were three houses ahead of him and John rose and hurried to catch up. Between the tactical vest, full magazines, his AR and sidearm he was having a tough go of it. He made another mental note on his list of things to do: Get in better shape. It was good and fine to have a fully stocked bunker in your basement, but if you couldn’t run for your life when the time came, it might all be for nothing.

Behind him came the roar of the truck. He turned briefly to see it rocketing west now on Woodland. The black pickup was going in the opposite direction and John wasn’t sure why. He hurried nevertheless, tracking the noise the truck made as it raced through the back streets. Then it dawned on him. They were trying to cut them off before the park, and there was no way to warn Frank.

John charged ahead, shouting Frank’s name, but when the adrenaline was running high, your hearing was sometimes the first sense to dull.

The truck’s engine roared louder and John expected to see it coming straight for him every time he hit another cross street.

Up ahead was the park. Frank and the deputies were less than two houses away. There was one last street between him and safety. John took a quick look, saw nothing and made a break for it. As he did, shots rang out striking the side of the house he was using as cover. Chunks of brick filled the air. They had him zeroed in. Now he could hear the truck on the move again, but it wasn’t coming toward him. It was circling back around. The driver must have dropped off the two in the truck bed and was now coming around so he could approach from the south on Lakeview and catch John in a pincer movement.

Frank and the others were alerted to the situation after hearing the most recent shots and the three of them doubled back. The last deputy kept running through the park and into Willow Creek, presumably to deliver the meds in case none of them made it back alive.

There wasn’t a lot of time. From across the street, John used hand signals to let Frank know there were two shooters west of them, moving closer. The deputies took cover in a gully and prepared to engage the pickup when it arrived. At least one of them had the Remington deer rifle, which offset the first man’s SIG pistol.

What John really wanted was for Frank to use suppressing fire to pin down the two who were cutting off his escape. That way he could cross the street before the truck showed up.

He threw Frank more hand signals telling him to lay down the suppressing fire he needed. No sooner had he done so than the pickup came skidding onto Lakeview. The passenger window was down and a man hung out the opening with an assault rifle. Without any cover, John did the only thing he could. He dropped to the ground to create the smallest possible target, hoping the move wouldn’t force him to lose precious time before he could return fire with his AR. Dirt kicked up around him as rounds from the truck narrowly missed. Both deputies were now shooting as well. One scored a hit through the front windshield and the car swerved, tossing the shooter back and forth. John saw an opportunity and followed suit. If he could kill the driver, the passenger would be a sitting duck. Using the Trijicon ACOG Scope mounted on his AR, he squeezed the trigger a half-dozen times in rapid succession. The truck’s windshield fragmented into a giant spiderweb, sending the vehicle swerving onto a nearby lawn.

A second later it crashed into one of the houses. Steam rose from the engine. John put three more shots into the passenger side door, aiming low. He didn’t want to kill the man who’d been shooting at him. Not yet at least.

From across the street, Frank shouted that the two shooters had turned and run away when they saw the pickup crash.

The driver was presumably either dead or seriously wounded. That left the passenger alone.

“We’ve got you covered,” John shouted as he cautiously approached. “Throw your weapons out the window and we’ll let you live.”

He heard the faint sound of a man groaning in pain.

Frank kept an eye on the rear to make sure the other two didn’t double back.

A moment later the man in the passenger seat tossed a Chinese Type 56 (AK-47) out the pickup’s window. Then another along with two Beretta 9mms.

John approached from the rear the way police officers did during a traffic stop. In that way he could cut the angle in case the guy in the truck decided to try something smart. The two deputies approached from the south, moving along the line of houses, each with weapons at the ready.

When they were both within ten feet John said: “Are you hit?”

“My leg’s shot up,” came the reply and it was clear he was in serious pain.

“Put your hands out the window where we can see them.”

The man complied. He had tattoos etched across the knuckles of his fingers. Put together, the letters spelled out a rather nasty curse word.

The two deputies collected the weapons on the lawn.

John then opened the passenger door and pulled the wounded man out. He fell onto the ground like a sack filled with dirty laundry, yelping in pain. His jeans were bloody from the knee down. Looked like John had placed those final shots well.

Inside the cab, the other man appeared to be dead. John slung his AR over his shoulder, removed his S&W and crawled into the cab to feel for a pulse. There was none. It wasn’t clear which of them had been the one to kill the driver, but either way this death wouldn’t be the last. If Cain had had any doubts before about his offer, now he would know it had been soundly rejected.

They took the man prisoner and kept him under armed guard in the Wilsons’ empty house. They also took the truck. The collision hadn’t done much to harm the engine—nothing that couldn’t be fixed. Didn’t matter if the fender and grill were dented. Having a truck to fetch water and perform other chores would really help.

Betsy was still in John’s garage. He’d been reluctant to bring the Blazer out since it represented his only real means of getting him and his family to safety. Working vehicles were a hot commodity in a country where everyone was suddenly on foot.

The gun battle had rattled many people’s nerves on Willow Creek. With a group of their own out on a mission, rumors had begun to spread that they’d all been killed. Peter had even begun organizing a group to head out and see what was going on. But intense as it was, the gun fight hadn’t lasted longer than about ten minutes, and by the time Peter was approaching the eastern barricade, flanked by deputies, the action was all over.