William Weber - Surviving America's Collapse

“When I count to three, you open that front door,” he told Kay. “Gregory, get that AR in the front loophole and cover me.”

When everyone was ready, John counted to three, his AR in the low ready position. The door swung open and he moved out swiftly, scanning from left to right and moving with purpose to the tree line. That was when he saw the figure down the path by the four trucks that were parked in a line. Right away the man’s mangled face told him it was Cain. Cain was alone now and trying to make his escape.

John went after him, hopping over the fallen log just as Cain jumped in the cab of the rear vehicle and backed away at full speed. Chunks of gravel sprayed as he whipped backwards onto the road, tires screeching as they touched asphalt.

John raised his AR to spray the truck, but it sped away. Making a split-second decision, he jumpedbehind the wheel of a ’77 Dodge Ram and prepared to give chase.

Cain’s pickup was just ahead of him now, weaving around the occasional stalled car that blocked the road. The obstacles gave John time to close the distance between them. He came up quickly from behind, trying to decide the best way to get him off the road. A pistol appeared out the driver’s side window and opened fire. Most of the shots went wide. Cain was firing blindly, trying to scare John off, but it would take more than that.

Pulling out on the left, John tried to move alongside him, but Cain swerved and cut him off. John fell back, staying on the back right bumper of Cain’s truck. He then pulled to the left and dug the nose of his pickup into Cain’s rear fender. It was a classic police move when trying to end a chase. When it worked well, the leading car was sent into a sharp hundred-and-eighty-degree turn. But this time, the bumpers of both trucks locked together. Cain quickly lost control and so too did John. Both trucks fishtailed violently, smashing through a farmer’s fence and onto rough terrain where the vehicles flipped.

The centrifugal force tossed John out of the pickup and into soft ground where he rolled before finally coming to a stop.

The trucks continued to flip three more times.

Steam vapor rose up from the engines as John staggered to his feet. A deep gash on his head sent a thick stream of blood streaming down the right side of his face. His legs felt wobbly. His hands were shaking as though he’d just been in a fistfight with a man twice his size.

John was still wearing his Condor Tactical Vest, but his AR was nowhere in sight.

A foot kicked open the passenger door of the pickup Cain was driving. That was when the man with two faces came sliding out. The woman’s description had been right on. The skull tattoo on one side of his face was largely intact while the other side was burnt and torn open in places. He now looked on the outside like the monster he was on the inside. A Desert Eagle .50 cal pistol was wedged into the front waistband of his pants.

John searched around again for his rifle before remembering the S&W in his Serpa drop-leg holster.

The two men stood looking at once another, their fingers inching toward their pistols.

“Guess it’s gonna come down to who can draw faster,” Cain said. “Guess that makes you the sheriff, don’t it?”

“Looks that way,” John said, weakening every minute from the concussion he’d suffered.

“Or we just forget all this and let bygones be bygones.”

John wasn’t sure if Cain was suddenly feeling his mortality or stalling for time. But he caught sight of the man’s hand inching toward the pistol sticking out from his jeans.

“You draw and you die,” John said.

“I thought you’d say that,” Cain growled. In one quick motion, he gripped the pistol in his jeans and pulled it out, holding the gun tilted at a ninety-degree angle like the gangbangers in the movies.

Three shots rang out of Cain’s .50 cal hand cannon.

John dropped, rolled and came up with his S&W, emptying the entire magazine until the slide locked.

Cain looked down in disbelief at the baggy shirt he was wearing, covered now in growing pools of blood. He sank to his knees and then fell face first, dead.

Three months had passed since Cain had showed up looking for revenge. His men had been given the burial they deserved, which was to say a large pit had been dug in a clearing in the forest and what was left of them was dumped inside. Cain was left where he fell, to be picked clean by the wild animals. Nature had a way of recycling waste and it somehow seemed fitting.

Since that time, the Macks and the Applebys continued to improve the surrounding area. They had plenty of food and water and were starting to almost feel secure. Space was still an issue with everyone sleeping in the cramped confines of the tiny cabin. Once Tim had recovered from his wounds, he and John got busy cutting down trees to begin construction on the cabin that would be next door.

Their first neighbor.

Gregory and Emma had even carved wooden house numbers and nailed them in place. The Macks were number one and the Applebys number two. The next question had been a natural one: What would they call this new street? And the answer had come to all of them just as easily.

How about Willow Creek?

Thank you for reading Last Stand: Surviving America’s Collapse !

This is my first novel, so I hope you enjoyed the story. I’m always grateful for a review. For thoughts, comments or feedback feel free to send me an email: williamhweberauthor@gmail.com

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Copyright © 2014 William H. Weber

Cover design by Keri Knutson

Edited by RJ Locksley

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.