Regan Wolfrom - Coyote

“You guys are good,” Denis said.

“We’ve been lucky so far.”

I heard another gunshot, coming from the far side of the building. I nodded to Justin and I ran toward Alain’s position.

He had the vest and the helmet; I was sure he was okay.

I poked my head around the corner of the building, and saw Alain and the skinny boy pinned along the wall. Alain had his rifle poking around the other corner, but I wasn’t sure if he was actually able to see anything.

I made my way up the wall, finding a place between him and the boy, my back to a window; I knew it wasn’t a safe place to stand.

“What’s happening?” I asked.

“Someone was trying to sneak up on us,” Alain said quietly. “I think I may have hit him.”

“Let me see,” I said, slipping in front of him. In the end, Alain’s just good at hunting deer; he’s never had to fight anything that shoots back.

I looked around the corner, relying on the helmet to keep my head in one piece. I couldn’t see anyone; the only thing between us and the trees was a large piece of metal tubing. I knew that’s probably where he’d taken cover; he could stay there all day without us being able to hit him.

A grenade would have been a good choice if I’d had any.

Matt had told me there’d been three men that day out by Clute. I don’t know if Stems, if it was Stems, would have brought more people up with him from wherever he’s been keeping himself, but I knew that there was at least one more of them than we’d heard from so far. Maybe one of them was up with their truck, guarding it or something… but my gut told me that Stems would go all in on an attack like this.

“There’s one more out there,” I said in a whisper. “I don’t want to take any chances until we know where that third guy is.”

I heard more automatic fire, probably from that first position in the trees. The shooter was trying to keep Justin and the Girards pinned down at their truck.

A second burst came, this one from the man behind the tubing. The shots slammed into the brick wall and shattered the glass of a full-length window. A few bullets came right through the building and cracked the window only a few inches from the skinny boy’s head.

“Move back,” I said to him. “Keep away from the window.”

He stepped back until he was covered by the brick.

“He’s trying to keep us right where we are,” I said. “So where is number three?”

“Where did they come from?” Alain asked.

“There’s plenty of forest to hike through… it’s not like the Marchands control anything north of here.”

I heard the sound of a vehicle, but from where I was standing I couldn’t see it; someone was driving up to the terminal building from the access road.

“Maybe that’s the third guy,” the skinny kid said.

More automatic fire came, from the trees to the north again. I heard the screech of tires followed by the opening of more than one car door.

“You guys hold here,” I said.

“Will do,” Alain said.

“And I need the truck keys.”

Alain reached into his pocket for the keys, and once he’d fished them out he tossed them over to me.

I threw myself to the ground, crawling back toward the parking lot so the man in the grass wouldn’t see me. I found my way back to Jordan and the Girards, who were still crouched behind the engine block. I could see the two Marchand boys from the roadblock hiding behind their truck, too.

“I think Stems is sneaking up behind us,” I said.

“I’ll go with you,” Justin said.

“No… I need you right here.”

I held out the shotgun to Denis, who looked like he’d already emptied his handgun. “Try this,” I said.

He took it and nodded.

I ran over to our truck, trying to keep as low as I could while I climbed in. I drove it down toward the runway, scanning the area for any sign of movement.

Stems could be on foot; I expected that I’d draw him out with the truck, that he’d pop out and start shooting, but maybe he’d just hold tight and wait until I’d driven right by wherever he was concealing himself.

I pulled onto the runway and followed it toward the west, moving closer to where the tarmac came right close to the edge of Lillabelle Lake. I hadn’t seen anything, and it made me wonder if I’d made a costly mistake, if I’d gone south when I should have stayed up near the first two gunmen, so sure of myself that I’d given Stems and his Spirit Animals a chance to take everyone out.

I turned around and headed back toward the air terminal building, and that’s when I saw something. Just a glint of reflected light… maybe nothing, coming from a small shed not far off the runway, between it and the parking lot. I tried not to slow down as I passed by. I watched out the rearview window and saw a man in a painted helmet and body armour poking his head out the door of the shed. No tiger stripes… a grinning shark.

I slammed on the brakes and pulled my Sig Sauer. I leaned out the window and took the shot.

He returned fire, spraying the truck with automatic bullets. I scrambled across the cab and out the passenger side door, making my way to the tail instead of the engine block at the front. I hadn’t even had time to turn off the engine.

My corps was protected, my head was somewhat safe, too… I knew he might try to take out my legs, but they’d be tough targets to hit.

I reached the end of the truck and ran out toward the back of the shed, shooting at the door as I went. He hadn’t been expecting me from that side, and by the time he swung his assault rifle around to find me I was already crouched behind the shed.

I expected him to start shooting right through the shed walls, so I crouched as low as I could, hoping to hit one of his armour folds with my handgun before he had a chance to knock me down.

But he didn’t shoot.

He’d already ran a good twenty steps before I’d realized he was heading to my truck.

He reached the truck before I had a chance to take aim. He climbed in the driver’s side door and hit the gas pedal without bothering to close the door on the far side.

I emptied a clip at the cab of the truck, but I don’t think I hit him. I ran after him but obviously I couldn’t keep up. As I worked to reload my gun I watched the truck speed up on its way toward the terminal building.

I aimed for the tires on my second attempt, trying to slow the truck down. I managed to take one of them out.

The truck swerved as it neared the end of the parking lot.

I heard two shots.

The grain truck slammed into the back of the Girards’ Ford F-350, splitting the pickup’s bumper and lower frame from the box, which was thrown up onto the hood of our truck. Together the two vehicles careened forward into the corner of the air terminal building. The Ford pickup tore open a large gash in the brick, but that was as far as it went.

By the time I reached the scene of the collision Justin was already there.

“Looks like Sharky is pretty fucking dead,” Justin said.

The man hadn’t been wearing a seatbelt, and he’d been thrown from the cab of our truck, through the windshield, and into the back of the F-350 just as it was being crumpled upward by the bumper from the grain truck. The helmet had kept his head intact, but the neck panels hadn’t kept a shard of metal from slicing through his throat.

“I hope to god that’s Ryan Stems,” Justin said.

“I doubt we’re that lucky,” I said.

Justin leaned in and pulled off the helmet.

It wasn’t Stems. His hair was too light of a brown, and his eyes were green. You could kind of tell that Stems was half-native, but this guy looked about as far from Cree as you could get.

I saw that Alain was still pinned to the wall, despite the hulking mess that was only a few meters away.