Уильям Дитц - Into the Guns

“It seems that although most of the Hanford nuclear facility is shut down, the part that’s still operational came under the cult’s control two weeks ago. The people we spoke to believe that once the space masters bring all of Hanford’s reactors back online, a new civilization will be born.”

Mac looked from Kho to Munroe and back again. “You’re shitting me.”

“No, ma’am,” Kho replied. “These people are serious.”

It would be foolish to follow the pilgrims into Kennewick. Mac realized that now. She looked at the map. There weren’t that many bridges across the Columbia. The nearest alternative was a hundred miles west at a town called Maryhill. The detour would cost the unit time and fuel. But it was either that or try to bullshit her way past thousands of cult members. The choice was no choice at all. She turned to Munroe. “Put out the word. We’re going to turn off the freeway onto 221 south. The exit is about five miles ahead. And,” Mac added, “tell everyone to pay close attention to what’s going on. These people are batshit crazy.”

PENDLETON, OREGON

Master Sergeant Rollo Smith peered out through a shattered window. He could see his breath, and snowflakes fell out of the gunmetal-gray sky as he stared north. National Guard headquarters, Pendleton, Oregon, was located adjacent to the city’s tiny airport. And that made sense since the unit had three Chinook helicopters and some UAVs.

No, Smith told himself, that isn’t accurate. We had three Chinooks… Back before the takers towed one of them away and forced us to destroy the others. When was that anyway? Three days ago? Time didn’t have much meaning anymore. The only things that mattered were pride and duty. No pack of civilian assholes was going to steal the unit’s supplies! Not so long as Smith was vertical. And not while he had orders to hold the base.

Where’s Major Elkins? Smith wondered. The answer was obvious. Five days after the meteorites struck, Elkins and the rest of the unit had been dispatched to deal with civil unrest in Portland. They hadn’t been heard from since. That meant they were… No! Smith told himself. Don’t think it. You’re tired, that’s all. And that was true.

The takers had attacked twice during the night—but his force of nine men and women had managed to hold them off. Again. The bastards didn’t like to attack during the day, and there was a good reason for that. The machine guns on the roof could cover every inch of the surrounding ground. As for darkness, well, the bad guys liked that better. But not a lot better because of the night-vision gear that Smith’s people had. They’re wearing us down, though, Smith thought to himself. From thirteen to nine. It’s just a matter of time.

“Breakfast is served,” a voice said, and Smith turned to discover that Private Anne Renke was standing behind him. She handed him an MRE. “It’s your favorite,” she added. “Beef brisket.” Smith knew that she’d gone digging for it, or arranged for a trade. Not to suck up, but to make him feel better. Something she did for everyone.

“Thanks,” Smith said as he sat on an ammo crate. “How’s it going? Are you okay?”

“I could use a shower,” Renke answered. “But so could you.”

Smith laughed. And that was Renke’s talent, since she was a piss-poor shot and didn’t have any tech skills to speak of. The Guard was a part-time job for her… A way to make money for college. Now she was in the shit, and holding up damned well, all things considered. “Go take a nap, Private. They’ll be back.”

“Sure thing, Sarge,” Renke said, and turned away. An empty casing rattled away from a boot as she entered the hall.

Smith waited until Renke was gone to put the MRE on the floor and lean against the wall. He closed his eyes. The Alamo, Smith thought to himself. We’re in the fucking Alamo. And that’s where John Wayne died. Then he fell asleep.

MARYHILL, WASHINGTON

According to Kho, who’d been there before, the tiny town of Maryhill, Washington, was named for the wife and daughter of a wealthy businessman named Sam Hill. And after following the north bank of the Columbia River west, the column was going to cross the Sam Hill Memorial Bridge and enter Biggs Junction on the other side.

Mac knew that the old bridge was clear because Esco said it was. But as the column paused to take a bio break, she eyed the other side of the river through a pair of binoculars. There were no signs of trouble. The trip down Highway 221 to 14 had been uneventful. And although hundreds of pilgrims had passed the convoy going east, while the soldiers went west, there weren’t enough fanatics to represent a threat. And even now, there was a one-way stream of white-clad travelers coming her way across the bridge.

Mac lowered her glasses. They were about a hundred miles from Pendleton, Oregon. They’d been forced to bypass Kennewick, and the armory there, but what about Pendleton? Could they get supplies there? Mac felt a surge of impatience as she turned to Munroe. “Pass the word… The break’s over. Let’s cross the bridge.”

PENDLETON, OREGON

The clouds were the color of an old bruise as Smith brought a pair of binoculars up to his eyes. A bitter wind was chasing pieces of trash across the airfield, but there were no other signs of movement. And despite Smith’s expectations to the contrary, there hadn’t been any attacks during the night. Why? Had the takers given up? Smith wanted to believe that but didn’t. No, he decided, the person or people in charge of the gang were getting ready to try something new. The possibility frightened him. They knew how many people he had, or didn’t have, and how each one of them was deployed. That’s why Smith figured the bastards were going to throw something different his way. Something calculated to take advantage of the unit’s weaknesses. Of which there were plenty. “Oh, shit,” Corporal Cassidy said over the radio. “Look north… What is that?”

Smith swung his glasses to the right and saw a Greyhound bus emerge from behind a hangar. Sheets of metal had been fastened to the boxy vehicle.

“I see a semi,” Renke added, “coming in from the west. Over.”

“And a school bus is headed our way,” Haskins added.

Smith’s suspicions had been confirmed, but the noncom took no pleasure in being right. The makeshift armored vehicles were meant to divide the defenders’ fire, bulldoze their way through the base’s defensive wall, and deliver a shitload of men into the compound. And when that happened, his soldiers would die.

“Okay,” Smith said. “They plan to divide our fire and get in close. But we have an app for that. Let’s feed those bastards some rockets. Then, if any of them close in, man the fifties. Over.”

“Got it, Sarge,” Cassidy said. “I’m gonna kill me a bus.”

Smith felt a sudden surge of confidence. Maybe, if enough rockets hit the targets…

“Uh-oh,” Private Weller said. “ More assholes are coming out to play.”

Weller was correct. A dozen fast-moving cars, pickups, and SUVs had appeared on the airfield and were darting back and forth to distract the soldiers and divide their fire even more. “Ignore them,” Smith instructed. “Go for the big boys.”

Cassidy was standing behind a waist-high wall of sandbags off to Smith’s right. He had an AT4 on his shoulder and was aiming at the Greyhound. There was a flash of light followed by a loud report as the 84mm rocket flew downrange. Smith saw an orange-red explosion as the HEAT round hit the front of the bus and produced a loud boom. The behemoth coasted to a stop. Smith waited to see if passengers would exit, and none did. The takers knew how vulnerable they’d be out in the open.