Ever Onward (30 page)

Suddenly the rope parted and his hands
were free. Taking the knife from Roland, Terry carefully cut
through the loop around their throats. A minute later both he and
Roland were limping towards the parked vans.

“Why here?”, Roland panted. “Inside
the plant we...”

“We’d be caught for sure. Trapped like
rats. Besides,” Terry grinned, pointing at the rifle in the gun
rack inside the white van. “Now we got ourselves some firepower!”
He climbed in and grabbed Josh’s .30 -.30, the John Wayne Special.
Searching drawers for shells he came across Snake’s massive .44 Red
Hawk.

“Jesus H. Kee-rist! These guys don’t
fool around!” He handed Roland the .30 -.30 and picked up the heavy
handgun. Checking that both weapons were loaded, they shoved extra
shell in their pockets and stepped out into the street. They were
fifty yards away from the Lobster Bar. Another fifty beyond that
they saw Chisolm and his three followers moving towards them. Terry
raised the Red Hawk above his head and fired. The sound shattered
the silence, sending a flock of gulls screaming into the
sky.

“Hey! Mr. Chisolm!”, Terry yelled.
“Watch your ass! Some bastards have taken over your
plant!”

Chisolm stopped in his tracks. A
moment later the four of them scattered for the nearest cover. Lynn
ducked behind the rusting remains of an old truck. Kaream followed
the Old Man across the street and into a maze of stacked lobster
traps. Benny made for a weathered boathouse.

The Red Hawk’s loud explosion caused
both Josh and Brad to duck down beside the outdoor fireplace. “What
the...?”, Brad gasped.

Josh was already peering over the
soot-blackened stones. “It’s the two we tied up.Both have
guns.”

“Great!”, Brad growled. “Now we’re
caught in a bloody crossfire!”

“Maybe not. They don’t know where we
are yet.”

“Ya, but now we don’t know where
Chisolm and his bunch are either!”

Josh attempted a smile. “Then let’s go
find out.”

Brad groaned. “I was afraid you’d say
that.”

Through a crack in the ancient
planking of the boathouse Flame could see Lynn, the woman from
Chisholm's group, crouching behind a rusting truck. Flame cursed
herself for not bringing a rifle. Something like Eddy’s .303 with
its big scope would stop that bitch cold! She hefted her stubby
Riot gun. Up close, it was a real ass-kicker, spraying buckshot
like water from an elephant’s trunk; but for any real distance it
sucked the bag big-time! She thought about using her Smith &
Wesson, but handguns weren’t a hell of a lot better for distance
either. Now if this was a movie, then she could easily nail the
bitch right between the eyes, but then in the movies a mouse named
Mickey walked, talked and wore white gloves!

She was about to try the shot anyway
when Benny ran through the boathouse doorway. Feeling like a spider
waiting in her web, a cold smile spread across Flame’s pretty
features. Silently she watched from the shadows as Benny fumbled
his cautious way towards her. Her only movement was her thumb
flicking off the safety.

Breathing hard, Benny moved deeper
into the old building. A rotting fishingboat squatted on rusting
rails. Moving beyond it, Benny came within three feet of Flame.
Stepping out of the darkness, she brought the stock of her Riot gun
up in an arc that connected with the side of Benny’s head. Spinning
around from the force of the blow, he careened into the boat and
collapsed. Flame tossed his shotgun deeper into the shadows but
kept the Trooper’s .38. Without a backward glance, she moved
towards the open doors.

Terry slammed the driver’s door of the
white van. “Bloody asshole took the keys!”

Roland remained silent, his bloodshot
eyes fixed on the empty street. Terry wasn’t the most cool headed
of fellas at the best of times, and this was far from the ‘best of
times’. In fact, in Groin-Sore Roland’s humble opinion, ol’
Terrible Terry seemed about ready to go completely
batshit!

“Any sign of the
muthafuckers?”

“No,” Roland said, secretly
relieved.

Terry kicked the side of the van.
“Well, I aint gonna sit here with my fuckin’ finger up my ass! I’m
goin’ after ‘em!”

Roland spit into the street. “Don’t
think that’s such a good idea, Terry. Best wait for the Old Man to
make his move.”

“Fuck the Old Man! First I’m gonna get
that bitch that sicked her dog on me, then I’m gonna do that
cold-eyed fucker that’s leadin’ ‘em!”

Roland drolled, “Sure you are. But
first you gotta find ‘em.”

Terry cocked Snake’s heavy gun. “I’ll
find ‘em! You just cover my ass!”

“Aye-ya. I can do that , but I’ll be
doing it from right here.”

Terry turned and glared at the taller
man. For an instant he thought of putting a bullet in his smart-ass
brain, but soon changed his mind when he saw the way Roland had the
.30-.30 pointing --- right at the blood-soaked

towel stuffed down the front of
Terry’s pants. Terry snorted and started out across the street. He
tried to run, but the pain from his bleeding balls reduced his best
efforts to a crippled shuffle.

Tina, leaning over the cab of the
tow-truck, sighted down the long barrel of Earl’s old rifle. The
dead farmer’s warning rang in her ears. ‘Careful now, it pulls a
might to the left’. She shifted slightly to the right. Terry was
now half way across the street. It was a long shot, something over
a hundred yards, but if she didn’t fire now he’d soon reach the
safety of Chisolm’s plant. Gently Tina squeezed the
trigger.

From inside the Clam Bar, Kenneth saw
Terry leave the van. “One’s coming this way!”

Matthew Bridger took one look and
rushed out the door.

“Father!”, his daughter called, then
she too ran outside. The boys were close behind her.

Bridger was moving into the open
street, trying to get a clear shot at Terry. Just as he was raising
his rifle, Tina’s shot rang out. She had compensated too much for
the left drift and the shot went wide. Terry dove to the ground
just the same. Bridger ran forward, firing as he went. Terry rolled
as the slug kicked up a puff of dirt beside him. As he rolled he
fired the heavy magnum. The third shot took Bridger in the leg.
Heather screamed as her father went down, then bolted towards him.
Brad moved to intercept her while, Josh ran at Terry, firing his
Beretta. The 9 mm’s clip held fifteen rounds. Josh used up a fair
number of them. When he reached Terry, three had struck his chest,
one in the leg and one in the side of his head.

Roland, seeing Terry down in the
street, began firing at Josh. The first bullet went wide. The
second nicked Josh’s left forearm. Cursing, he snapped off two fast
shots and dropped down behind Terry’s remains. Grabbing the dead
body, he propped it up before him as a shield while he reloaded.
Seeing Josh down made everyone who could fire at Roland. Standing
between the two vans, Roland felt one hit him in the shoulder and
one in his thigh. The one that entered his open mouth he never felt
at all.

Seeing Roland fall, Josh sagged back
himself, the pain in his left arm finally reaching his brain.
Someone was calling his name. Looking around, he saw Jessie running
towards him.

“Get back!”, he cried, but Jessie kept
coming, the two dogs at his heels. Josh willed himself to rise and
went to meet his son.

From her place behind the rusting
truck, Lynn saw the two people in the middle of the road. She stood
up and, holding the Trooper’s .38 with both hands, began firing.
She had squeezed the trigger only twice when the blast of a shotgun
drove her back against the truck. From the shadows the tall bearded
man that had been chained in the plant cocked the second hammer of
Josh’s Coach gun. It wasn’t needed.

Then Chisolm’s four by four began
spinning up dirt as its over-large tires dug for traction. The
heavy treads bit in and the truck leapt forward, heading directly
for the group in the street. In the dust, Eddy suddenly appeared,
firing at the truck racing away from him.

Inside, Kaream had the peddle to the
metal while the Old Man leaned out the passenger window, his .45
waving wildly about as the truck bounced over the uneven road.
Everyone started firing at once.

From the boathouse Flame pumped three
shots into the truck as it raced by. The arm on the window side was
red with blood. Her third shot blew the front tire. The four by
four swerved, hit the bearded man square in the chest, knocked him
up over the cab and kept on going. Brad drew his Glock 9 mm., but
the light automatic jammed after the third shot. Casting it aside,
he unslung his rifle and frantically worked the bolt. Beside him,
Kenneth’s

target pistol coughed repeatedly. Just
to his left, Heather Bridger stood in front of her father and
emptied Jessie’s .22 at the charging truck. Ten yards further down
the street, Josh joined the others firing at the speeding
truck.

The four by four looked as though it
had just passed through a war zone. Two tires now gone, the
windshield full of holes, the radiator hissing steam, yet still the
bullet riddled truck continued to close on the defiant group. Dead
at the wheel, Kaream’s heavy boot kept the motor racing.

From the doorway of the Clam Bar, Gus
fired both barrels of the Coach Gun. The recoil knocked him back on
his ass. At the same time the blast vaporized the trucks
windshield, adding hundreds of tiny glass shards to the dozens of
#2 steel shot that raked the cab. The remains of both Kaream and
John Winston Chisolm splattered against the back window. A moment
later Billy’s tow-truck came racing out of the alley. Slamming into
the four by four, the heavier vehicle drove the lighter one across
the street and into a large stack of lobster straps.

As the smoke and steam cleared away,
silence again settled over the sleepy little town of Bar
Harbour.

Chapter 24
: ‘HEART’S
DESIRE’

York Beach

Maine July
29

A week after leaving Bar Harbor, Josh
found himself sitting on York Beach, some two hundred miles
south-west of Acadia National Park. They were still in Main, but
the New Hampshire border was just a short drive down the coast.
Watching wave after wave rolling across the vast Atlantic, Josh
thought again of Matthew Bridger and his daughter bravely sailing
southward in search of a new home. Bridger had offered to take all
those who wanted to go. Most of the survivors they’d freed from
Chisholm's had jumped at the idea. Josh wished them well. Gus, the
old fisherman, had opted to tag along with Josh’s group.

‘Got a hankering to see those
mountains of yours after all,’ he had said.

After seeing Bridger off, they had
taken Highway #1 south along the coast, glad to leave the bloody
little town far behind. Having been warned about the larger cities,
they bypassed Portland and continued on through Kennebunk, Ogunquit
and had finally stopped at the seaside community called The Yorks.
Josh knew it well. He and his wife had spent a week or two there
each summer for the last dozen years.

He glanced down at the piece of
driftwood he’d been whittling. All that remained was a pile of
shavings. Somehow this matched his present mood; a mood that had
been with him ever since they’d left that bloodstained little
town.

Sitting on the beach he reflected how
everything looked both the same and yet strangely different. The
waves still rolled in, the wind still blew. The tattered collection
of houses, weathered and worn from the salt spray, still lined the
sand dunes. Everything was still there --- except for the people.
The hoards of vacationers were gone. No flocks of sun worshippers
eagerly crowded on to the narrow strip of land. No brash, colorful
umbrellas blocked his view. In town no lines of talkative tourists
waited outside stores and restaurants. For Josh the strangest thing
of all had been to look in the window of the Saltwater Candy Store
and see the arms of the taffy puller frozen in mid air. Frozen like
a fly caught in amber. How long would it be, he had wondered, till
the power once again came on? Years? Decades? Forever?

The thought sent a chill down his
spine.

Until The Change happened, Josh had
inwardly considered himself a basically a loner; more content with
his own company than the company of others. Family and a few close
friends he allowed inside his own private world, but their number
was far from legion. If the truth be told, those who really knew
him could easily be counted on two hands. And even then, there’d be
several fingers left over.

Then The Change had come, wiping out
most of the human race, leaving Josh the Loner really alone. And he
was one of the lucky ones! Not just because he was alive, but
because he still had not only friends, but family as well! He
shuddered to think what it must be like to face a dead world
completely, utterly, desperately alone. Deep inside he thought he’d
have gone mad.

A sound beside him broke into his
gloomy thoughts. Turning, Og’s face loomed before him. A rough, wet
tongue washed his face --- a face whose owner hadn’t bothered to
shave for a week.