Will to Survive (31 page)

“Which is why he tried to draw off our forces by asking the drop to be made to the east, toward the city,” Howie said. “But still, how did you know to expect the attack to come right along the highway?”

“Herb figured that part out. This is our soft spot, because the community to the north hasn't developed as far as the rest of the neighborhood. And with those go-carts we'd seen before, he figured they'd be coming along a roadway. We finally pieced together that the reason he wanted five days was to allow him to move his doodlebugs across the river.”

“And that meant a forty-mile detour on the first bridge north of here,” Howie said. “I get it now.”

“They're coming!” somebody yelled out.

My eyes, and everybody else's, looked down the open stretch of road. It was still deserted, but there was a noise—sort of like the buzzing of bees. It was getting louder, and then the little dots appeared in the distance.

“Everybody down!” Howie yelled over the bullhorn. “Everybody down!”

All around, people dropped so that they were hidden and protected by the wall. I had dropped as well, but I peeked over the top to see. The little go-carts came, more and more, until they filled the entire width of the highway—six lanes on both sides—and they were charging toward us. I trained my rifle on one of the riders in the middle lane. He was too far away and his face was masked by a shield, so I couldn't know if it was Brett. But knowing him the way I thought I did, he would have been in the first line. I had a one-in-twelve chance it was him. But if it was, I had him squarely in my sights—if I fired, he was gone. But, of course, I had to fight the urge to fire—I had to wait until they were all in the trap, in the kill zone.

The noise picked up as they closed in, taking up all the lanes and going on and on and on.

Then it came: muzzle blasts from the go-carts.

“Incoming!” Howie yelled out.

Flashes of light and trails of smoke came twisting toward us. RPG rounds were coming! I crouched down farther but kept my eyes on them as the first three shot over our heads. I swiveled around as two went over the wall and onto the pavement, skidding along before exploding. The third hit the gate, and smashed pieces of cement and wood shot out of the cloud of smoke and into the air before my eyes. Anybody who was anywhere near there, well, they were gone now.

There was a massive explosion that shook the ground and then I was pummeled with pieces of dirt and rocks and bits of concrete that bounced against my visor. I looked up and saw that the whole top of one section of the wall was obliterated. Thank goodness the bottom remained and the chunks of concrete behind it held strong.

I turned to Lori and she looked up. Her scalp was cut and blood was flowing down her face.

“More incoming!” Howie yelled.

I threw myself on top of Lori, shielding her with my body as another grenade shot over the top and exploded just behind us, and I felt my back being pummeled with more rocks and hunks of dirt and concrete. I pushed myself up. They were almost on us—why hadn't we opened fire yet?

I pulled up my gun, ready to fire at them, and there was another explosion! It was much bigger than the others, and the whole far end of the highway just vanished in a cloud of smoke and dust. I knew what that was—it came from us. We'd blown up the highway behind them, trapping them in the kill zone.

“Open fire, open fire, open fire!” Howie yelled.

On both sides of me people started firing. Heads and weapons popped up over the walls on both sides of the highway, and gunfire was directed into the kill zone. Some of the little carts skidded to a stop; others spun around, crashing and flipping into the air.

Out of nowhere one of the Mustangs swooped above, passing so low I ducked my head. It raced over, its .50-caliber machine guns firing, ripping into the carts, the people, and even the pavement.

It was gone in seconds, leaving behind a path of devastation that was as wide as one lane of the highway. Then the other Mustang roared over, guns firing, blazing a trail of destruction the width and length of a second lane. How could anything survive that?

“It's your father!” Lori screamed.

I looked up just in time to see the Cessna pass over so low that I felt like I could almost reach up and touch the landing gear. The plane's gun started to fire repeatedly as my father strafed a third lane of the highway, punching bullet holes into anything and anyone in its path. He, too, was gone in seconds.

Almost all of the go-carts had stopped moving, but that hadn't stopped the fire. Muzzle blasts and bullets were flying into and out of the kill zone.

An RPG shot out and hit one of the walls, shattering it into a million pieces and opening up a gigantic hole. Five of Brett's men jumped up from behind their carts and ran toward the hole—two were cut down, and the other three ran back to take cover.

“Cease fire!” Howie yelled. “Everybody cease fire!”

I hadn't fired a shot yet, so there was no need for me to stop anything. Others lowered their rifles, and the sound of shots slowed down until finally there was silence from our section, followed by the other two walls falling quiet. Some stray shots came from the go-carts, then slowed down and almost came to a stop. If they didn't stop completely, I knew we'd start firing again.

Up in the sky the two Mustangs and the Cessna circled, doing big loops around us. They were close enough to be seen but far enough away to avoid taking fire. If they came in again they'd put an end to any resistance.

“Attention … attention!”

It was Herb's voice coming over a bullhorn from the wall. I tried to track the voice—where was he?

“Please put down your weapons so we can talk … Nobody else has to die today,” Herb called out.

I swiveled around and caught sight of him close by, almost at the corner of the two walls over from me, just his head peeking over the top.

There was silence. I could only hope that they were listening. At least there were now no more shots.

I surveyed the scene. Many go-carts were tipped over or destroyed, riddled with bullets. The asphalt was littered with bodies. Some had been hit by the .50-caliber fire from the planes and been almost cut into pieces. Black smoke was rising from the go-carts that had caught fire. The smoke was thick and mixed with the odor of spilled gas and, of course, the bitter, acidic smell of gunpowder.

“I need to speak to your leader!” Herb called out. “Brett, are you still alive?”

A chill went through me at the mention of his name. I hoped he wouldn't answer—that he
couldn't
answer. But then came that familiar voice.

“Good to hear from you, Herb. I've never talked to a ghost before!”

“I'm alive and still kicking … no thanks to you.”

“I thought you'd take my men's attempt on your life as a compliment. I guess if you want something done right, though, you have to do it yourself!” Brett yelled.

“How's that working out for you today?” Herb taunted.

“Not as well as I'd expected.”

I could hear him clearly but couldn't figure out where his voice was coming from. I looked through the sight of my rifle, scanning for him. I knew he wasn't far, but there were many places to hide. It was now so quiet and they were both so close that Herb had put down the bullhorn and Brett hardly needed to raise his voice.

“So what now?” Brett asked. “Are you going to surrender?”

Herb laughed. “Nice to see you haven't lost your sense of humor. Surrender is something
you
need to consider … all of you.”

“I'm the only one making that decision!” Brett shouted. “How about if you just back off and let us go and we won't bother you anymore. You have my word.”

“You told us yourself what your word is worth, Brett.”

“Come on, Herb, you really don't want a lot of prisoners, and we're not going down without a fight.”

“If you fight, there won't be any prisoners. You're trapped with no place to run.”

“We'll take more than a few of you with us,” Brett replied.

“You can try, but I'm just going to call back the planes. They'll make pass after pass until none of you are left alive!” Herb said.

There was no response. Was Brett thinking over the offer or was he just buying some time while he was planning something?

“So if we surrender, what happens?” Brett called out.

“We'll tend to your wounded.”

“And then what?” Brett asked.

With that last response I was certain I'd found where Brett was hiding. There was a little bit of motion from behind a cluster of go-carts close to the front. I trained my rifle right on the spot.

“Some of your people will be let go if they cooperate with us,” Herb replied. “Some might even be invited to join our neighborhood, like we did with Quinn.”

“And what will happen to me?” Brett demanded.

“You're going to stand trial.”

“I think we all know how that's going to end, so that doesn't sound like much of a deal for me.”

“Best I can offer.”

“Give me ten minutes to think about it, talk it over with my men.”

“You just told us you make the decisions, so there's nobody to talk it over with. You stand up now, hands above your head. I've already radioed the planes and told them it was time to come back,” Herb said.

I looked up and tried to find the planes. The Cessna was off to the south on its own and the two Mustangs were in formation. It looked like they were cutting their bank short, getting ready to come in and make another strafing pass.

“It's now or never,” Herb called out. He was back on the bullhorn. He was now talking to all the men out there, not just Brett. “This is your last chance. Surrender or you will all die … Get to your feet … weapons down and hands up. Last chance.”

I looked back over my shoulder. The Mustangs had made their turn and were now coming back, straight toward us. If they weren't called off within thirty seconds they'd be right on top of them again and just cut them to ribbons.

A man stood up, hands in the air. And then there was a second and a third and fourth. The man closest to me was splattered with blood, his left arm holding up the right, which was badly mangled and on a strange angle. More and more of them stood up, some staggering, obviously badly wounded. Still, there had to be more of them alive than that—and what about the planes? They were still closing in, bearing down. Somebody would have to call them off soon or they'd be shooting people who just wanted to surrender.

Another man stood up. I recognized the form before I saw the face. It was Brett! I saw a dark stain on his left leg. It extended from the calf and leaked down to his shoe. He'd been hit.

“Everybody, lay down your weapons and put up your hands!” Brett bellowed.

There was a gap of a few seconds and then others got to their feet, hands in the air.

The two Mustangs banked and veered off to the side. Thank goodness they'd been radioed in time.

Soon there were dozens and dozens of men on their feet. Some had their hands in the air, others on their heads. Several were held up by others, an arm or two around their shoulders. There was much to see, much to study, but I wanted to look at only one place, one person.

I brought my rifle back around until it was trained squarely on Brett. I was sighted on his side, a place where the body armor was thinner and my bullet could penetrate. In fact it would enter in through the side, slow down as it passed through his body, bounce off the other side of the vest, and ricochet back inside. If it didn't hit any major organ the first time, it was almost guaranteed to rip up enough on the return trip. There would be nothing Dr. Morgan could do to save him.

Brett came forward, the one leg dragging as he walked. His hands were on his head. I felt my finger tightening on the trigger. There he was in my sights. I could squeeze off a round and it would be over. He'd be dead. There would be no more fears, no more threats to my family, to me, to Lori. There'd be no chance of him talking his way out of this, of somehow getting through the trial or escaping to come back at us again and again and again. It wouldn't be like the last time, when he was there and I didn't pull the trigger. If I had pulled it then, many people would still be alive now. If I didn't pull it this time, how many more might die?

I took a deep breath and then held it, the way I'd been taught to shoot. I'd just squeeze my finger, move it the slightest bit, and it would be over. I could claim it was an accident and nobody would doubt what I said.

“Adam.”

I felt my finger tingling, almost itchy, wanting to—

“Adam!”

I looked over at Lori, who was standing right there, saying, “It's over … it's over.”

It wasn't.

She placed a hand on the barrel of my rifle, lowering it. Then she put her hand on my shoulder. “It's over. You don't have to do it.”

My instincts told me she was wrong. It wasn't going to be over until Brett was gone, until Brett was dead.

“Everybody, hold your fire!” Herb called out to our people. “Aim your weapons to the ground. I'm going out!”

Every eye turned to see him stand up. He climbed over a place where the wall had been partially destroyed. What was he doing? He didn't have to go out there. They had surrendered, so just let them come to us, one by one.

“We're going to provide for your wounded,” Herb called out. “You'll all be treated with mercy and in a fair manner.”

Brett stepped forward. “I want you all to listen to him! He's telling the truth … You can trust him.”

All along the stretch of highway those who were still alive and able to walk started to move forward, stepping and staggering or dragging themselves around and through the go-carts and the bodies. They all still had their hands in the air or, like Brett, on the top of their heads.