Hard Rain Falling (Walking in the Rain Book 3) (6 page)

CHAPTER SEVEN

Jay’s head exploded in a bright spray of blood and pulverized tissue, flipping his body over and nearly tumbling him out of the cupola. A second later I heard the BOOM of the shot.

“Sniper!” I screamed, and threw myself into the ditch just a few feet away. I hit the ground with a painful
umph
as the hard-packed earth struck the magazine carrier, which in turn rammed the new armored plate in my vest. My chest was healed from the last trauma but apparently this new shock shook loose a little residual pain.

“Fuck,” I whispered as I glanced up to confirm my fears. Yep. Private Grady was most definitely dead. The bullet must have come from behind, since the front of his face appeared pushed out around the exit wound where his forehead used to be. Well, to be honest, Jay’s head was pretty much gone above the brow line, but that was the impression I got in the second I allowed myself to gape. Then I dove back into the bottom of the grassy ditch and dared to peek just barely over the lip of the drop off. For some stupid reason, my addled brain flashed back to an article I’d read online. Apparently, the older model Humvee cupola shields on the gun mount provided good cover up front but left what turned out to be a fatal gap in the back.

The short column of Humvees had only just come to a stop, arriving at the appointed rendezvous point a few seconds before. Corporal Towson was driving and the four of us managed to cram into the backseat of the vehicle. Not that big a squeeze since we were still so skinny; the footlocker full of my toys and supplies actually took up more room than we did.

“Time to gas up,” Towson had said as he brought the vehicle to a stop. I volunteered, and Jay, in the next vehicle up in line, took up a security position in the armored cupola. He was manning the .50 caliber heavy machine gun and had foregone the harness for greater mobility. As I eased out of the door, I happened to glance up and see my new friend. So I was in the process of giving him a little wave as his head seemed to come apart.

Screams erupted from the nearest vehicle—my vehicle—and I saw the door start to open.

“Stay in the truck!” I yelled; my voice already hoarse. I knew who as trying to get out. I didn’t need x-ray vision to know Amy would be trying to come to my aid. That was her way.

“Stay there!” I yelled again, and then another shot hit, this time striking the roof of the second Hummer in line. I didn’t see any damage but also couldn’t tell if the round penetrated the armor or not. If the rounds penetrated, then the Humvees needed to vacate the area immediately or risk being shot to pieces. This was bad. Very bad.

“Get out of here!” I yelled again.

I saw the door of our Humvee crack open and then shut with sudden force. I was glad. The trucks started rolling, and I felt a sigh of relief that proved premature. Before the Humvees moved ten feet, I caught a flash of something and the lead vehicle exploded in a scorching ball of hellfire. In that instant, Sergeant Halloran went to join his wife and daughter, and his unknown driver went along for the trip.

The surviving Humvees lurched into a frantic, tire squealing motion just as I registered a second flash, again originating from behind me.

Missing the last Humvee—the one carrying my heart—by what seemed like inches, the missile shot across the highway and disappeared from sight before detonating in a second, ear splitting roar. The three Humvees, dodging around the flaming wreck that was the sergeant’s funeral pyre, rapidly picked up speed and sped down the wide ribbon of asphalt.

That bit of evasive maneuvering, slinging the heavy trucks around the blazing wreck, dislodged Private Grady’s hanging corpse and sent his mortal remains spilling out onto the pavement. I looked away and hunkered down as my new friend’s body impacted the road. I then heard more shots, but the Humvees never slowed.

I waited for another missile, or rocket, or whatever the hell that was, but nothing. Knowing it was a risk; I slipped my radio free of the pouch on my hip and turned it on to listen to the preselected channel. Unlike the Guard unit, the four of us still carried regular civilian model short range handhelds—a parting gift from our friends at the Keller farm. These units, shielded from the pulse in a Faraday cage, represented a huge sacrifice by the farmers, but Darwin himself had insisted.

“Luke, Luke, come in,” came Amy’s voice over the speaker. The volume was barely audible, but I could still hear the horror and desperation in her words as she begged, “Please respond.”

I closed my eyes and tried to control my ragged, panicked breathing. I was lying prone in the dry ditch, my eyes no longer able to even pick out the dust cloud of my fleeing friends. They’d done the right thing, of course. Especially considering the attackers had rockets… or missiles. But now I was left behind and my feelings of fear and panic began to be replaced by the first tinges of loneliness.

I’d never really felt alone when I was trekking down from Chicago. Feelings were weaknesses at that time, and I had built up a wall trying to block those weak impulses. Then I met Amy, and the walls started to crumble, brick by brick. Now I would have to rebuild that armor, at least for a while.

Knowing it was a stupid risk, I pressed the radio transmit button twice, paused, and did it again, simply breaking squelch. That was a signal of sorts, to let Amy and the Thompson sisters know I was alive but unable to speak. Hopefully, they would get the message.

The risk was stupid because so far, no one had seemed to notice me. Judging from the way Jay’s body reacted and coupled with the vulnerable areas in that machine gun cupola, I figured the sniper was across the road. When I exited the Humvee, the bulk of the vehicle had no doubt concealed me from the sniper and his spotter. That was good because the sniper terrified me; although now the men firing the rockets were on this side.  Rockets versus a sniper’s  bullet.  What a choice, but I figured the sniper was a more serious threat to me at the moment.

I quickly decided this was not the time to think about revenge, no matter how sweet the thought. I was outnumbered, outgunned, and outmaneuvered. My only choice, poor though it was, was to stay low, avoid notice, and
maybe
slip out of this kill zone under cover of darkness. I knew with certainty that there was nothing random about this ambush. We were out in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by gentle hills and fields of wheat wilting in the late summer sun. I was no military genius by any stretch, but the whole setup stank of betrayal.

The Oklahoma National Guard, despite the crippling effects of the supposed CME and political mismanagement of their assets, still possessed secure military communications. I couldn’t remember the acronym, but I remember reading that the scrambled channels of the newer comms system the various Guard units used was almost impossible to breach without the corresponding units.

But, somebody had set up an ambush right where Sergeant Halloran was ordered to park and await linkup with the McAlester unit. So, either the boys from McAlester got here first and rat fucked us, or some third party intercepted the message and rat fucked us. Either way, the communication network has been penetrated and now the already short-handed Oklahoma Guard was down at least three troopers and a Humvee. At least the trucks with the Bradley parts both got away.

To my way of thinking, the ambushers were either rogue Guard personnel or somebody with the tech skills to operate stolen military communications gear. No matter for the moment, I still had to avoid detection until the attackers bounced. Thinking about the level of sophistication, I began to wonder if they might also have infrared or some kind of heat detecting technology. If so, they might discover me in the ditch even if I never raised my head. Damn.

Thinking on that for a moment, I decided to use what I had and started worming my way down the ditch. Using only my knees and elbows, I dragged myself along the bottom of the depression and paused frequently, my ears straining as I moved west, closer to the still flaming Humvee.

My thinking was that the heat from the fire would help obscure any body temperature trace. No way to know if it would work, but I was all out of alternate solutions. So I crawled. My knees screamed their protest and my arms began to burn a bit at the stress, but I set the feelings aside.  Just like I ignored the heat, and the flies, and the ache in my chest.

Up ahead, I could see something black and bulky lying in the ditch and I silently prayed it wasn’t a body. I thought the object was covered with something, and my mind tried to decipher the shape into something recognizable.

Counting in my head, I estimated the enemy force could be no less than four. That made for a two man sniper team and a pair with the RPG—maybe more, but that would be a minimum. Even if I wasn’t too scared to poke my head out of the ditch, those numbers meant I would keep the plan and avoid a fight.

The object turned out to be a metal grocery cart, crumpled a bit and roofed with a torn piece of plastic sheeting. At first I thought it might be a crude shelter of sorts but as I crawled closer, a second look showed the encrusted grime and the way the plastic wrap stuck to the metal ribs of the cart and I realized this was storm deposit, probably from the most recent rain. There was no way around the cart without exposing myself and frankly, the blazing torch of the Humvee nearby convinced me I didn’t need to get any closer anyway.

My hands and arms ached as I drew up tight to the cart and once again I realized just how out of shape I had become. The prolonged starvation diet took a lot out of a guy, and I had not been exercising near enough. I worked hard at surviving, but carrying boxes of ammo or turning a wrench wasn’t the same as lifting weights regularly and running.

Now with a little more cover, I needed to take a quick inventory. I was without my big backpack that was still in the Humvee now speeding away, but I still had more than a few things I would need. If all went according to plan, I still had a long walk ahead of me to Oklahoma City but that was okay since my feet were still accustomed to hoofing the miles. Catching a ride was unlikely, because we’d yet to see a working vehicle on the road after more than an hour of driving.

In addition to my weapons, I still wore my chest rig with six spare magazines for the CETME and three for the Glock. On the left side of my belt, behind the radio carrier, I wore an old style gas mask pack converted into a small emergency kit. Though it made me feel like Batman with the utility belt, I was glad for the extra supplies. The kit contained a pair of energy bars, a bottle of 30 of water purification tablets, a box of matches, and a stainless steel canteen cup, in addition to a lot of other odds and ends shoved into the bottom. I knew I had one wire snare kit and enough wire to fabricate another if needed.

With my 10x binoculars and the two canteens I routinely carried, I knew I was better equipped than most of the stragglers trying to make it on the roads. I wished for the first aid bag I’d unwisely secured to a D ring on the big pack, but otherwise I had what I thought I needed to start over.

I conducted the inventory mostly by feel, my attention focused on the edges of the ditch and the stretch of the depression ahead of me that extended on for what seemed like miles. The stink of the burning Humvee filled my nostrils, the scent of scorching plastic and roasting pork making me nauseous. I gagged, feeling my breakfast rise, and successfully fought off the urge. Vomiting would deplete my fluid reserves, and staying hydrated just took on added significance.

The nearby fire still made the ditch feel like an oven, and I hoped the heat would not get any worse. My face already felt sunburned by the proximity to the flames.

As I was thinking about melting under the heat, I thought I heard a droning in the distance. Risking a quick, prairie dog glance, I caught sight of a dusty black SUV crawling and juddering across the field across the road and gave a sigh of relief. Probably transport for the ambushers leaving the area.

I felt conflicted since they needed to leave before I could move, and yet if they left I might never have a chance to pay them back for killing Jay. Rational me wanted them gone, while the animal inside wanted to rip their hearts out and mount their heads on stakes. After a moment of thought, I realized that getting back to Amy trumped avenging Jay and Sergeant Halloran—not to mention his dead driver whose name I never caught.

Thus resigned to leaving well enough alone, I was then surprised to see the big Suburban truck actually angling across the median and in the direction of the blazing Humvee. What, were they coming over to get a closer look?

Then I caught movement from the corner of my eye. Panning slowly to the right, barely daring to blink, I picked out two figures dressed in unfamiliar camouflage uniforms hoofing it across the scrubby grass bordering the wheat field. They carried what looked like long poles or something braced across their shoulders. I didn’t know exactly the make or model, but I could easily recognize the general form as that of a launcher of some kind. These had to be the guys who took out Sergeant Halloran and tried to kill my love.

Sinking slowly—fast movements attract attention—I hunkered down once again behind the conveniently positioned grocery cart and slid my rifle from its sling. Silently, I drew back the charging handle and chambered a round. That was something I should have done as soon as my feet hit the ground, but the suddenness of Jay’s death threw me off my game.

I was still determined to do the smart thing and let these guys pass; two here, but who knew how many were crammed into that Suburban. I would observe and report; after all, that damned sniper might still be on overwatch.