He grabbed desperately for the branches, branches that scraped at his face as he fell, his left foot sliding over the edge, his right leg still on top. His momentum carried him forward and downward, and he gasped, panic stricken, as rocks and pinecones tumbled down the cliff, bouncing with echoing cracks off the boulders below.
As he continued his slow motion slide over the precipice, his right hand grasped a fat tree root curled tightly around a weathered rock, and his right leg wedged between a tree trunk and a small boulder, bringing his fall to a halt but still leaving him dangling precariously over the edge. He let out a deep breath and opened his eyes as sharp pains shot through his right leg. Terrified, he held tight for a second, then used the root to carefully pull himself back up, finally rolling back over the edge into the trees, with sweat rolling in cold beads down his forehead.
He groped in the darkness for his rifle, which he’d dropped near the edge. His right hand bumped against the barrel, and he snatched it up with hands shaking so hard from the near fall that he could hardly get his finger on the trigger. He edged back towards the cliff top, this time much more carefully and slowly. From this new vantage point, he could see the militia house to his right and the road down below, and he watched the road, searching for movement.
Something shifted in the trees below, and he leaned forward, tense, only to see a deer scamper off towards the river. David waited and watched for what seemed like an eternity. His rapidly beating heart had slowed, but his bruised leg throbbed, and the chill of the winter night was beginning to work its way through his thick, sweat-soaked jacket. He shifted side to side on still shaking legs and swung his arms back and forth to get the blood flowing. Finally convinced that it had been a false alarm, David was about to retrace his steps back to the top of the hill when he definitely saw movement by the river. Looking harder, he saw spotted two figures crouched low and trotting towards the bridge. He scanned the road directly below and saw two more figures moving stealthily towards the militia house with what appeared to be weapons in their hands.
David brought the AK47 to his shoulder and turned to shoot the truck hood to warn the others and bring the rest of the militia to help. The words his dad had said to him the first night he went up the hill echoed in his head. “You’ve got our lives in your hands, Son. Don’t let us down.”
The hood had been hung so that it was directly facing the nest at the top of the hill. Now that he had run back towards the house, however, his angle to the target was considerably different, shrinking the target size in half, despite his being closer to it. He looked down at the road. The men there had paused in a ditch to talk; he couldn’t see the men by the river. David took aim at the hood and pulled the trigger.
The perfect silence of the late evening exploded with the gunshot, the sound ringing so loudly he was sure the dead would rise from their graves, but there was no ringing warning from the truck hood and how far the sound of the shot had carried he didn’t know. David fired again, aware that the sound and the flash would alert the men crouching in the ditch below him that he was there. Again there was no ringing of the hood.
“Dammit!” David whispered. He glanced at the window of the house where he knew a guard was posted and saw movement and a rifle sticking out. At least they’re on alert, he thought. He aimed again, noticed a flash from the rifle at the window, then rocks and pine needles exploded in the dirt just behind him as the pop of the weapon reached his ears. “Damn! Damn! Damn!” he exclaimed to himself, realizing he was taking friendly fire, and that the sound of weapons this far away wouldn’t be enough to rouse the community.
David scrambled ten feet further up hill, saw another flash from the window, and heard the bullet hit a tree close to where he had knelt just seconds before. Once again he took aim and pulled the trigger, and once again he missed his mark. Another flash from the window of the house was followed, almost immediately, by a flash from the side of the house. One of the shots hit a few feet above David, but the other zipped by close enough for him to hear it whistle past before bouncing off a nearby rock.
David dropped to his stomach and edged forward to look over the cliff. The men hiding in the ditch appeared to be looking up at him, then they started crawling out of the ditch, back in the direction they had come from. David realized the gunfire was scaring the intruders off before anyone in the community found out about them, and with his luck, he’d be killed by his own militia before he could alert them.
Adrenaline coursed through his body, making his hands shake again. He again took aim, but this time at the figures on the road, who were much closer than the hood and seemed to fill the scope of his weapon. Another shot sounded from the house, with the bullet crashing through the branches above his head. David took the forward shape in his sights and began to put pressure on the trigger, then paused. His mind raced. That was a real person down there, someone who felt pain, someone who had a life and a family. David had killed countless aliens, Nazis, zombies, and gangsters on his Xbox, but this wasn’t a video game. This time they were real.
Another shot rang from the house, and the bullet struck below him on the cliff. With hands still shaking, David looked through his gun sight, aiming dead center on the man’s chest, and pulled the trigger. The gun roared, but he was used to the sound, and it no longer fazed him. He quickly recovered from the kick and drew the sights back on the men now scrambling back to the ditch. Calmer, he pulled the trigger again and saw his target fall while thinking to himself, “I’ve just shot a living person.” It didn’t seem real.
The second man pulled his wounded comrade into the ditch, and David took aim at him and fired. The man screamed and fell to the ground. The scream made it real. David pulled back from the edge and began to cry.
He’d barely retreated from the edge when a volley of gunfire erupted, and the air above him came alive – bullets spinning by, ricocheting off rocks and trees, branches falling. It was as if World War II had erupted on a Montana mountainside. David wiped his tears on his coat sleeve and crawled further from the edge, knowing the cliff protected him from the incoming fire. He climbed to his feet while trying to stifle sobs of fear and grief and ran downhill, crouching low, searching for another spot, knowing the darkness and the trees made him as safe as he could hope for.
He stopped twenty yards downhill, crawled back to the edge, and looked down. Two shots came from close to the river, the flash of light exposing the shooters’ positions, but they hit far from David, and returning fire would have just given up his new location. He focused on the militia house and saw guns sticking out of the upstairs window and a figure on the porch, crouched behind a barricade. He glanced down at the hood and saw that it was facing him. Blinking, he looked again. The hood was hanging from only one rope and had turned so that he had a square shot.
David quickly brought his gun to his shoulder, took aim, and pulled the trigger. Ring! The sound of the bullet striking the target was more welcome than anything he could ever remember hearing. He fired again. Ring! The hood slowly spun around, and David waited until just before it squared up and fired once more. Ring! Fresh tears came to his eyes and blurred his vision, but this time they were tears of relief.
Gunfire continued below, and David shrank down low to the ground, but no more bullets screamed overhead. He waited for two minutes before looking up again. Men were running towards the militia house from the direction of town. Someone shouted commands. Voices were shrill.
The figures in the ditch were shooting towards the militia house now, and David heard glass break. He could see that they were trying to work their way towards the river, but moving slowly, neither able to help the other due to their injuries.