“It would be nice to call whoever just shot at me by name,” he said. “You realize that bullet flopped like a dying fish by the time it got through a door this thick?”
“That was a .308, Larson,” the spokesman replied. “I’m guessing none of you got hit, but if you did you’d definitely be fee—”
While the attacker was still talking Matt spun out partially in front of the door and leveled his dad’s gun straight out in front of him. He fired a shot at the near edge, worked the bolt as he shuffled a bit to the side and fired another shot, repeated the action and fired a third, and repeated the action again to fire a fourth and last shot at the far end of the door before flattening himself against the wall beside his dad.
Everyone else was holding their hands over their ears, and he wished he’d had ear protection as he shouted over the renewed ringing in his own. Sometime during the short space between shots he also thought he’d heard screaming, but he didn’t hear it now. He barely heard himself as he called to the attackers.
“That was a .30-06! I’m guessing someone got hit, and you’re definitely feeling it!”
The reply came in the form of a long string of cursing through the five holes now punched through their front door. It was a different voice than the one who’d spoken before. It also seemed to be coming from farther away, as if their attackers had retreated up the ramp to escape the unexpected return fire. Matt took a chance and quickly looked through the nearest hole, which only seemed large until he tried to peer through it.
He couldn’t see much, but from what he could tell of the shadows in the ramp no one was down there. He did see a bit of a foot and leg crouched up beside the ramp, and he lifted his rifle up to the very top of the door in line to try for a shot at it.
He must’ve hit, because over the renewed ringing in his ears he heard another string of cursing and shots fired wildly from the top of the ramp, none of which pierced through since they were shot at an angle.
“You’re dead, Larson! You hear!” the new spokesman screamed. “You and your whole family are dead!”
Matt peered through the new hole he’d made higher up, but nobody was in sight there. He tried the other holes as he darted across to the other side of the door to rejoin Sam and April, but he couldn’t see anyone from them either. “They’re trying something,” he muttered. He glanced up at the ceiling, which was unbroken aside from the holes for the stovepipe and the two vents, one near the front of the shelter and one at the back. “Don’t go anywhere near the vents or stovepipe holes, just in case they try to shoot down.”
His dad was breathing hard even though he hadn’t moved in several minutes. “The vents have those wind turbines on top and the stovepipe has its hat. We should be able to hear something if they try to take those off to line up a shot.”
Matt nodded but didn’t respond, since he’d just heard noises coming from the stovepipe only a few feet away and a bit farther back. Just to be safe he rushed his wife and sister to the other side of the door before following himself, and in a huddle they all waited for some sign of what the attackers had planned, ears quivering for any sounds.
No gunshots came from the stovepipe, and only that brief bit of rustling. He also heard some rustling from the vents, but no shots came from them either. After several minutes of tense silence Matt felt himself relaxing a bit.
Time was on their side. He might have lied about radioing out for help but eventually someone in town would notice that no one from the Larson clan had been around for a while. Matt might not be missed, since he didn’t always come back into town for planning and paperwork after his shift. But Terry probably would be, or if not him then Sam or April since they continued to help at the clinic and even took over his duties when he wasn’t available.
While Matt was thinking that over a sudden uneasiness settled over him: something about the room was different. He couldn’t tell what it was, but after living here for months he knew there was something wrong. Sam had been fussing with the bullet graze on his arm while they waited, but he gently pushed her fingers away and straightened, looking around.
Woodsmoke. That wasn’t all that odd since they had the stove slow burning most of the time to heat the large space, but usually most of the smoke made it out through the pipe stretched along the ceiling, heating the room before making its way outside. The only time the smoke would be this thick was if they had a large fire going in the stove or if the flue was shut.
Feeling a sudden surge of dread, almost as much as when they’d shot at him through the door, Matt leaned close to his dad. “Watch the door,” he hissed. Without waiting for a response he hurried across the room to the stove, barely sparing time for a reassuring smile for his mom and nephews huddling behind it before throwing the door in front open.
Smoke billowed out, and as he coughed against it he snatched up a nearby pail of water they used for hand washing and threw it onto the flames. With a sharp hiss the smoke was joined by steam, and Matt hurriedly shut the door again to close it off, then turned to his worried looking family. “They’ve closed off the stovepipe and vents. They’re trying to suffocate us.”
“Matt!” his dad shouted, eye pressed to a hole in the door. “They’re starting a fire!”
Matt sprinted back to the door and looked through a hole beside his dad. As he watched a flaming log flew down the ramp to thump against the door, quickly followed by another. “It’s okay, the only thing anywhere near that fire that’s flammable is the wood in the door, and it’s behind sheet metal. They’re not burning this place down.”
“But they’ve blocked all our sources of air,” April pointed out. “They don’t have to burn us out, the smoke will do the job.”
Matt should’ve considered that, even beyond the immediate danger of fire itself. The rain of flaming logs continued as they watched until it was stacked halfway up the door and smoke poured through the bullet holes in thin black fingers that didn’t seem like much until you realized how quickly it added up over time. The refugees were taking wood from the woodpile, that was obvious enough, but where were they finding a flammable liquid to douse it with?
He realized the answer about the time his dad got around to asking the question, so he spoke it out loud. “The shipping container Lewis uses as a shed. They must have cut the lock to get at the stuff inside. He had a tank with dozens of gallons of gasoline in there.”
“Gasoline?” Terry repeated incredulously. “That’s worth its weight in gold! Ferris just left it behind?”
“It’s old,” Matt said. “It won’t run in vehicles, but it definitely still burns.”
Sam caught his arm. “What if they pour it down the vents?” she asked worriedly. “Or into the stovepipe? They could set everything in here on fire!”
Matt finally got his senses about him and began ripping up his undershirt to stuff into the bullet holes. That might not help much since the cloth would probably start on fire, but it would have to do until he could think of something better. “Even if it doesn’t work for cars gasoline would still be valuable. They might be trying to save it since the fire should be enough to do the job.”
She punched his arm, which wasn’t like her. “Thanks for the reassurance. I think it’s about time we used that secret escape tunnel, don’t you?”
“Yeah.” Matt felt his face flush. “I, um, forgot about that in the heat of the moment.” Which was stupid. If he’d thought of it earlier he could’ve used it to get out and try a sneak attack on the people attacking them. Maybe his resolution to keep it a secret for Lewis had been a bit too strong.