Tyrel spoke up, “Trespassing? Last I checked, this is unincorporated territory. Also known as fair game.”
“Listen smart guy, I’m not going to argue with you. This is our town. Our salvage. You can leave on your feet, or on your back. Your choice.”
Tyrel didn’t respond. I had no confidence the man in the stairwell was telling the truth about letting us go, and I knew Ty did not either. What these men were doing, forcibly chasing off salvage hunters in unincorporated territory, was illegal. The military took this kind of thing seriously—they didn’t want civilians battling it out on the outskirts of town—and after we filed a complaint, they would undoubtedly send an expedition to investigate. If the investigators found sufficient evidence to support our claims, these men would be tracked down and brought up on charges. Very serious charges.
Salvage hunters are notoriously territorial. They do not like sharing their loot with outsiders. Treading on someone else’s turf is a very good way to end up with a bullet in your head. Which led me to an inevitable conclusion: these men had no intention of letting us leave this place alive. They would not have bothered coming here at all if they did. It would have been far easier to let us take what we wanted and leave. But if we made it back to the Springs and told the rest of our militia that raiding this place was feasible, they would be outnumbered and forced to cede territory. It was far more profitable for them to simply kill us and leave us for the undead.
Or so they thought, anyway.
I had been in some bad situations, but this one was looking like the worst. We were outnumbered six to one, facing a well-armed, highly motivated enemy, and we had nowhere to run. Keying my radio, I said, “Ty, did you notice they didn’t search the lower floors? Just came straight up the stairs.”
“Yep.”
“I’m thinking we should stay away from the windows.”
“I believe that would be prudent,” Tyrel said. “Rojas, you have a visual on any of these assholes?”
“Negative,” Rojas replied. He sounded winded. “Hang tight brother, I’m on my way.”
“Be careful. They probably have a sniper somewhere.”
“I served three tours in Iraq, homes. I know how to watch out for snipers.”
“Great. Then hustle your ass up,” Tyrel replied. “I think this is about to get ugly.”
The voice from the stairwell spoke again. “I’m going to give you to the count of five to come out, then we’re coming up after you.”
Neither of us spoke. My heart began to beat faster as I adjusted my shooting position and focused on the doorway, finger over the trigger, muscles tightening to take in the slack.
“One.”
A cold feeling started in my stomach and spread to my face and hands, a rhythmic thud-thud-thud hammering in my ears.
“Two.”
I took a deep breath, held it, and let it out.
“Three.”
A hand appeared in the doorway, tossed something through, then disappeared. I heard running steps pounding down the stairs. The thrown object was small, green, and oblong, its exterior comprised of a honeycomb of tiny interconnected squares.
“Grenade!”
The voice sounded like mine, but I did not remember telling my lungs, mouth, and vocal cords to form the words.
The world slowed down, the edges of my vision going gray and narrowing down to a small, pulsating point. The grenade rolled into that point, rotating lengthwise and skittering across the slick tile floor. I had a vague sensation of movement as I darted out the doorway, took two huge running steps, and kicked the grenade toward the door of the stairwell. I had just enough time to hit the floor and curl up in the fetal position before there was a tremendous BANG.
The force was incredible. I felt my body come off the ground and slide backward. A shockwave poured over me like the hand of an invisible giant, knocking the breath from my lungs. My ears rang from the impact, and I dimly wondered how much permanent hearing damage I had just endured. I put my hands over my ears hoping it would help, but it did not, at least not until another slightly less powerful blast hit me from behind.
Something flew over me at tremendous velocity, tearing a hole in my sleeve and carving a shallow furrow in my upper arm. The pain was immediate and intense, and I hissed in agony. My vision dimmed, went almost completely dark, then opened up like the beginning of an old black and white movie. I saw my rifle, and beyond, the shapes of people moving in the stairwell. I thought I heard screaming, but I couldn’t be sure. The ringing in my ears was too loud. I reached for my gun, grabbed it, and pushed off the ground until I was sitting upright.
Behind me, I heard gunfire.
“Shit!”
The last place I wanted to be was alone and exposed in the hallway with no cover. I scrambled backward like a crab, fired a few blind shots through the stairwell opening, and pushed my way back through the door of the classroom.
Remember your training, my father’s voice told me. Stay in the fight.
I got up to one knee, leaned a little way around the wall, and trained my weapon toward the stairs. The gunfire behind me continued unabated, but I ignored it. I would have to trust that Tyrel had survived the grenade thrown at him and was holding his own. If not, I was as good as dead, and the only thing left for me to do was to take as many of these sons of bitches with me as I could.
The hallway was filled with smoke, the air sharp with an acrid scent I could not identify. As I watched, a man-shaped gray thing stepped into the swirling dust, weapon blazing. His shots cut the air in front of me, making little thwap-thwap sounds as they passed. I adjusted my aim slightly upward and fired three times. The man jerked, screamed wetly, and fell. It was in my head to make a follow up shot, but then I saw two more men emerge behind him.
I focused on the closest one and fired, finger working the trigger as fast as I could. I don’t know how many times I shot him, but it was enough that he dropped to the ground. The man behind him saw my muzzle flash and aimed in my direction.
We fired at the same time.
I knew my shots would hit; the reticle of my VCOG was centered squarely on the upper portion of his chest. His weapon flashed twice, and I had a brief moment of panic as I expected to feel impact, and heat, and pain. Instead, I felt a scalding sting on the right side of my face, screamed, and fell over backward.
I put my hand to my face, blinking furiously. The eye still worked, which was a good sign. My cheek was wet with blood, but not much of it, just a trickle. I sat up and moved my head, my arm, felt around on my torso. Everything seemed to be in good working order. I had a fevered remembrance of a quote from Winston Chuchhill, one I had always found amusing: Nothing in life is so exhilarating as to be shot at without result.
It did not seem very funny anymore. Whatever I was feeling, it was pretty damned far from exhilaration. As I sat there, it occurred to me the hallway had gone silent. I keyed my radio and whispered, “Tyrel, you still alive over there?”
“Pretty sure I am.”
A wave of relief poured over me strong enough to make my eyes sting. “Glad to hear it.”
“How’d you make out on your end?”
“Shot three of them.”
“Dead?”
“They look pretty dead. Can’t say for sure if there are any more. You?”
“Four down, and at least one more wounded. I think I heard the rest making a run for it.”
“Rojas, you got anything?”
No reply. I waited a few seconds, then keyed the mike again. “Rojas, do you-”
Gunfire interrupted me, sounding like it was coming from outside the building. I belly crawled into the hallway and peered through one of the shattered windows overlooking the courtyard out front. Two men lay face down in the snow, firing toward the southwest side of town. I followed their trajectory and saw muzzle flashes at the treeline. Rojas.