John climbed into an old GM pickup with Sullivan riding shotgun. They would cover the rear of the column.
The price of the ambush had been costly. Five dead and another six seriously wounded. John only hoped they would find what they were looking for.
In all, the returning convoy consisted of sixteen vehicles in all, eight trucks and eight of their own vehicles.
As they rolled out, a thought came to John that hadn’t occurred to him as he’d watched the row of eighteen-wheelers barreling down on them from the north. Apart from displaying a name he’d never seen before—Kamaz—these UN trucks looked brand new. Certainly they weren’t relics from the 1970’s the way Betsy was, which meant they were likely brought from overseas. John remembered seeing something on the internet years before about fears that the UN would one day show up to confiscate American guns. Was he witnessing the realization of this conspiracy theory? Or was a more sinister plan afoot?
Chapter 22
John and Sullivan followed closely as the convoy headed back toward the Patriot camp. If these trucks contained assault rifles and perhaps even more, then a takeover of Oneida would finally be possible. There was a certain appeal to overthrowing a tyrant and it wasn’t just about saving Diane and the kids. No one deserved to live in the equivalent of a North Korean labor camp.
Beside him, Sullivan rolled down his window and stuck his hand out, letting the wind push it back and forth. “What did you do before the lights went out?” he asked.
John’s grip tightened on the steering wheel. The sting hit him whenever he remembered his old life. One he would likely never know again. “General contractor.”
Sullivan laughed. “I never did understand what those guys did.”
“We get ulcers,” John replied. “That’s what we do.” He was looking at the back of the truck driving before them. It was missing a license plate as well as safety stickers.
Caution: Wide right turns
Wherever it was they were made, they were right off the assembly line.
“You get a chance to speak with any of those drivers?” he asked Sullivan.
“Nah, I don’t think they said much of anything. Seemed scared as hell, cowering down like we were gonna execute them. Listen, I don’t have a problem returning fire when I’m attacked, but the thought of killing people who are just trying to make a living in this crazy new world doesn’t sit well with me.”
“Me neither,” John said, replaying in his mind how the drivers had tried to run the blockade as the guards in the passenger seats sprayed AK fire into the Patriots’ ranks.
Most of those guards had been killed, but the Patriots had suffered their own losses.
“What about you, Sullivan? What did you do before the world went to hell?”
“I taught geography at the local high school.” Sullivan was nodding his head as though reliving hallways filled with rowdy kids and boisterous laughter.
“A noble profession. One of the residents on Willow Creek was a gym teacher. Peter Warden. Good man.” John paused. “No, he was a great man.”
“Was?”
“He was killed when our street was overrun by a group of gangbangers looking to consolidate their territory. Seemed like it wasn’t long after the grid went dark before the whole city was carved up by criminals. They already had the manpower and infrastructure in place, not to mention the weapons. When the police were no longer able to effectively patrol the city, the takeover was inevitable. We held out for as long as we could, but most of those people had never fired a gun in their lives. ’Sides, the majority weren’t armed with anything better than pistols and deer rifles. Maybe it was a lost cause from the start.”
Sullivan’s hand was still out the window, pushing against the air stream. “Nah, man. You guys stood up when most people probably rolled over and took it in the tailpipe. The Alamo was a lost cause, but you didn’t see any of those boys running away.”
Maybe Sullivan had a point. John was still letting the words percolate through his mind when he heard a loud crack like a muffler backfiring. Then came a spray of blood from the passenger seat.
Sullivan shrieked in pain, clutching his right hand, now a bloody mess.
More shots and John swerved, glancing in the rear view to see two pickups and one Jeep Wagoneer. Men with semi-automatic rifles were hanging from the windows firing at them.
A patrol from Oneida perhaps?
There wasn’t time to think about where they’d come from. All he knew was that if he didn’t do something fast they’d both be dead. A rear gunner would have been nice, but they’d been too short on manpower after the casualties they took during the firefight.
The back window shattered, then a round hit Sullivan square in the back of his head. The front windshield turned red and his body slumped forward. It was John’s job to help protect the convoy and so he did the only thing he could under the circumstances. He slammed his brakes and braced himself as the Wagoneer came racing up and smashed into him.
The back end swung around into the pickup filled with men, sending it careening off the road and into the ditch. The third pickup jerked its wheel and fishtailed past him.
John punched the gas and caught the smell of burning tires as he charged ahead. The collision with the Jeep must have damaged his rear axle because it felt like the back wheels weren’t spinning properly.
Men in the back of the pickup took aim and fired. John ducked under the console, taking cover behind the engine. Four rounds tore through the windshield. One of them connected with Sullivan and whipped his limp body back against the seat. If his new friend wasn’t dead before, he was now.
After seeing that the guys in the pickup were reloading, John pulled the S&W from his tactical holster and took aim at the pickup’s back right tire, sending six rounds into it. The back tire exploded, sending strips of rubber flying in all directions. Whatever was left in the magazine he emptied into the men loaded in the bed of the truck, hitting at least three of them.
The pickup swerved, smacking John on the left front tire. The steering wheel jerked in his hands as his own vehicle lost control and crashed into the ditch.
John was thrown forward into the wheel, but his chest rig and AR mags helped to shield him from a crushing blow. Smoke rose from the hood of the GM. Next to him, there was no longer a doubt that Sullivan was dead.
The convoy slipped around the corner and disappeared from view. He’d done his job in preventing further loss and for that he was happy. Perhaps some of the escort vehicles would circle back and lend a hand. But getting those weapons back to base was the top priority, which meant that he might be on his own.
On the other side of the highway, the men from the disabled pickup scrambled out, looking in his direction. A quick glance in his rearview told him the other men he’d crashed into a few hundred yards back were now on foot, heading his way.
John’s AR was still next to him, along with the Mossberg Chainsaw Sullivan had been wielding. A quick check revealed John didn’t have any broken bones. He reached over Sullivan’s body and opened the passenger door. Crawling over his dead companion, John dropped into a row of tall grass.
With still no sign of any Patriots coming to bail him out, John reached back in for the AR and the shotgun. The latter he swung over his shoulder. With the AR in hand, he moved behind the engine block and laid his rifle on the hood, taking aim through his ACOG Scope. Four armed men were heading his way from the east. Six more were coming from the south. Behind John lay the forest. He knew the tall grass would cover his escape into the woods, but first he would need to keep the enemy’s head down while he made a break for it.