Finally he came to Diane. She wasn’t tired, he could tell—not physically tired, although emotionally, all of them were drained.
John took her in his arms and hugged her.
“Promise me you’ll get us out of here before things get too out of hand.”
He pulled away and stared at her, not entirely able to maintain eye contact. “You know I can’t make that promise.”
“A little voice inside me keeps saying we should have left straight away.”
“But how could we have known it would come to this?” he cut her off. “I’m sure there are plenty of other groups within a ten-mile radius scraping by without a guy like Cain threatening to harm them.”
“We got a bum deal, is what you’re saying?”
“I’m saying we made a choice based on the information we had at the time. If we hadn’t stayed and helped organize these people, how long would any of them lasted? At least now they have a fighting chance. You saw what Cain did to the others around us who didn’t band together.”
“I know,” she whispered. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“Maybe you’re right,” John said, hating what it would do for Willow Creek’s morale if he and his family were to up and leave. It would look like they had decided to cut and run and maybe that was exactly how Diane was feeling, but their marriage had always been a partnership, not a dictatorship.
The community would be shocked and disappointed, no doubt about it. But his responsibility to them had always been a distant second to the responsibility he felt for his family.
“Okay, tomorrow I’ll call a committee meeting and make the announcement that we’re leaving. I’m sure Peter and Frank will be able to fill my shoes quite nicely. I suppose getting the ball rolling was more than I could have asked for.”
The muffled sound of gunfire from topside made all of their heads snap to attention. Then came the distinct boom from the Barrett M107 being fired, followed seconds later by the fog horn. One short blast at first. Then two and finally three.
The first two meant the barricades were under attack.
The last meant the perimeter had been breached.
Chapter 33
John scrambled up the ladder and slammed the hatch shut just as Diane yelled after him.
With his pistol already on him, John grabbed his chest rig and Colt AR-15. A second later he was up the basement stairs and on the main floor, heading for one of the front windows so he could assess the situation.
The echo from sporadic gunfire rattled the window panes. It was dark outside, but the western barricade by Pine Grove was still visible. Three deputies stood in a squared stance, firing their rifles at an old tractor that was charging toward them. It had a shovel on the front which it had raised to deflect their bullets. They continued firing until the last minute when the tractor crashed through the barricade.
Sheet metal flew in the air and the two cars that covered the street were flung apart from the impact. There was a blur of destruction as the barricade was left with a gaping hole.
Another shot from Frank’s Barrett rang out, cutting through the tractor’s windshield and killing the driver. It veered off and rolled another few feet until it hit the curb and stopped. The tractor was out of action, but the damage had already been done. A handful of Cain’s men swarmed in, killing the deputies wounded when the barricade was breached.
Outside was sheer pandemonium. People from both sides ran in every direction. Residents fired down on the attackers from the second-story windows of their homes. Deputies positioned on key rooftops were also engaging Cain’s men. A handful of deputies in the foxhole were pinned down by enemy fire.
John was getting ready to fire from his dining-room window when figures across the street darted from between the houses. Cain’s men had breached the back fences and were coming in from all directions. Some must have broken into the houses from the rear because the supporting fire from the second-story windows stopped.
A blur tore past John’s own window. The same was happening on his side. Glass shattered in the living room. He and Gregory had spent the entire first day after the EMP boarding up all the back windows and creating a funnel in his home that would lead to a kill zone. The purpose had been to avoid precisely what was happening all over Willow Creek now—Cain’s men storming in from all sides and smashing through back windows to deny the residents the use of prepared firing positions. Whoever had come to attack his house had clearly seen the boarded windows and decided to attack from the front.
John scrambled back toward the kitchen and the AR500 ballistic steel plate that would block their path. The plate had been fashioned with firing holes to enable John to fill the hallway with either slugs or double-ought buck from his Kel-Tec KSG shotgun as they approached. The shotgun was leaning up against the side wall. John shouldered his AR and grabbed the shotgun and then swung the metal plate closed. It clanged shut, vibrating in his hands just as screams of pain echoed from the living room. The attackers climbing through the windows had found the razor wire gift he’d left for them. The stuff could cut to the bone and any man wounded badly enough wouldn’t be able to use or operate a weapon afterward without getting the proper medical attention.
John racked the Kel-Tec and set the selector switch to double-ought buck. An old claymore bag converted to hold shotgun shells was on the kitchen table, filled with buckshot and one-ounce slugs. He would start by peppering the hallway as they came on and then switch to the slugs once they got closer.
Receiving one of those in the chest at close range was like being struck by a tiny cannonball. He’d seen a one-ounce slug hit a brown bear once on a hunting trip and watched it go right through the animal’s ribcage and out the other end. If it could do that to a thousand-pound brown bear, what would it do to a two-hundred-pound man?
John pulled on the helmet lying on his kitchen table and brought the PVS-14 nightvision monocle down over his eye, drowning the room in green light.
The first thug came tearing out of the living room, carrying a pump-action shotgun. But the business end of John’s boom stick was already pointing down the hallway.
John squeezed the trigger. The kitchen and hall exploded with light and a deafening blast as the buckshot ripped into the attacker’s chest and flung him back. John racked it just in time for the next attacker. Another loud boom from his Kel-Tec and this time it struck the man in the gut, dropping him to the floor as he screamed in agony. John quickly switched to the one-ounce slugs and racked the shotgun again.
A third man in the living room peered out and John fired at his head, missing by inches, but punching a three-inch hole in the drywall. A second later an object came rolling down the hallway and clanged against the metal shield. The distinct sound the object made travelling down the hall was enough to tell John it was a grenade.
He dove for cover inside the laundry room adjacent to the kitchen. Combat training had taught him to keep his body as low as possible since a frag grenade tended to explode up and out. The concussion hit a second later, blowing the shield off its hinges and tossing it against the back kitchen wall.
Blood rolled out from John’s ears. He hoped his eardrums hadn’t been damaged in the explosion. His goggles were off and by his side. Patting himself all over, he realized that he hadn’t been hit by any of the shrapnel.
A moment later, he was back on his feet, the AR front and center now. Cain’s men had stormed into his neighborhood, into his house and thought they could harm his family. John was about to let them know they’d made a terrible mistake.
The one who’d just thrown the grenade was in the hallway coming toward him, a pistol in his hand. John fired the S&W, squeezing off four shots before the man fell dead.