The Hungry (Book 3): At the End of the World (15 page)

“As of right now, boss, there’s one rifle on the north, one on the south,” Brent said. Snowflakes dotted his hunting jacket like a bad case of dandruff. His beady eyes were red from lack of sleep. He yawned and sent over a gust of garlic breath. “Mostly it’s the women up there, although while I was studying things I did see that big biker bastard. He was peeking out the tall window on the south side.”

Martin nodded. He stood with a self-satisfied smile on his face. “That’s it, eh? Well, then this ain’t going to last all that long.”

“What do you want us to do?” Brent asked. “We’re freezing our dicks off out here.”

Martin studied his small band. They were tense and tired. Brent was likely his most reliable man. Young Wesley stood nearby, rubbing his hands together. He was trying to look tough but failing miserably.

Martin widened his gaze. The few men who were visible from his position were looking at him, awaiting their orders. They shivered in the cold, but held their places like true soldiers. Martin knew what was required here. They needed a leader, a man not afraid to make the tough decisions where the rubber meets the road. They needed a real man… a man like Martin LaGrange. Martin felt it in his bones. Trumpets swelled in the distance. He knew that it would be his shining moment. He’d show ‘em how a real hero took command during a crisis.

“Want us to take a shot if we get one?” Wesley blinked rapidly, voice quavering with anxiety.

Martin stared him down like Clint Eastwood; eyes narrowed, features set in granite. He felt a powerful need to reassert control of his men after that embarrassing little incident back in the jailhouse.

“Brent, you take two men and cover the windows on the south, where you saw that biker. When I give the signal, I want you to open fire. Here’s the thing, you’ll just be keeping their heads down with a couple of rounds.
Don’t kill them
. Any part of ‘don’t kill them’ you don’t understand?”

“No, sir.”

“Okay. And be sure to use the flash suppressors. I don’t want them detecting your position.”

“What’s the signal?”

Martin told him. The men exhaled, their breath billowing out into the winter air. Brent showed his crooked teeth in a jack ‘o lantern grin. He turned and crunched off through maybe four inches of snow to carry out his orders. Martin signaled two more men, Garcia and Johnson. They were big guys of few words, used to working together. They’d both been in construction for years.

“Go cover the exits on the lake side.” Martin commanded. He waved them away with his right hand. The duo left without comment. Martin waited, savoring the moment.

He felt proud of his men. They were rough and ready to rock and roll. The sense of impending danger had melted into one of high anticipation. The feeling of starring in a film grew stronger.

“Men, get ready,” Martin said, feeling a bit redundant now but still loving the moment. “We’re going to show those flatlanders what a real man is made of. You and me together. All of us as a team.”

Martin received wide grins and frantic nods in response. The air was cold and everyone wanted to get moving. Several of the boys drew their side arms.

Martin turned to Wesley, the puppy dog who followed him everywhere. He repeated the orders for effect. “Boy, you go stand behind that tree, brace your rifle, and line it up on that there window up on the third floor where that defender is. Don’t take anybody out yet. You keep their heads down while I work.”

Wesley trotted away, snow puffing around his boots like talcum powder.

Martin went back to his dented flatbed Chevy truck, which was parked maybe twenty feet from the little cottage old Greta used to occupy. He kept his gestures large, clear, and intended to reassure the men that someone with a pair of genuine
cajones
had taken charge. Martin pulled the hook from the winch on the front bumper. He strode back to the main doors. He didn’t care if anyone saw him. It wasn’t a shooting war, not yet anyway. This was all more of a show of force designed to make a point. Martin stomped up onto the porch. To the north, a coyote howled at the leering moon. Martin held a flashlight in his teeth. He looped the long, thick cable through the gigantic door handles, and then tied the cable off with the hook.

A man on the third floor poked his head out the window. “Hey, what the fuck do you think you’re…”

The creepy stillness of the winter evening changed gears and became chaotic in a nanosecond. Martin heard the echo of Wesley’s shot as the dull thud of the round struck the thick wooden wall of the lodge. Perfectly placed, close enough to scare the shit out of the guy, but not close enough to wound or kill.
Well done, kid.

Martin went back to his truck. He retracted the cable until it was taut. Then he hopped in the cab, fired up the engine, and threw it in reverse. He thought he heard a second shot as Wes kept those in the lodge pinned down, but it might have just been the truck coughing smog. No matter. He hit the gas. The cable trembled. The engine complained.

The doors held.

Damn, the place was built solid. All the men were watching. Some seemed disappointed.
Time to try this again.
Martin could feel the truck jerk as the cable became like a tightrope. Martin gunned it.

The doors groaned, screeched, and finally burst open. A wave of splinters and nails disappeared into the night air. They were in!

Martin stepped out of the cab of his truck, feeling like the conquering hero. He could hear Brent’s rifle shots on the other side of the building, but he couldn’t hear any return fire. Wesley’s weapon was silent. The defenders above had probably pissed their pants when they’d realized what Martin had been doing. He smiled, triumphant in the headlights, once and again the star of his own feature film. Snow fell on his cheeks.

“Charge!”

Martin pulled his own side arm—an authentic Colt Peacemaker—and headed for the now-open doors. Out of the corner of his eye, Martin could see that Wesley was right behind. His boots pounded the snow and ice. His own breathing dominated all other sounds.

Martin stayed back a bit, running in place, letting his men storm the figurative beach. Most of the Stars and Stripes Brigade had already charged inside the lodge. Shots rang out. Two of his men went down at the same time, both wounded by the defenders. Travis, a logger, was screaming and holding his leg. The other man had his face turned away and lay silent. Martin signaled for two more men to extract the wounded from the fight. That left four of the grunts, plus Martin himself, and young Wesley.
Acceptable losses,
Martin thought.

Martin slid into the main room on his belly and found cover behind the couch. Two of the men turned the coffee table with a loud crash and huddled behind the thick wood. The firing stopped.

Martin swallowed dryly. “Where are they holed up?”

“They were headed back toward the kitchen last I saw them,” someone said.

Martin considered. “Head upstairs and clear the rooms,” he said. “Don’t kill them, especially the women. We want them as prisoners, not dead bodies. Go!”

The men headed up the stairs in pairs, just like the soldiers in
The Thin Red Line
. They were efficient, experienced. He was proud of them. This was all good. He felt proud to be their leader in combat.

“Come on.” Martin led Wesley back toward the kitchen. The lodge was quiet now—no shouting, no gunshots. He began to wonder if the defenders were low on ammunition, or if some had been killed accidentally. He hoped they were all still alive up there. He had a score to settle with that pretty redheaded Sheriff with the amazing hips.

They reached the end of the hallway and leaned against opposite walls. Martin signaled for Wesley to go into the kitchen first. The boy went pale. He hesitated.

“What if they’re in there?” whispered Wesley.

“They’re gutless,” Martin said in a low but steady voice.

Wesley went forward slowly, but Martin could see his hands shaking.

“Come on out and no one will get hurt.” Wesley approached the kitchen door. “It won’t do you folks any good to get killed. Please just put down your guns and come out.”

Wesley turned the corner of the kitchen door. He was sweeping the kitchen with his rifle. Evidently the coast was clear because he moved forward. Wesley looked emboldened. He crept out into the kitchen, staying low, and concealed himself behind an overflowing trashcan and part of the dishwasher cabinet. A few seconds went by. The kid peeked out and tried to pull his head back a split second later.

A bullet struck Wesley in the temple and emptied his skull, splashing hot blood on Martin’s face. As he watched Wesley fall, Martin went into shock. He’d seen men killed before, at least in the movies anyway, but nothing that looked quite like this. So… final. One minute the boy was there alive and breathing, and in a half second he’d been reduced to a bundle of filthy clothes and cooling meat. A stench filled the kitchen as his bowels emptied.

“You animals!”

Martin panicked. The scene hadn’t gone the way he’d written it, not at all. He grabbed Wesley by the leg of his jeans and tugged. The boy was so damned heavy now that he was dead. Martin dragged the body with its gory head back into the hallway and out of the line of fire. Knowing it was hopeless, Martin checked Wesley for any signs of life.

The boy was gone. Martin felt his own bowels loosen a bit. In the movies, the men just kept on going. If they reacted at all it was later. He refused to allow himself to panic. That would accomplish nothing. Wesley was gone. They had to either finish their mission or retreat. He had to keep moving and barking orders.

There was a loud clunk. A nearby door, perhaps? Martin jumped and swung his weapon around as he considered what to do next.

“Martin?”

He looked up. The teams he had sent upstairs to search for the Sheriff and the other occupants of the lodge were already back in place. That seemed strange. Martin felt sick. His face felt numb.

Martin shivered. “Anything?”

“It’s all clear.” The team leader, a man named Greg Pinella, looked down at Wesley and registered what had just happened. He made a wrinkly face and ducked reflexively. “Jesus.”

Martin picked up Wesley’s assault rifle. “You two, take the left side of the hall. You two, come with me.”

“But shouldn’t we…”

“Suck it up. We knew we would see this.” Martin liked that line. It was from
Band of Brothers.
He cautiously peered around the corner in the direction from which the shot had come. He didn’t reveal much of his head and stayed very, very low. He couldn’t see anything up ahead, but Martin knew better than to think that meant things were clear. He changed the selector on the rifle from single shot to rapid fire, flattened on the kitchen floor, stuck the gun out into the air, aimed, and laid down a five shot burst.

His ears hurt. His heart pounded. The room reeked now, stank of shit, blood, and cordite. The men eyed one another. There had been no return fire. Staying low, Martin waved the second team on through, and they cut loose a few rounds for covering fire before racing forward. The men began to leapfrog down the hall, covering each other, pressing in steadily. Martin waved them still.

“Listen up in there,” Martin called. “We don’t want any more casualties tonight, but if you make us come in after you more people will die.”

No response.

“Listen to me. Put down your weapons and come out.”

A big clock ticked on the wall. The building creaked a bit in response to the snow outside. Martin ran several scenarios through his mind. He decided on a course of action and gave hand signals. Martin waved his first two men further forward.

They closed in a pincer move, in twos through the kitchen and into the next hall near an open door and some steps. They raced down to brace the door on either side. The corridor where the shots had come from apparently led downstairs to the basement. Martin could see that the basement door was shut tight. He had the men cover him and examined the area. There were no nooks or crannies where someone else could be hiding. That part of the room was clear.

Martin went down the stairs, his rifle pointed directly at the entrance to the basement. The men spread out along the wall. He signaled for one to keep his weapon trained up, eyes on the ceiling just in case. He used the barrel to knock on the closed door.

“You in there?”

“What the hell do you want?” A man’s voice.

Martin nodded. “What we don’t want is any more killing, and I’ll bet you don’t neither. I’m going to give you five minutes to come out on your own, and then we’re all coming in. I’m timing you on my watch. Okay, that five minutes starts… now.”

Crosby didn’t answer. Martin hadn’t expected him to.

Martin turned to the other men. “Get Wesley’s body out of here. And then get me a status report.”

“Yes sir!” Greg said. Martin could feel the men’s eyes on him. They had suffered casualties. Martin hadn’t broken. He had their respect. They’d all been blooded. Martin turned and watched as Greg dragged what was left of Wesley out of the kitchen. He caught a glimpse of the horrendous mess that had been the boy’s head and face. His stomach flipped. Just like that, the kid’s own movie was over.

Martin steeled himself for the next act. He was the hero of this picture, and Martin LaGrange would show Crosby and the others what a real man could do.