Firestorm: Book III of the Wildfire Saga (31 page)

The marshal didn't hesitate.
 
He scrambled to his feet in a flurry of snow then ran, twice looking over his shoulder as he bolted down the street.
 

McDonnell lowered the shotgun.
 
"I…I couldn't kill him."

"That was a good decision, George.
 
You're a good man."

McDonnell sighed.
 
"God damn thing was gettin' heavy.
 
Didn't know if I could even hold it on him anymore.
 
Besides," he said with a crooked grin, "I was out of ammo."
 
He racked the slide exposing an empty chamber.
 
"Only had two shells in it—bastards caught me cleaning it."

Denny blinked and stared at the old man.

"Now
go
, Denny!
 
It won't take those fools long to realize they turned down the wrong street."
 
The low, wailing sirens grew louder.
 
"The one what ran off when you first showed up must've reached them by now.
 
And
that
one," McDonnell said with a jerk of his head toward the marshal's receding form, "is gonna find 'em soon enough.
 
You better be gone by the time they get back."

Denny looked at the old man.
 
"What are you going to do?"

McDonnell grinned.
 
"I aim to teach Townsen a thing or two about defending a fortified position."

"What?"

McDonnell retreated up his front porch and stepped into the house.
 
"You think I've just been hiding all this time since the Russians left?"
 
The old man cackled.
 
"I found all kinds of goodies after they left.
 
Townsen's gonna have quite the surprise when he knocks on my door.
 
Now get out of here!"
 
The door slammed shut.
 

Denny slipped around the corner of the house and heard tires squealing in the distance on bare pavement.
 
Too close…they're too close!
 
He worked his way behind McDonnell's house.

The river was one street over.
 
He glanced back and forth in the gathering twilight realized what had to be done.
 
Denny sprinted through the snow as fast as he could across the yard behind McDonnell's house and then across the next street.
 
He took a glance north and spotted fresh tire tracks where Townsen's men had turned down the wrong road and retreated.
 
Denny knew anyone who looked could follow his tracks in this snow, but pressed on.

If I can make it to the river…

He caught his breath at the corner of the closest house to the river.
 
Someone opened up on a bullhorn and their echoing voice demanded McDonnell surrender.
 
He listened for a moment—the speaker announced he knew McDonnell had another person with him.
 
Denny felt relief wash over him.
 
They think I'm in the house with George.
 

Another thought struck him:
What if that's just a diversion?

Denny stared at the cold water gurgling past the riverbank.
 
Wading through the waist-high river in winter was not something he'd planned to do.
 
He was traveling in the opposite direction of his camp on the west side of town.
 
He'd have to wade through the river, find a place to hole up for the night and dry off before making his way back to camp tomorrow.
 

He turned back to the sound of the bullhorn behind him.
 
If he tried fighting his way back through the river to get back to camp tonight he was sure to get hypothermia.
 
McDonnell's voice cut through the night air, shouting about the Constitution.

Denny glanced upriver to the north.
 
No boats, no rafts, no logs, no crossing at all—except for the North Bridge, about a mile in the distance.
 
Townsen had set a roadblock there—Denny easily spotted the bright lights set up at the checkpoint.
 

Small arms fire crackled from the direction of McDonnell's house.
 
Denny spun back to look.
 
"George…" he whispered.
 
"You old fool."

He took one step back toward McDonnell's house, then froze when he heard a booming sound like thunder echo from the same direction.
 
The man on the bullhorn screamed for a cease-fire.

Denny smiled.
 
George had been busy—that sounded like a bomb went off.
 
Evidently George could take care of himself after all.
 

Denny turned his mind back to the problem at hand.
 
If anyone was following him, they'd soon be upon him, just by following his tracks.
 
He glanced over his shoulder and spotted a flashlight in the distance.
 

Shit!
 

Denny turned south and followed the riverbank with his eyes.
 
Nothing but sand, rocks, and snow as far as he could see into the gathering dusk.
 
Trying to cross the river now would leave him soaking wet and cold—possibly with a twisted ankle.
 
He didn't want to think what would happen if he slipped and fell in the water out there.
 

He looked north again, toward the bridge illuminated in the distance.
 
Can't go that way, they'll spot me a long ways off.
 

He turned south.
 
Denny stepped into the water and felt the cold grip his ankles and claw at his boots.
 
Within seconds his feet were soaked.
 
His ankle-high boots only protected him about a foot offshore.
 
The water quickly rose and Denny winced at the intense cold that enveloped his legs.

He worked his way carefully downstream, going slower than he wanted to, afraid to twist an ankle or slip in the quickly moving water.
 
After a hundred yards or so, he noticed a clump of bushes along the riverbank that had been planted as a dividing line between the last two houses on the street.
 
He glanced over his shoulder and saw the flashlight approaching the place where he'd entered the water.
 

Please let them think I crossed the river…

He slipped and stumbled up the bank and disappeared behind the snow-covered bushes.
 
He crept his way along the hedgerow and slipped behind the last house on the street.
 
Denny squinted into the darkness.
 
The snow glowed with natural reflected light.
 

I can't go anywhere without leaving tracks.

He had no choice but to stay inside the house.
 
Denny looked around again.
 
The open expanse south of town invited him to the treeline at the base of the foothills about 300 yards away.
 
He clenched his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering.
 
There was no way he could make it if someone spotted him.
 
The snow in the field was too deep to run and his feet already felt like they were on fire.

I've got to get inside and warm up.
 

Denny propped his bow against the house underneath a window and took off his jacket.
 
He unsheathed his tomahawk, wrapped the blade in the jacket and after a quick prayer, smashed the window.
 
He used the tomahawk to quickly scrape away the remains from the frame and reached in to unlock the window.
 
Denny quickly climbed through and drew the curtains, hoping no one still lived in the house.
 
He reached outside and retrieved his bow, taking one final look around—still no movement.

Many people had died or moved out of town since The Pandemic years, so Denny felt confident the house might be deserted.
 
He crouched just inside the window and listened, just the same.
 
Silence enveloped him.
 
Only the sound of the river at the other end of the backyard reached his ears.
 

He couldn't be sure no one was out there, but hadn't heard anyone slogging through the water or crunching along the riverbank, so he hoped his luck still held.
 
He took a deep breath and inhaled nothing but dust and the stale air of a house that hopefully hand't been lived in for years.
 

Denny stood and cringed as the breeze outside sucked one curtain out the window to slap at the side of the house. He cursed and pulled it back inside, pinning it to the interior wall with his leg as he scanned the room.
 
A coffee table, covered in dust, sat in the middle of the room a few feet away.
 
Denny moved quietly across the room, ignoring the muddy stains he left in his wake and carefully dragged the table over to the side wall.
 
He pinned the curtains tight against the wall, then pushed the coffee table snug.
 
He hoped it would be enough to convince the casual observer
 
there was nothing amiss.

He moved to the opposite side of the house and found a window facing up the street toward
 
McDonnell's house.
 
He pushed the curtain back just enough to see, like the Rangers had showed him.
 
Flashlights immediately caught his eye, swinging to and fro down the street.
 
His heart raced.

They found my tracks.
   

He let the curtain slip back into place very slowly and raced to the rear of the house.
 
If someone had followed him downriver, they'd appear straight out the door, along the hedgerow.
 
He unlocked the door and knocked an arrow.
 
After a few tense minutes of quiet stillness, his shoulders relaxed and the tension in his body melted.
 
No one was coming.

He slumped down, his back against the door, and shivered.
 
The cold in his legs and feet seemed to leech up through his body with every heartbeat.

I have to get warm.
 
Denny struggled to his feet and moved to the front of the house.
 
All the curtains had been drawn and the front door locked.
 
The dust that covered every horizontal surface had not been disturbed in a long time.
 

No footprints.
 

He saw a glint of metal on the front door that didn't belong.
 
Upon closer inspection, he found more than a dozen little spikes sticking up through the door.

 
Denny touched one.
 
"What is this?"
 
It was pointed, but blunt.
 
There was a fine coating of rust on it.
 
A nail.

The horror of realization struck him like a baseball bat to the gut.
 
He was in a plague house.
 
After he'd recovered from the Blue Flu, he'd been told about bands of survivors who'd gone around the neighborhood boarding up houses that contained corpses.
 
Most everyone in town who survived knew not to go in those houses, but the survivors too no chances.
 

In those days, scavenging had become about the only way to survive the first few months.
 
When things returned to normal, most of the houses were cleaned and sold.
 
More than a few remained vacant while banks and next of kin worked through the paperwork.

Denny ran his fingertips over the nails.
 
This one still bore scars of those dark times.
 
Denny turned and looked up the darkened stairs.
 
The last thing he wanted to do was climb into a bed and find a decade-old mummified corpse.

Yeah…I think I'll spend the night down here.
 

His radio chirped.
 
Denny flinched at the loudness of the small sound in the enclosed space of the house.
 
He fumbled through his pockets as the radio chirped again and again.
 
"Dammit John, gimme a second…"
 

Finally pulling the radio free, he clicked the transmit button and whispered, "What is it?"

"That you
m'wewa?" asked John's voice.
 

Denny turned the volume lower.
 
"Yes, it is me—what's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong.
 
It's time for me to check, that's all.
 
I catch you at a bad time?"

Denny quietly relayed the events at McDonnell's house over the radio.

"That's hard news.
 
George is a good friend of ours—I wish there was something we could do."

"He's not going down without a fight."
 
Denny stripped off his boots, socks, and wet pants.
 
He found a dust covered throw blanket on the back of the couch and dried off.
 
He stretched out his wet clothing over whatever furniture he could find in a hopes they would dry throughout the night.
 

"I can still hear gunfire over at his place."
 
Relaxing for the first time since leaving his camp that morning, Denny slid down the closest wall and took a sip from his canteen.
 

"
Is that what that is?
" asked John.
 
"We heard something, but couldn't tell…
"

Denny smiled, remembering McDonnell's admonition to tell his story.
 
"You think we'll find enough people to have cause to remember him?"