The haze was so thick that only the register aisles were visible, despite the light of the dancing flames all around him. Alexander ran in the direction of aisle five, calling Clarence’s name, counting on his memory of the layout.
The heat was almost unbearable. Alexander’s eyes watered and stung from salt. After fumbling his way through, he heard a weak, “Over here.”
Alexander moved in that direction, arms flailing and outstretched, until his shin collided with a hard object. Clarence was right in front of him, tied to a chair turned on its side, the fire extinguisher lying nearby. Alexander got down on the floor and breathed in some healthier air. He holstered his handgun and took the scissors out of Clarence’s hand. Shaking, holding his breath, Alexander wriggled the bottom half of the scissors under the plastic bond cuffing Clarence’s hands and cut the restraint. He did the same for each ankle.
Alexander pulled him up, but Clarence clutched a knee and cried out in pain. “My knee is injured,” he said, grimacing. “Oh, my god, your forehead!”
“We were captured by neo-Nazis,” Alexander said as he grabbed the fire extinguisher. “It’s a long story. Put an arm around my shoulder and we’ll try to walk out.”
Marty faced the pyre to the north, the burning store to its right. The incessant popping of Captain Francis Davies’ and Corporal Thomas Wyndham’s assault rifles filled the air as he and Corporal Terry Dorman hunkered down behind the SUV’s engine block.
Corporal Harvey Johnson guarded one survivalist.
Marty and Corporal Dorman both peeked up and saw the two survivalists shooting at Francis and Thomas.
“Follow me,” Corporal Dorman yelled above the sound of the bullets. “We’ll sneak up on them. They’re busy engaging each other.”
“Jocelyn said there were four. I only count three. There’s still one at large.”
“We’ll just have to take our chances. You with me?”
Marty nodded. Alexander was taking care of Clarence. Neutralizing the survivalists was also a priority.
“All right, let’s go.”
The fog of confusion began to lift for Brooke, but not the fog of smoke, or the sharp pain in the back of her head and the dull ache in her back. Flat on the floor, she looked up at the billows of smoke, a large hard object digging into her back, the nearby flames heating her flesh like a bad sunburn. Sweat soaked her clothes and dripped down from her forehead. She sat up and felt the painful spot on her head—it was slick. She looked at her hand, surprised to see it bloody, but then she looked around, still disoriented, and noticed blood all around her.
Now she remembered. She had slipped—in this blood, no doubt—while trying to escape out the back. On her back was her AR-15 that she had fallen onto. She cursed herself for ignoring her training of how to fall without striking one’s head.
She overheard someone close by—a man another aisle or two over—say, “I’ll get the fire extinguisher.” Now with her full presence of mind, she guessed they would use it to put out the fire near the witch and allow her to heal. God knows what powers the witch had, especially with that sword. She knew she had to retrieve that sword and bug out of there—either the sword was useful to her, or at least she would keep it out of the witch’s hands.
But it was also important to keep the witch burning.
Brooke took a deep breath and pushed herself up. Standing in thick blood, she readied her assault rifle. She walked along the register aisle, and through the fog of smoke she saw grampa limping, helped by a man carrying the extinguisher. Dizziness began to set in. She stopped and aimed her rifle at the man helping grampa.
She pulled the trigger.
Nothing happened.
Shit.
Unsure of why the gun misfired, she approached the slow-moving men quietly. Once she was close enough, from behind she slammed the butt of her assault rifle onto the head of the one carrying the extinguisher. The man fell forward, the extinguisher disappearing into the smoke, clanking to the ground at least several feet away.
Then she hit grampa on the head. He fell forward, too, and neither of them moved after striking the ground. She kicked each one, but they lay still. Brooke did not want to waste any more time on the fire extinguisher, so she walked, carefully this time, toward the employee area in the back of the store. She reached the swinging doors and pushed them open.
Corporal Dorman led Marty to the same aisle as the fleeing survivalists without incident. They ducked behind a car and scanned the lot. The two survivalists moved from car to car, shooting occasionally at Francis and the other soldiers. They were slowly getting away.
Marty followed Dorman as he ran, staying low, across the parking lot aisle. They crouched behind a car, and Marty felt the scorching heat of the pyre, the flames less than ten feet away. The shooting stopped. Now the survivalists were getting away with even greater speed.
Dorman got up and, staying low, crossed the aisle and moved along the line of cars in the survivalists’ direction. Marty followed right behind him. They and the survivalists continued to move toward the road, on opposite sides of the same aisle. If spotted, Marty and Dorman would have to duck behind a car or risk a bloody fire fight.
Fortunately, the fleeing survivalists were unaware of them and were about to emerge from the parking lot to the sidewalk when Dorman stopped behind a car, aimed his assault rifle, and fired at them repeatedly.
The lead runner cried out and buckled, and his friend ran right into him, and they both fell down together onto the cement.
The one on top grabbed at his assault rifle, and Dorman let loose another spray of bullets.
Marty traveled cautiously back toward the burning store, having left Dorman behind to finish
