Chapter 32 Chapter32: Shot gun
Max, his face a mask of panicked obligation, ripped the sawed-off free and levelled it at Mr. Jacks. In the same heartbeat, Billy swung the barrel of his AK-47 toward me, and Jones turned his M6 on Ida.
“Do it!” the Captain roared again, his own hand moving to his holster.
But Max hesitated, just a second too long. And Mr. Jacks? He was an old dog who knew every trick in the book.
The shotgun blast tore through the air, deafeningly loud, but Mr. Jacks had already knocked the barrel aside. The shot went wide, peppering the wagon side with buckshot. The old man drove his fist into Max’s face with a sickening crunch. They both tumbled off the wagon bench in opposite directions, a chaotic, violent distraction that was all I needed.
I dropped and rolled halfway under the wagon, the world narrowing to a slit of dust and legs. I saw Billy’s boot, his stance wide. I put a single, precise round through the exposed gap at the top of his boot, into his ankle, and then a second into his neck as he screamed and stumbled. He went down, choking on his own blood.
Jones, distracted by the chaos, lunged for Mr. Jacks, but my gunshot made him turn, right as Ida’s arrow thwacked into the centre of his chest plate. The shaft deflected harmlessly (arrows were useless against their armour), but the impact staggered him for half a second.
It wasn’t long enough.
The Captain, a heavy six-shooter now in hand, started firing at Ida, laughing between shots, each report a thunderclap.
Bang. “Stupid—”
Bang. “Bitch—”
Bang. “A fucking arrow?”
Bang. “Bitch!”
I was still shaking off my near-death roll when I looked up, a dark red bloom was already spreading across Ida’s thigh and another on her upper arm, staining her shirt.
“Stupid-fucking-” Bang. “Bitch!”
Click.
Empty cylinder.
I burst from under the wagon, my movement pure adrenaline. I emptied my entire magazine into Jones’s side, aiming for the same spot. The .38 slugs didn’t pierce the advanced armour, but the repeated impacts were like being hit with a sledgehammer, driving him to his knees and then onto his side. I sprinted at him, a feral scream tearing from my throat, and drove one of my blades deep into the soft, vulnerable spot between his helmet and chest plate, pinning him to the ground. I ripped it free in a spray of dark blood.
A sharp spin to the right, I ejected the spent mag and slapped in a fresh one, my hands moving on pure muscle memory.
The Captain must’ve grabbed Billy’s AK, because suddenly a deafening drumroll of full-auto gunfire erupted from the wagon’s far side, chewing splinters of wood from the cart and kicking up geysers of dirt around me.
“Come out, bitch!” he taunted, his voice ragged with fury.
Like hell I would.
He couldn’t have many rounds left; he’d already burned through twenty on his reckless spray.
“Come get me, Captain Slap-Dick!” I shouted back, hoping to enrage him further.
Another short, wasteful burst. Then, click.
Out of ammo.
I charged, firing my Guardian as I closed the distance. I had no idea if any rounds punched through a weak point in his armour before I slammed into him, using my momentum to knock the heavy man down. My gun was knocked from my hand, skittering into the dirt. I went for my last knife,
But he was a pro. Even in heavy armour, he rolled with the impact and came up, a sword-like combat knife appearing in his hand, a grin splitting his bloody face.
“Time to die, bitch. They wanted you alive, but I don’t have the patience for this shit anymore.”
He had every advantage, longer reach, heavier armour, superior strength. I clutched my two blades, but against his plated bulk, they were like needles, and he knew it. We circled, me faster, sharper, but none of that mattered against his overwhelming power. I was going to die here, in this godforsaken patch of dirt.
Then, a deafening, close-range BOOM.
He lurched forward, his armour denting inward at the lower back with a loud crunch. My body moved without thought. As he staggered, my knife slashed across his exposed eye; the other plunged deep into his shoulder, slipping between the armour plates at the joint. Mr. Jacks, bleeding badly from a gash in his thigh, had still managed to grab the fallen shotgun and put a round point-blank into the Captain’s spine. The man collapsed, howling curses, helpless as I snatched up my gun from the dirt.
“We need to leave. Now,” I gasped, the adrenaline making my hands shake.
From the ridge, drawn by the scent of blood and the sound of battle, ferals swarmed in, a dozen or more, moving with a skittering, horrifying speed. Mr. Jacks was already in the driver’s seat, whipping the wagon into motion as I leapt aboard, I had to leave Ida behind; she was dead but still it recked me. Ten or more sprinted toward us, too far for my pistol to be effective, but I swapped to my last full magazine anyway. Only two magazines left in the world.
I watched from the bouncing wagon as the first feral fell upon the cursing Captain. The sound was wet and terrible. The horses thundered down the uneven road, but the ferals, fuelled by frenzy, gained ground. I leaned out, bracing myself, and emptied another magazine into the pursuing pack. Only one dropped. Nine ferals left, closing fast.
Frantic, I tore open the nearest crate, the one with the rifle. My fingers closed around the cold, familiar stock. One full magazine, five rounds. I steadied myself against the wagon’s rocking frame, breathed out, and fired. Three shots rang out; two ferals fell, their bodies tumbling. The rest hesitated, confused by the new, louder threat, then fell back into the scrub, howling their frustration.
Finally, we were clear. The only sounds were the pounding hooves, the gasping breaths of the wounded, and the heavy silence of survival.