Read Online Wormwood by Michael James McFarland - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Michael James McFarland
Tags: Horror
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old! You can’t order him to shoot down two men just because they happen to be hiding under a bridge!”
Bud leveled his eyes at Mike. “I told him to fire a warning shot,” he clarified. “If they keep coming after that then they want something from us and they’re willing to chance a bullet to get it. We don’t have the ammunition to play games with them.”
Rudy nodded. “He’s right, Mike.”
“But he’s my son !” Mike cried, pleading with them even though a harder, stonier part of him knew they were right. It asserted itself in the same calm, emotionless voice that told Keith Sturling he had been right to shoot two men dead at the 7-Eleven.
“We’re wasting time debating this,” Keith argued, pulling his service pistol from its holster. “Let’s go find out what they want!”
Bud nodded. “Someone go and get Larry and tell the women to get the kids down in the basement.” His eyes wavered between Mike and Rudy, deciding which of them to send.
Mike made the choice for him. “As long as Shane’s up there,” he said, pointing, “I’m staying .”
“I’ll go,” Rudy agreed, and without another word took off toward the Dawley’s, running fast and hard with his arms tucked at his sides and his head down, as if he’d been dropped from a helicopter into battle.
Up on the roof, Shane fired a shot. It galvanized the group.
Mike and Keith had their pistols out, ready to move. Bud’s shotgun and hunting rifle were across the street, leaning behind his front door. He’d given his own service pistol to his wife.
“Spread out between houses,” he told the two younger men, using a hand signal he hadn’t used since leaving Viet Nam, where he’d led a platoon of men — kids , really — through the green side of Hell. “I’ll cross Kennedy and try to circle around behind them. Send Rudy my way if he comes back with Larry.”
Keith nodded and the three of them broke apart.
Shane fired three more rapid shots from the rooftop.
Somewhere behind the houses, a voice screamed angrily in pain.
The first skirmish for Quail Street had begun.
7
Shane glanced over his shoulder; saw Mr. Cheng running across his front lawn, and when he looked back through the rifle scope there were two men creeping out from the tangled shadows of the creek bed. They looked like deer hunters, both dressed in camouflage and both toting rifles.
Shane aimed five steps ahead of them and put a steel-jacketed round into the weeds on the opposite bank. The two men dropped out of sight, but didn’t retreat back to the concrete safety of the bridge.
“Go away,” Shane whispered, wishing them gone before he had to fire a second shot. “Get out of here.”
Below the eaves, Mr. Iverson was talking to his father and Mr. Sturling, using a voice that sounded like it was coming from an old World War II movie. Shane moved the scope slightly and looked back under the bridge. A third man in olive camouflage was aiming a rifle at him.
Without thinking, he fired off three quick shots, using the tight pattern that always worked so well for him in video games. The man fell back beneath the bridge, screaming in pain.
At the same time, the two deer hunters broke cover and ran toward the houses.
8
Bud heard the shots as he was hustling his 62-year-old ass across Quail Street and the jungle closed in on him again. Thirty-six years evaporated in a heartbeat and he was back in the forsaken country, half a world away.
He reached his front door and the illusion shattered. He found himself standing in the diffuse daylight of his tiled foyer, his car keys on a small table in front of him, his reflection gazing back from the flat depths of a mirror. Nightmare and reality overlapping.
Move , an inner voice urged and he broke eye contact with the illusion, reaching for his rifle. He checked to see that it was loaded, a bullet in the breach, and ready to fire. He thumbed off
Bud leveled his eyes at Mike. “I told him to fire a warning shot,” he clarified. “If they keep coming after that then they want something from us and they’re willing to chance a bullet to get it. We don’t have the ammunition to play games with them.”
Rudy nodded. “He’s right, Mike.”
“But he’s my son !” Mike cried, pleading with them even though a harder, stonier part of him knew they were right. It asserted itself in the same calm, emotionless voice that told Keith Sturling he had been right to shoot two men dead at the 7-Eleven.
“We’re wasting time debating this,” Keith argued, pulling his service pistol from its holster. “Let’s go find out what they want!”
Bud nodded. “Someone go and get Larry and tell the women to get the kids down in the basement.” His eyes wavered between Mike and Rudy, deciding which of them to send.
Mike made the choice for him. “As long as Shane’s up there,” he said, pointing, “I’m staying .”
“I’ll go,” Rudy agreed, and without another word took off toward the Dawley’s, running fast and hard with his arms tucked at his sides and his head down, as if he’d been dropped from a helicopter into battle.
Up on the roof, Shane fired a shot. It galvanized the group.
Mike and Keith had their pistols out, ready to move. Bud’s shotgun and hunting rifle were across the street, leaning behind his front door. He’d given his own service pistol to his wife.
“Spread out between houses,” he told the two younger men, using a hand signal he hadn’t used since leaving Viet Nam, where he’d led a platoon of men — kids , really — through the green side of Hell. “I’ll cross Kennedy and try to circle around behind them. Send Rudy my way if he comes back with Larry.”
Keith nodded and the three of them broke apart.
Shane fired three more rapid shots from the rooftop.
Somewhere behind the houses, a voice screamed angrily in pain.
The first skirmish for Quail Street had begun.
7
Shane glanced over his shoulder; saw Mr. Cheng running across his front lawn, and when he looked back through the rifle scope there were two men creeping out from the tangled shadows of the creek bed. They looked like deer hunters, both dressed in camouflage and both toting rifles.
Shane aimed five steps ahead of them and put a steel-jacketed round into the weeds on the opposite bank. The two men dropped out of sight, but didn’t retreat back to the concrete safety of the bridge.
“Go away,” Shane whispered, wishing them gone before he had to fire a second shot. “Get out of here.”
Below the eaves, Mr. Iverson was talking to his father and Mr. Sturling, using a voice that sounded like it was coming from an old World War II movie. Shane moved the scope slightly and looked back under the bridge. A third man in olive camouflage was aiming a rifle at him.
Without thinking, he fired off three quick shots, using the tight pattern that always worked so well for him in video games. The man fell back beneath the bridge, screaming in pain.
At the same time, the two deer hunters broke cover and ran toward the houses.
8
Bud heard the shots as he was hustling his 62-year-old ass across Quail Street and the jungle closed in on him again. Thirty-six years evaporated in a heartbeat and he was back in the forsaken country, half a world away.
He reached his front door and the illusion shattered. He found himself standing in the diffuse daylight of his tiled foyer, his car keys on a small table in front of him, his reflection gazing back from the flat depths of a mirror. Nightmare and reality overlapping.
Move , an inner voice urged and he broke eye contact with the illusion, reaching for his rifle. He checked to see that it was loaded, a bullet in the breach, and ready to fire. He thumbed off
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