Kill Them All

CHAPTER TEN

Monday, 4:51 p.m.

Why are they taking so long? They should do something.

Sunset was coming soon. Matt Cahill walked down the middle of Main Street in old town, heading west towards Sheriff Pickens and the jail, making the rounds yet another time. He hoped to hell he looked inspirational. He waved at the men stationed on the roof of the hotel. Matt cupped his hands and called out.

“Got water?”

Timmy gave a thumbs-up.

“Remember what Sheriff Pickens said-stay the hell down behind the bricks. Cover, not concealment, right?”

Matt stopped in the shade of the old gazebo. He spun in a lazy circle, his boots kicking up dust. The sun was getting lower and the sky was beginning to color as evening approached, but the heat still lay on Dry Wells like a thick blanket. Matt let his eyes roam to check the windows and rooftops, making sure everyone was in place for the battle to come. Doors and windows had been nailed shut. Pits had been dug, streets blocked to slow the intruders down.

Matt licked his lips and his stomach rumbled. He was out of ideas and tired of waiting.

Suzie and Jeb Pickens were in the top windows of the old whorehouse, armed with hunting rifles. Each had a makeshift Molotov cocktail of kerosene and a rag stuffed in an empty jelly jar. They knew to be careful, since most of Dry Wells was made of wood and highly flammable.

Matt carried his ax over one shoulder. For security, he also had a Smith & Wesson snub-nosed.38 in his belt. He held a bottle of water in his right hand.

Had he covered these people as well as humanly possible?

Would they be ready and willing to fight, perhaps to the death?

Would he?

Kyle had managed to recover wicks for the old-style lanterns hanging outside all along the western street. He and Timmy had climbed ladders to put kerosene in them and test every one. Light would be their only defense. That and knowing the landscape far better than did their enemy.

Why are they taking so long? They should do something.

The mercenaries hadn’t made any attempt to contact them or attack, even to explore their defenses. Perhaps it had taken them longer to recover from the animal tranquilizers than Doc had originally thought. Hell, those mercenaries were already drinking and badly infected by evil. If Matt was lucky, maybe one or two had even died by accident from a lethal combination of drugs.

Though right then Matt didn’t feel very lucky.

Not since that damned avalanche.

Unfortunately, an attack in the darkness, using some kind of night-vision equipment, seemed to Matt to be the most likely scenario. He’d worn the goggles while rescuing Suzie Pickens, so he had some idea of how they worked, how they made everything crisp and clear in a greenish way. As long as the ambient light was low and constant, the users-the mercenaries-would have the complete advantage over any normal human being.

But bright light hurt-and could buy Matt and the townspeople a few precious moments.

It was going to be four heavily armed men against sixteen defenders who had no real equipment and far less expertise. Their only advantage was that Scotty likely wanted to take Matt alive to draw more blood. The mercenaries would need to be careful with their fire and couldn’t just come in and blow shit up. They knew the forest fire would keep law enforcement reinforcements from arriving for a while, though, so Scotty had probably figured a night assault to be the safest, smoothest plan of attack. At least that’s what Matt told himself, though the truth was, he didn’t know much about any of this. Not really.

Everyone seemed to be in place. If they could just last through the night, some kind of reinforcements should arrive via the National Guard or the police. Of course, the mercenaries knew that, too. And that every minute would count.

Why are they taking so long? They should…

“Mr. Cahill! Mr. Cahill!”

Matt looked up. The boy called Timmy, on the hotel roof, was calling him. He gestured toward the mouth of the town. Another teenage boy named Clete stood on the roof of Wally’s bar, binoculars in his right hand. He pointed east.

“Someone’s coming!”

At last.

Matt felt like throwing up.

“Hold your positions!” Matt called. He hefted the ax, kept one hand on the.38, and jogged east.

Sheriff Pickens and Wally had blocked the alleys to the west and the entrance to the east with old cars, wheelbarrows, junked bicycles, and trash cans. One defender held each position, with two at the open area.

With the approaching sunset at his back, Matt went to the car and motioned for Sheriff Pickens and Wally to duck. Wally looked half in the bag, as usual. His jaw was set and his eyes were grim. His soul seemed at peace. Thank God, he’d do.

Sheriff Pickens lowered his own binoculars. “We got us two men in a van, two on motorcycles. Looks like one of them is holding a white flag.”

Matt took the binoculars and focused on the rapidly approaching clouds of dust. He immediately recognized the mercenaries in the van. The one who scratched his balls and the one with the red hair who smoked too much dope. He was easy to spot because of the smoke pouring out the passenger window. The one to the south on a motorcycle was the one who had always stared at him. Matt continued to scan the nearby desert. He finally located the man with the white flag. He almost jumped at how close the man seemed.

Scotty.

Through the binoculars he seemed confident and healthy, rather than twisted and evil. He wore shades and was smiling, chugging along, slowly waving the flag. Matt went up and down what he could see of the man’s body. Body armor for certain. Two sidearms, one long like a cop’s 9 mm, the other oddly shaped. He had a pair of goggles that looked like the NV stuff Matt had seen in movies. There was something else there on his chest, perhaps some kind of grenade. Matt was worried about grenades. The townspeople were scared enough already. Hell, so was he. It didn’t seem likely that the mercenaries would use anything that random, though, for fear of killing Matt.

“That’s them,” Matt said. He handed the binoculars back to the sheriff, who raised one hand and waved it.

“Looks like they want to parlay.”

“That it does.” Matt thought for a moment. “Sheriff, can you loan me that flashlight for a bit?”

Sheriff Pickens cocked his head, shrugged, and handed it over. Matt put his ax down in the sand, stuck the flashlight in his belt-behind his back, next to the.38-and then grabbed his ax again.

“Thanks. Get them ready.”

Pickens called out, “Nobody jumps the gun. Everybody just hold your fire until one of us gives the signal.”

Matt Cahill scratched his neck. His pulse raced with anger and steadily increasing fear. The mercenaries could have and should have come after dark, when they’d have had even more of a natural advantage. Why hadn’t they? Something seemed out of place. He didn’t like surprises. He fingered the.38 beneath the back of his jeans next to the flashlight and cracked his knuckles. He was going to have to trust his instincts. Matt came to a decision.

“Okay, I’m going to go out and talk to him.”

“You serious?”

“Believe me, I wish I weren’t. Looks like I have to, though.”

“You’re out of your fucking mind, but better you than me.” Sheriff Pickens picked up a hunting rifle and sighted on Scotty. “I’ll aim for a head shot if this goes bad. Can’t hardly miss from here. Wally and Bert will cover the others. Don’t worry, Bert may be a chickenshit at heart, but he’s a damned fine shot.”

Matt nodded and squeezed through the narrow space between the car blocking the entrance to Main Street and the front of Wally’s Saloon. Three long strides later he was out in the open. He felt naked. Four guns were trained on his chest. Behind him, Matt heard Sally crying. It sounded like Kyle was trying to comfort her. Matt did not look back. He just started walking.