Stealing Society

"I've got just the thing."

I open the rear door on the left side of the truck and fold the seat over. Underneath is a small collection of firearms, the ones I had intended to abuse over the next week. There's a knockoff Remington 870, made by New England Firearms, a cheap AR-15, and of course, my Colt 1851 Navy. But that's not what I have in mind for Marilyn. Also back here is one of the best bolt action rifles ever made, a Lee Enfield in the .303 caliber. The damn thing is near 4 feet long and the heavy steel barrel shrouded in wood weighs a ton. But it's accurate for as far as the eye can see, the steel-plated butt is excellent for caving in skulls, and the bolt is as smooth as silk. I pass it to her, along with a bandoleer with about 50 rounds of ammo.

"If you can't kill it with this thing, it can't be killed."

I shrug off my jacket and buckle on the Colt's pistol belt. The comforting weight of the revolver does more to calm my nerves than all the opium in Afghanistan. The Colt itself sits low on the right thigh in a leather holster. The butt sits just above the point where my palm would naturally rest. My quick draw isn't quite competition-level fast, but it's a damn sight quicker than most. I'd only get five shots, but they'd count for a lot more than you'd think.

Next up is the shotgun. Its three point sling goes over the right side, holding the pump action shotgun across my chest. There's none of that dramatic cock-the-damn-thing-just-for-the-sake-of-hearing-it-click bullshit. Only a fool carries a freaking shotgun without a round in the chamber already. That split second it takes to rack the slide will get you blown away if the other guy has even an inkling of how to handle his own piece. I do push down on the end of the first shell in the tube, making sure that it's full though. All five rounds appear to be present.

The AR gets broken down into two pieces. I pull the bolt out of the upper receiver, it goes in my pocket. The rest of the weapon stays put. The sounds of fighting are growing closer, and there's no time to dig the mags for the AR out from their hiding spot. At least without the bolt, it couldn't be used against us. We could always come back for it, and the other useful stuff back there, after things had died down a bit. The only other thing that I take out of the truck is my bugout bag. It's an assault pack filled with pretty much everything a guy needs to survive on his own for a few days. It has a change of clothes, to include multiple pairs of socks and underwear, a couple of field stripped MREs, water bottles with built in filters as well as purification tablets, a small shaving/hygiene kit, a few ounces of tobacco, waterproof matches, a canteen filled with Jack Daniels (for multiple purposes, not just drinking) spare shells and cartidges for the long guns, powder, bullets and caps for the Colt, an abbreviated weapons cleaning kit, and $200 in small bills. Strapped to the outside is a first aid kit that would make an EMT feel underprepared and a long, heavy, and wickedly sharp kukri in a wood and leather scabbard. It weighs nearly 40 pounds, but that's still 50 less than my ruck, which has all the tac gear. Another thing to come back for.

"Alright, do you know anywhere that might be safe? We're gonna get waxed by one side or the other if we stay on the street tonight. Our best bet is to bide our time until morning at least."

"I'd rather stay out of the subway. If the guy planning all this has even half a brain, he'll have guys down there. If he's really smart, he'll gas the place. And breaking in somewhere is a bad idea; whole city full of folks waiting behind doors with whatever weapons they can find. How far is ten blocks in real people terms?"

There are just a couple of things left to grab. I open the storage compartment on the center console and pull out two knives. One is new, a black Smith and Wesson dagger in a leather sheath. The blade is about four inches long and wickedly sharp, perfect for stabbing. The other is a surplus M7 bayonet in a fiberglass and steel sheath. The whole thing is nearly a foot long, 6 inches of it taken up by the blade. The blade is also black, but time and hard use has worn away the bluing in spots. The edge is also sharp, but close examination reveals that it is serrated, nearly invisibly so. It takes a lot of work to put on an edge like that, but it's worth it. The handle is wrapped tightly in 550 cord,

I offer Marilyn her choice of knives.

"Just in case."

"Only 700 meters? That's not bad at all. I was expecting a few klicks at least."

Still, it's 700 meters through the streets. No telling what we'd encounter along the way. The rocket fire had died out, at least. The sounds of a running battle are still coming in from all sides, echoing off the buildings. It's impossible to pinpoint their exact distance and direction. Hard to see more than 50 meters in any given direction, due to the smoke.

"Alright, here's what I'm thinking. There's physically no way they have enough ammo to kill every man, woman, and child in the city. That's something on the order of ten million rounds. They probably wanted to draw out the police and scare the shit out of anyone else. If we beat feet back to your place, we should be able to hole up and figure out what's going on without too much trouble. It's hard to get an accurate read on where the fighting is taking place, but if I had to guess, they're at least a klick or two past that. So we're going to walk, not run, that seven hundred meters. You lead the way. If you see anything, call it out and hit the ground immediately. I'll cover our rear. Sound good?"

For my part, I keep my attention to the rear. It takes practice to get used to walking backwards under pressure, but rear security is important. Unlike forward locomotion in combat, which is generally a smooth, fluid heel-to-toe motion, feels natural. The odds of tripping and falling are minimized, and while it's not as quick as a dead sprint, it's a hell of a lot smoother. Slow is smooth, smooth is fast.

For the poor bastard pulling rear security, the motion is reversed. Toe-to-heel, mind your footing, but eyes up and off your feet. Legs are burning in short order, as the motion works odd muscle groups. Left knee is starting to gimp a bit. Too much running and too many odd motions. Normally I pop a few motrin before something like this, but in my defense, I hadn't planned on getting shot at by Russians tonight. Hell, I hadn't planned on anything more vigorous than knocking back a few pints. The pack isn't helping anything, but we don't have far to go, and I'd rather have it than not.

Fuck me, there are a lot of alleys in this city. Given a squad and time, each alley and window would be treated as its own danger area, but I have neither. Marilyn isn't stupid by any means, but she probably hasn't had the training to do this properly, and I don't have time to teach her now. My eyes are darting every which-way, trying to take in as much as possible. I keep the shotgun at the low ready. If someone pops up, I can hopefully get it up to my shoulder fast enough to blow them away in short order, but only if I spot them in time. I resist the urge to reach back and grab a handful of her jacket with my left hand. That's the standard method for keeping the rear guy in line with the fire team, but again, she isn't used to this stuff. Doing so might startle her, and that would be bad. Have to make due with tracking her footsteps and breathing. Thanks to the earplugs, the only ringing I have to deal with is the tinnitus I already had, so this isn't too difficult.

"How are you doing up there?"

As soon as she says it, I drop in place, and instantly begin cursing the fact that I had left my knee and elbow pads back in the truck. The concrete of the sidewalk does a number on both the hard-worn denim of my jeans and the skin beneath. Still, I manage to roll off the sidewalk and behind the stoop. I pull myself into a crouch behind Marilyn and try to assess the situation.

Three guys, armed with AK variants. None of them appear to have much in the way of body armor, which frankly isn't surprising. Smuggling the weapons in country was probably hard enough, and body armor is a bitch to tote around. They all appear to be youngish, no more than midtwenties, which suggests that there aren't any real seasoned veterans among this little group. Doesn't mean there aren't, but it's a small hope. The fact that they're just merrily walking along, not bothering to check danger areas, suggests the same. Either that or they just don't care. Too risky to keep my head up for long, I pop down behind the steps and pull Marilyn down with me.

"Good call girlie. Next time, try to include distance and direction if you can, but you did real good. If they get within about ten meters, I can take 'em out with the shotgun. I'll try to leave one alive. I've got some questions to ask, and I reckon you've got your own business to attend to with the bastards."

I try to grin comfortingly, but I know I've messed that part up. Mouth a bit too wide, teeth bared, eyes wide. It was the same grin from the bunker back in the day, with me and Little set up to rain down hell with the 240. Another squirrel that got caught up in a bear trap. Despite a few close calls, I had never had to fire a weapon in anger, but now...these sons of bitches were about to learn the same lesson the Germans learned in WWI: don't mess with a redneck and his shotgun.

Shit.

Marilyn's about to wig out. Not good.

I can try to calm her down, but anything I say might give away our position. That would get us killed.

Or I can let her do her own thing, deal with it in her own way. That might also get us killed.

GoddammitmotherfuckingsonofabitchingJesusFuckingChristonapogostick. Don't need this shit, not now. Not when they're so close.

Gotta let her deal with it. The #6 shot loaded in the shotgun is great at short ranges, but much beyond ten meters and it's more of a nuisance. And they're still at 15. Gotta move before she gets a chance to crack. I let the shotgun hang from its sling and draw the Colt. The thing holds six bullets, but it's customary to keep an empty cylinder, seeing as how it doesn't have a safety. I get ready to jump out from behind cover, knowing that our survival depended upon speed, surprise, and violence of action. Those three factors were drilled into us from day one.

Catch the enemy by surprise.

Move quickly, lest they have a chance to react.

Overwhelm them with violence. Make sure they're dead before they know what hit them.

With that in mind, I spring out. Or try to. Next thing I know, I'm lying on the ground, my left knee feeling like something's exploded inside of it. Oh, and I'm in plain view of the troops, who are staring at me in surprise. Thank God the Colt feels more like an extension of my arm than an actual weapon. As the first soldier tries to bring his weapon into line, my arm comes up, seemingly of his own accord. The first round goes straight through the first soldier's chest.

Adrenaline pumping. Vision fading out around the edges, whether from pain or shock or God knows what. Time seems to slow down as I thumb back the hammer and line up on the second guy. He drops. It looks like he's falling through water. The third has his AK up to his shoulder by the time I bring my pistol to bear. I swear I can see his finger yanking on the trigger as my own breaks, dropping the hammer in slow motion. I see the sparks from the cap, see the smoke jet out, first from the gap between the cylinder and barrel, and then the barrel itself. I don't quite see the round as it races home, but I see the spray of blood that ejects from the back of his skull, and a matching one from my side as his first round gouges a fiery line through my right flank. Just a nick, as far as such things go. Muscle and skin, no organs. Clean, through and through.

I wonder if Marilyn knows how to stop the bleeding.

Blackness ensues.

I come to behind the stoop and kind of wish I was still knocked out. Still high on adrenaline and endorphins, but fuck, this ain't fun.

"Getting shot hurts," I say by way of greeting. "Would not recommend."

False bravado is better than screaming like a little bitch. Has to be. I look down. Ok, if I had to get shot, that's probably the best place. Muscle, skin, fat. Nothing vital. Feels like someone's digging a red hot piece of rebar through my side, but what the fuck, eh? If it was fun, everybody would do it.

I do my best to shrug off the pack, but sitting up is not something high on the priority list right now. My first aid kit is fully equipped to deal with everything from a sprained ankle to tension pnuemothorax, but it doesn't do me a damn bit of good if I can't get to it.

"Gimme a hand here, will ya?" Hard to talk through clenched teeth, but hopefully she understands. "We've got to get out of here, but if it's all the same to you, I'd like to through some quick clot on this leak. First aid kit, the one on the side of the bag. Front pouch, gloves and a plastic packet."

Hands are shaking now, badly. Probably more from the adrenaline than anything, doesn't feel like shock. I hear a clinking noise on the sidewalk. Turns out, the Colt is still in my right hand, which is keeping a white-knuckled grip on it of its own accord. I try to shove it back in its holster, but that ain't happening either.

"Fuck me."

I hiss as she dumps the antiseptic on the hole, but there's not much else I can do. She's applying pressure, good. That'll stopper it for long enough to break out the good stuff. My hands have finally stopped shaking enough to let me holster the revolver and dig into the pack myself.

First things first: gloves. Always have a few sets on hand. If it's wet and it's sticky and it ain't yours, don't touch it. And if it is yours, you probably don't want to have any on bare skin when the quick clot comes out.

Gloves on, I dive into the pack and pull out a few handy little things that aren't exactly standard issue for civilian first aid kits. The first is a rectangular foil packet. Combat gauze. It's a temporary fix, designed to plug up holes until you can get to a proper medical facility. Sterile gauze impregnated with quick clot, it's used to pack wounds and stop any bleeding.

The next is the Israeli bandage. It has a proper technical name, but buggered if I can remember it right now. Anyway, it's a bandage with a plastic bit that'll let you cinch it down and apply more pressure than you otherwise would.

I peel open the foil packet.

"Move your hand for just a second. Try not to let the powder get into your eyes."

As soon as I can, I begin packing the wound with the stuff. The quick clot goes to work right away. I vaguely remember the stuff being shellfish based, but that's kind of irrelevant right now, partly because it doesn't matter, but mostly because MOTHER OF GOD THIS STUFF BURNS. My vision begins to grey around the corners. Every muscle is clinched, and it's all I can do not to scream like a little bitch. My teeth are clenched so hard that I swear I feel my jaw pop. It passes in a moment, but I know the other side still has to be done. Not cool. Still, the bleeding on the entry wound is more or less controlled. That's something, right?