The North (#wattys2016)

Chapter 19

We pulled into Dinsmore and parked both carriers in front of the now smashed barricade. Tiny shards of glass, mixed with countless strips of torn metal and barbed wire lay scattered about in all directions, and the air smelled of smoke and cordite. A thin stream of blood trickled from underneath the shattered wall of cars, collecting into a pool inside a tire track. They’d probably used the front end loader to build their barricade.

We found a young female, who didn’t look much older than any of us. She had matted blond hair that was filled with dirt and her face was dotted with small flecks of blood. She was dressed in a pair of torn jeans and a grease stained sweatshirt featuring a faded image of a RUSH album cover and her hands and forearms were covered with blood as she applied pressure to a middle-aged man’s neck wound. A human leg lay against a battered automobile door, its former owner lying on his back. His lifeless eyes stared up at the chalk-colored sky - his Remington hunting rifle was twisted around his arm by its sling.

The man with the neck wound looked to be in his mid- forties. His breathing was shallow, and he struggled to say something to the woman, but all he could manage was a gurgle.

When someone dies, it’s as if the body becomes deflated somehow. Your muscles relax and your chest falls as your lungs empty out that last breath of air. Your eyes sink back into your eye sockets and your face becomes loose, almost flaccid.

That’s what I saw the very moment that man died. Beside him was the body of a teenage boy, probably no older than Sid or me. His midsection was torn open - his intestines spilled out across his lap like they’d been dumped out of a bucket. A few feet away, draped across the hood of one of the cars, lay the body of a man whose jeans were coated in arterial blood. A gash about six inches long had been torn into his left thigh. Even in death the man held his rifle, the shining black barrel aimed straight down the middle of the grid road leading into town.

The lone survivor of our attack cursed violently as the man she’d been tending to died with her hands pressed hard against his neck. She lunged toward us, her eyes blazing with hatred. Sid whipped his carbine across his chest in a sharp, almost fluid movement. He landed a hard butt stroke to her forehead and she dropped like a stone.

We caused this.

The survivors of Dinsmore might have fired the first shot, but we ended it in a haze of smoke, high explosives and burning metal. I would have felt pity for those who’d died, but as I gazed at the grim scene, all I could think about was that family of four, murdered in cold blood back at the barn and that if we didn’t protect Jo, if I couldn’t protect her, then she’d wind up just like them.

Sid pulled out a couple of nylon cable ties from the pocket of his combat pants. He knelt down in front of the girl and flipped her onto her stomach as she moaned loudly. He pressed his knee on the center of her back and bound her wrists together, giving the end a sharp tug. She wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon.

He grunted. “Does this mean she’s a prisoner?”

“Of what?” I said flatly. “We’re not at war, Sid.”

The giant Newfoundlander stood up and gazed out at the carnage. He motioned to the closest dead body. “You sure about that, Dave?”

“Get her back to the carrier,” I said, ignoring his comment. “We’ll question her once we move past the barricade. She’ll have probably come to by then.”

Sid nodded as he bent over and picked the girl up. She moaned a couple of times as he slung her over his shoulder like she was a sack of flour. I walked over to the three dead bodies and collected their weapons. They wouldn’t be in need of them again, but we might.