Catharsis

The drone's hum cut through the gunfire from the farmhouse roof and dragged an old memory up with it.

I'd been cut off in enemy-held territory during a joint operation with the US military, and the sound of an A-10 Thunderbolt's engines appearing in front of our team had been the sweetest thing I'd ever heard. This was sweeter.

It was also the signal that Jake was in position. I kept pumping the remaining slug rounds into the vehicles at the rear. The shotgun slammed home, again and again.

Then, in the distance, I saw the battered F-150 carrying Dave and Frank charging the access road, throwing a wall of dust. With that, the enemy's last way out was gone.

They must have felt the box closing. They gave up on running in the vehicles. Doors flew open and three of them burst out at once, scattering into the grass below the roadside embankment.

Frank stood on the brakes. He and Dave piled out and opened up with their automatic rifles on the men still running.

A burst ripped across the drive — and then I saw one of them, down in the grass, turn and put his sights on Dave.

I swung the Saiga-12 onto him.

The heavy slug snapped him backward a step, and he went down into the weeds and disappeared. In that same span Dave and Frank each dropped the ones they'd been chasing.

Even then the farmhouse kept pouring fire — second floor, third floor, the roof, no pause in it at all.

I glanced back. Gunner was working his way toward me along the embankment, picking off the ones who kept popping from cover with clean, precise shots. We locked eyes and got ready to climb up onto the road — and Jake's voice came over the radio.

Jake's voice was unnervingly calm.

This guy didn't just learn how to shoot.

I keyed the PTT twice — our tap code for roger — and checked the Saiga-12's magazine. A few rounds were still in it. I dumped it anyway and slammed a fresh one home. This one was loaded with buckshot. Prep for close work.

Gunner and I rolled up over the embankment together, the way we'd planned it, and came up onto the access road.

Jake's call hit my ear, but I had something to do first. I angled the shotgun through the passenger window of the pickup right in front of me, toward the seat, and dumped two rounds of buckshot.

Glass blew apart. I spun immediately to the far side of the vehicle. Gunner covered my six as he came with me.

Just as Jake had said, one of them was lying prone in front of the engine bay. He jerked his head up at the gunfire, and I put a load of buckshot straight through his skull. In the same instant Gunner's M4 barked and dropped another one who'd been about to come out of my blind side.

We cleared the first vehicle that way and pushed toward the farm entrance.

At Jake's call I pictured the one crouched in the driver's seat and put three buckshot rounds through the door in a row. Gunner, right behind me, hosed the passenger side with the M4.

"Reloading!"

While Gunner called it I looked ahead. What was left in front of us was the pickup with the skid tank in the bed, and the old tanker truck.

We keep that one.

As if we'd rehearsed it, Gunner and I yanked open the doors of the pickup we'd just turned into Swiss cheese. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Sure enough, one of them was down on the driver's-side floor, bleeding out. I put one more buckshot round into him to finish it, and we pushed forward again.

"Gunner. We keep the tanker."

Then Jake's voice came through sharp and fast.

I shot Gunner a look, then slid down the bank, aiming at the spot closest to the open driver's door — where they'd most likely be lying prone.

Two of them.

One more than I'd expected. It startled me for a fraction of a second. I didn't hesitate. They were far enough out that I just kept pulling the Saiga-12's trigger as fast as it would cycle, the shotgun roaring itself empty.

The magazine ran dry. The hollow click of the chamber told me they were down. I threw the empty Saiga into the grass, pulled the Rattler off my back, climbed back onto the road, and gave Gunner a look. The fight wasn't over. We pushed forward again.

Jake's radio came through once more.

Mike's voice followed, calm and ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠absolute.

Two sharp cracks carried from a long way off. Then Mike again.

Gunner confirmed the skid-tank truck was empty. We pushed on toward the last remaining tanker.

We were almost on it when the driver's door flew open. A man burst out with both hands in the air.

"Don't shoot. I surrender. I surrender!"

I didn't think about it. I pulled the Rattler's trigger.

His head came apart, and the word surrender went with it, scattering into the air. In a fight, the only mercy is a death without pain.

Meanwhile Gunner had found the ones who'd crawled under the last pickup in front of the tanker. He dropped prone in a heartbeat and put a round through the instep of a foot sticking out past the tire.

A scream tore out of the dark under the truck, and Gunner — almost in a low crawl — poured aimed fire into the space beneath the chassis. The shots sent a vibration running through the asphalt.

"Reloading!"

The instant Gunner called it and swapped magazines, Jake's voice tore through the radio like a shout.

I dropped on instinct and spun left, the turn flowing into a kneeling stance. The iron sights came onto him and I pressed the trigger.

The last one — the one who'd been lying in the grass below the embankment — came vaulting up onto the road with an automatic rifle, swinging the muzzle toward me.

Two rounds to the chest, fast. Then one to the head.

He went over backward without a sound.

Gunner and I kept moving like that, taking the abandoned vehicles as cover the way you'd claim squares on a map, eating up the road and killing what was left one threat at a time. We dropped another seven or eight and finally reached the second vehicle from the front.

Under the passenger side, beneath the truck, one of them was moaning, bleeding out. Gunner didn't hesitate — he brought the M4's muzzle to the man's head — and I caught his shoulder.

"Wait. Leave that one."

Gunner looked at me.

"Jake deserves a shot at this too."

He nodded. He grabbed the drag handle on the back of the man's plate carrier, hauled him out like a sack of cargo, and dumped him in the middle of the road.

I keyed the PTT.

A moment later the reports started coming in from each position.

Last came Cody's voice, a little unsteady.

I gave Jake the order for a final sweep.

Then we started working our way slowly back along the path we'd come. Every corpse that still twitched, every man who might have had a breath left in him, got a confirmation round without hesitation.

It wasn't only about policing the field. It was the job of a lead scout — clearing the path for Dave and Frank walking in from the checkpoint.

Before long I ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠could see the two of them coming. We stood facing each other without a word.

In their eyes was the shock of having shot someone for the first time, mixed with a strange, quiet pride at having gotten it done. I clapped each of them once on the shoulder, nodded, and we headed toward the farm together.

In the distance Gunner came into view dragging the prisoners. One more still-breathing one had been added. He was hauling one by the handle like cargo and kicking the other in the ass as he came.

Then Dave and Frank showed up dragging one of their own.

"Hah. This one was playing dead until I stuck a muzzle in his face. Then he started twitching."

Everyone gathered again in the farm's front yard.

Jake and Cody were staring down at the prisoner dumped in the middle of the road, their eyes full of hate. I asked Jake.

"Anyone you recognize?"

"No. Never seen him before."

That was when it happened. Cody, standing next to the prisoner, seemed to catch something and stopped breathing. His gaze was locked on the wristwatch the man was wearing.

"That... that watch..."

Cody's voice was shaking.

"That's Dad's watch."

At those words Jake's eyes went hot. Gunner ripped the watch off the prisoner's wrist without a word and put a boot into the side of the man's head. Then he pressed the watch into Jake's hand.

Jake stood there trembling, clutching the watch that still seemed to hold his father's warmth.

I drew the VP9 from my hip and held it out to him.

Gunner spun the prisoners around, kicked the backs of their legs, and dropped them to their knees.

"W-wait. Wait a second! I know—"

One of them started to say something in a rush. I gave Jake a look. He didn't hesitate.

The shots cracked one after another. The raider's head was punched through from the back of the skull, and what was left of his face poured forward as he went down. In that moment the tears Jake and Cody had been holding back spilled over.

Interrogation wouldn't have meant a damn thing. Even if this one knew something, it would only have been another raider's name and another location.

I knew well enough that unverifiable intel was just noise on a battlefield. Even if they'd known where the rest of their people were, we couldn't go hitting them first. If anything, I was almost grateful they'd come walking back to us on their own.

And I didn't want to tear open Jake and Cody's trauma just to squeeze something out of these men. I simply believed that if the two of them were going to survive what came next, they needed a way to let it go.

A note, for anyone who wondered — or felt a little disappointed — that the characters in this story fight with iron sights instead of optics. As a rule, a red-dot sight costs more than the firearm itself. And given the nature of a gang that never knows when it will need to start shooting, optics never felt like a natural fit. You can't leave a dot powered on all the time, and switching it on right before a fight is awkward in its own way. There's also the fact that I, personally, prefer firearms in their stock, unmodified state.

I imagine some of you will also have a different view on the decision not to interrogate the prisoners. The protagonist is not a sage. He simply wants a straightforward outcome, and he chooses accordingly.