Families First: A Post-Apocalyptic Next-World Series Volume 6 Battle Grounds by Lance Ewing (ereader for comics .txt) 📕

the top, our guys need to retreat before we set it on fire. They sure don’t want to get caught in the middle.”

“We’re going to keep moving, guys,” said Vlad. “Keep your heads up.”

* * * * * * *

Chapter Twenty

Saddle Ranch

Loveland, Colorado

The first gunshots were heard up on the Rimrock, and soon the skies would be filled with death machines, all trying to make a lasting impression.

The next report was not over the radio. Gunfire could be heard at the northern part of the Valley, presumably at the north barrier.

I recognized the semiautomatic fire, a few shotguns, and what sounded like hunting rifles that could have come from either side. I instinctively looked to see Vlad, but he had Bert already headed that way.

The shooting stopped briefly enough for me to tell Jake I’m glad it was at that end. He hadn’t seen the south barrier and had no idea how open it still was. The way we came in through the north entrance was so narrow already from the sheer Valley walls that they would have to bust through the entire blockade to get their trucks through. The gunfire continued, but this time over the Rimrock.

“Here we go,” I called out to Jake, lifting my gas can and waiting for the call.

* * * *

It came nearly five minutes later, after sustained gunfire from what sounded like Baker’s side—with some, almost as much, from ours.

“Prepare to light it up!” said Mac. “Wait until we are safely behind the line,” he added, referring to the fire break line we had cut in front and across the ridge only days ago. “Then, Lance, you and the rest of the lighters are on the front lines!”

I didn’t mind, and neither did Jake. We were always on the front lines before, and if I was honest, I didn’t feel right about hanging back in the first place. But this wasn’t my show today, and Jake and I followed orders. I said a silent prayer for my father, Bill, as well as John and the others on our side of the hill, for a safe return.

Mac’s truck came first, barreling down the rocky road, fishtailing at the end before stopping briefly to let John and Bill out. Samuel was driving, I could see through the driver’s side window, and took off fast towards the main road.

“Where is he going?” I asked Mac, as he ran up to Jake and me.

“The hospital,” he said soberly. “We have two down.”

“Let’s get the gas poured and ready to light on my signal,” he said, running down the road and calling on the radio.

I saw others running on foot down the back of the Rimrock and hoped they were all ours. A low roar rose above the Valley, and even though I had heard it before and expected it, I still had a moment’s thought of thunder in the already-smoky sky.

“It’s about to get a lot darker,” said Jake, looking like I was for a source of the steady rumble.

“Light it up—now!” yelled Mac. “Now! Now! Now!”

I wondered how quickly it would take to start the fire and hoped it moved the right way. Minutes before, Jake had held up some sand, letting it fall from between his fingers in a whisp. Some grains went left, some right, and some straight ahead towards the Rimrock.

“It’s a swirl for sure,” I told him, “but at least it’s not blowing back this way towards the fields.”

* * * *

The gasoline did its trick, as usual, when paired with a flame, and I used a barbecue lighter to start at the end of the ten-foot trickle I laid out from the main pour. It seems most down the line did something similar, and fire shot across the ridge in both directions. I was mesmerized by it, forgetting all about the skies for a moment, when the first plane came down.

It was one of ours, or what used to be one of Baker’s. Our man—one of the twins, but I wasn’t sure which one—had no chance as his small aircraft spun around and around, smoke pouring out of the front and back. Jake and I looked for a parachute, as I’m sure his twin brother did from high above, but saw none. It crashed, nose to the hard ground, 100 yards from where we stood in the field, immediately starting a small fire.

Mac called for the fire truck, the only one the Ranch had and thankfully was always kept full of water. The classic 1950s firetruck, named Betty years ago, was supposed to be used to help put out what was left of the Rimrock fire once burned, but now it was the only thing between a fiery plane crash in a wheat field close to the Ranch buildings and everyone we really cared about.

“What about saving water?” came the call back from the fire truck driver.

“Use whatever you have to and put it out now!” called back Mac, without a second thought.

Our other plane circled the crash site several times, and though I couldn’t see the other brother in the cockpit, I somehow felt his pain.

“What’s he doing?” asked Jake, as we watched him head straight across the Valley towards an enemy helicopter.

“Getting revenge for his twin,” I replied.

 We watched him head straight for one of Baker’s helicopters, taking rounds like a tin can at a backyard shooting range. He never waivered or tried to change course, colliding with it mid-air over the reservoir, as both fell into a watery grave. Having twins myself, I couldn’t imagine how he felt seeing his twin brother crashing to the ground. I guess I now had my answer and said a quick prayer for them both. Hanson’s was still up there somewhere, and our side’s only flying machine left.

*