After America (2010) by Birmingham John

Author:Birmingham, John [John, Birmingham,]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Del Rey
Published: 2011-01-14T19:19:28.109000+00:00

At three minutes to three in the morning, he ran out of ammo for the carbine and the M203.

"I'm out, too," he shouted, joining Gardener in drawing his M9 Beretta and aiming two-handed into Madison Avenue, where at least eight of the enemy were popping up to fire at them with assault rifles, shotguns, pistols, and in one case some sort of hunting crossbow. That had been good for a laugh until one of the wickedly sharp arrowheads had nearly sliced open Wilson's jugular.

"I'm out," the master sergeant declared as the hammer of his M4 clicked on an empty chamber.

"We should really be going now," Milosz said, raising his voice to be heard over the assault, a sonic storm of gunfire and tribal shrieks, ululations, and the occasional "Allahu akbar" as the growing horde of attackers drew closer. Gardener swung out from behind her cover, holding two pistols that cracked like whips in the hands of a veteran cowboy. She killed four or five men Milosz could see, adding their bodies to the gruesome pile of the dead that had ramped up in front of their position, and then she stopped, ducked, and checked her load.

"That's it for me, gentlemen. If you don't mind, I'll be saving one bullet for the sake of decorum."

The words were brave, but Milosz could see that the woman speaking them was terrified. The yelling and screaming cycled up outside to something like hysteria, and perhaps it was, an insane mix of fury, terror, bloodlust, and vengefulness all about to burst upon them.

"I'll save this for when they come in," Wilson said, holding up the last grenade.

Milosz nodded grimly while scanning the ruined bank foyer for any possible exit. Unfortunately, there was none. They were cut off as the final charge began with an unholy war cry. He had enough time to wonder where it had originated, what benighted jungle swamp or howling desert these particular nig nog asswits hailed from that they should travel so fucking far and die in such numbers just to have at him.

He had four bullets left for his own Beretta and resolved to put each of them into a different man, standing up from where he'd crouched below the scarred ruins of the bank's high-vaulted windows and assuming a comfortable shooter's stance, taking careful aim with a two-handed grip. His pistol boomed once, and a charging asswit spun and dropped. He fired again, and the throat of another exploded in red ruin. A third shot smacked into the chest of a massively fat man whose momentum carried him forward so far that Milosz wondered if he had been hit at all. He lifted his aim slightly and shot him in the face, which came apart like a rotten melon, spewing its corruption everywhere.

Bullets struck and whizzed all around as he calmly unsheathed his fighting knife and waited to receive the enemy.

At last they drew close enough for him to marvel at the whiteness of teeth bared like canine fangs, as though they might leap the last ten feet and tear him apart like jackals.

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