The Endless Struggle, page 12
part #3 of Random Survival Series
Physically, he took several long breaths. Mentally, he pictured what he was attempting, then counted to three.
Slowly, he turned the latch to unlock the door. He gripped the handle, forced courage to his brain and pulled the door. Jamming his left arm out, he pushed the gun far enough past the wall to shoot down the walkway. He pulled the trigger just as the first man in line rushed the door. A startled cry escaped both men. The bullets tore into the man, who danced in front of Mark. He kept pulling the trigger until the body dropped.
The man behind the pillar stepped away from the wall, firing. The rounds ripped into the glass door further destroying its integrity. One bullet creased a deep furrow across Mark’s forearm, forcing him to pull back as three more men reached the door.
He backed up and, switching the gun to his right hand, fired at the first man filling the doorway. Another bullet found Mark, this time in the side, striking more meat. He flinched and retreated.
The men out front were firing nonstop into the front window. If they got through the door, Mel would be trapped in the corner with no protection. “Mel, drop back. Hurry!” He continued to fire until his gun was empty, then reached for a fresh magazine, but his injured arm was slow and awkward. He backed up again leaving the rifle still stuck in the glass. His mind whirled. Load the gun. Fire. Back up the invaders. Grab the rifle. Retreat.
A glance in the corner told him Mel was gone. The door pushed open. Two arms snaked through the door shooting blindly into the room. Forget the plan: he needed to get into the back room – now. His hand fumbled the magazine and it dropped to the floor. Panic rose, burning his throat. Adrenaline threatened to punch his heart through his chest.
In desperation, he ducked to reach the magazine just as a man stepped through the door and leveled a handgun at his head. Avoiding the shot drove Mark back on his bottom, but as the gun fired, he felt no added pain.
A quick look showed the man down. Behind him, Smahls yelled, “Come on, man, don’t dawdle.”
Leaving the magazine, Mark crawled into the back room while Smahls covered his retreat. He got to his feet and ran for the temporary safety of the desk. Doc lay huddled there, her handgun pointing up, her eyes closed and lips working in a silent prayer.
He reached out and touched her hand. She jumped and cried out. “Easy, Doc, it’s just me. Let me have your gun.”
She released it to him with obvious relief, her cheeks streaked with tears. He squeezed her arm giving as much reassurance as he could. Smahls was still standing in the middle of the doorway, shooting. He’s gonna get killed if he doesn’t move.
“Doctor, get out of there. I’ll cover you.” He stood behind the desk and focused on the doorway.
Smahls pulled the trigger again. This time there was no explosion. “Uh-oh.” Turning, Smahls moved as fast as his thin legs would go. He’d reached the side of the desk when shots flew from the outer room. Smahls arched backward and froze for a second, then pitched forward. He went face down to the floor and did not move.
“Shit!” Mark said.
Next to him, Doc screamed but even in her fear and panic, she still moved toward the body.
A head peeked around the corner of the door and ducked back. Voices discussed plans, but Mark could not hear the words. A grunt drew his attention. He looked down to see Doc, on her knees, tears running, dragging Smahls’ body behind the desk.
“Mel, cover the door.”
Mark lowered himself, using the desk to cover his torso. He doubted it had been constructed with stopping bullets in mind, but hopefully, his attackers wouldn’t think of that. Right now a bullet would only have to burrow through the front section of thin plywood.
“Get in here!” he said to Doc in a harsh tone. He pulled her back. Then, Mark reached out, grabbed the doctor under the arms and pulled him inside the workstation. He set the older man down and peeked fast to make sure no one had tried to gain entrance. “How is he?”
“He’s still breathing. The bullet entered his lower back. Doesn’t look like it came out. I need to work on him now.”
Dammit! Guilt washed over him. If the man hadn’t come with them, he wouldn’t have been shot. On the other hand, if he hadn’t, Mark would most certainly be dead.
“Did you find things here you can use to help him?”
“Some, it’s obvious somebody did some operating here. If I don’t do something he may only have minutes to live.”
Mark fought hard for a solution.
“Can you put pressure on the wound?”
“I’m already doing that, but that is only a very temporary help.”
“What do you have that can help?”
“IVs and bandages. I also saw some local anesthetic. If I can numb the area, I might be able to extract the bullet. I won’t know until I can look.”
“I don’t know how since we’re under fire.” He kept thinking while the gunmen were giving him the time. “Where is the stuff you need?”
“Right behind us. On the other side of the desk. I was getting it all together when they attacked.”
Mark thought that over. Behind the desk would be better cover than here. A bullet then would have to bore through two thin layers of wood sandwiched around about six foot of open space. Better, but still not good. “Can you work on the floor and by yourself?”
“I can try to get him stable.”
“Okay. Crawl behind the desk and get set up. I’ll bring the doctor when you say.”
She looked at him. A flash of fear displayed in her eyes but faded as fast as it came. “Ready?” She nodded and crawled as fast as she could. Mark rose high enough to give her cover.
No one shot at her. Perhaps no one noticed. He glanced to his right and found Mel had created a barricade behind one of the dialysis machines and lounge chairs. The rifle rested across the arms of the chair. A handgun sat on the seat. The sight of the handgun brought a thought to mind. He snapped his finger until she looked. Pointing at her, he then aimed his fingers at his eyes and toward the door. She nodded. He ducked below the desk and dropped the magazine. He had ten rounds. He wondered if Doc had fired off the others, or if she hadn’t loaded it completely.
Cautiously, he raised his head to look at the door. Whatever they were planning, it would happen soon. He stepped toward Smahls and grabbed the man by the armpits. Without waiting for word from Doc, Mark dragged him backward from between the nurses’ station to behind it. Doc had laid out what she needed. He placed the unconscious man on the sheet spread out on the floor and rolled him on his stomach. Doc pulled up his shirt. Mark wanted to help but dared not take his eyes from the door for too long. Instead, spying the metal table, he turned it on its side and pressed it against the back of the desk. The table only reached halfway up the height of the desk but it might help keep any rounds from finding Doc while she worked.
Anxiety escalated with each passing minute. He found himself wishing something would happen. No way would those men have left. They were predators and not the sort to leave with their tails tucked. Maybe they were waiting for reinforcements. If that were the case, time was their enemy. He had to force the action and take the advantage away. But how?
His arm and side were on fire, vying for his attention. With great effort, he relegated them to background nagging.
He looked down where Doc was frantically trying to save Smahls’ life. If Mark didn’t do something soon, their new friend would die.
Thirty
Mel couldn’t stop her leg from shaking in a nervous twitch. She was on one knee, behind one of the chairs the dialysis patients used when hooked to the machines. The barrel of the rifle lay across both arms of the chair. Sweat dropped in a steady flow. She wiped at her forehead with her bicep. Why did I ever volunteer for this mission? I must be nuts.
All she was trying to do was fit in, to say thanks for helping Tara. She never expected this little drive to turn into a battle.
Mark came through the door. She almost shot him, her nerve endings on fire. She felt she would explode. Mark disappeared behind the desk, looked her way and nodded, unaware he had almost died at her hands. She needed to relax. Mel tried to force her breathing to slow, her efforts wasted.
Something moved in the waiting room. The attackers must have entered the building. She tensed even more. Then the old guy came in and got shot. Her stomach threatened to revolt. She kept her eyes on the doorway expecting the attackers to pour through. Mark fired to keep them back, but she had no shot. Then everything went still, setting her already strained nerves on fire.
She risked a glance at Mark. Mel hated that he bossed her around. But then, she’d never much liked anyone giving her orders, especially a man. He wasn’t mean about it, or sexist. In fact, he’d treated her fairly, for the most part. But, just like a man, when things got tough, they thought they were the only ones who could make a decision, who had anything of importance to contribute.
He motioned to her now wanting to know how many bullets she had. She wanted to scream “None of your fucking business,” but refrained. If she could get out of here, she would. She closed her eyes and forced calmness over her. Then, told him how many. After all, she couldn’t get out of there and might need Mark to survive.
But … what? He wants me to do what?
Mark looked around the room. A heavy steel door stood in the far right-hand corner of the rear wall, but it was barred and locked to prevent break-ins. He might be able to shoot the lock open, but that would put him in direct line of sight from the waiting room. Where he was now, someone would have to make themselves a target to get a good shot at him.
He looked at the ceiling. Drop tiles. No help or escape there. Even if he could get above the tiles without being shot, they would never support his weight. Weight? A chord hummed in his head. The wall. Was it a load-bearing wall? He wasn’t an expert, but he didn’t think so. He tried to find an angle to see the width of the wall. He couldn’t, but if the door was flush with the wall, then it wasn’t very thick. Would a bullet penetrate?
He held a 9mm. That should bore through, providing he didn’t hit any supports. But if they didn’t pass through, he would waste valuable bullets. However, a rifle would do the trick for sure.
Mel was looking from the entryway to him. He dropped the magazine and showed it to her, mouthing, “How many?”
Her face scrunched up in a question mark.
He pointed at the magazine again then flashed his fingers from three to four to five and gave a one-armed shrug. She nodded and he reloaded the gun. Mel held up a magazine and showed one finger. Then she pointed at the rifle and held up five fingers. She had a full magazine and five rounds.
Mark moved to the end of the desk and motioned for her to slide him the rifle. Mel gave him a “Whatchu talking about, Willis?” look. He motioned again, more insistent, then mimed shooting through the wall, but wasn’t sure she understood. He nodded emphatically.
She frowned. He could see on her face the internal struggle raging within her. She huffed out a breath, pulled the rifle from the armrests and slid it along the floor. It hit the edge of the desk, but Mark snagged the barrel before it could ricochet away.
Keeping below the height of the desk, he moved to a point where he was to the right of the doorway. As he did, a body darted across the opening to the left side. They were readying their attack.
Mark lined up a shot, guessing where the attackers were, then lowering the sight where the larger target of the body might be. Aiming to a spot a little less than five feet from the floor and two feet from the door, he pulled the trigger, moved his aim one foot and fired again.
Someone cried out in pain. In a flash the man from the opposite side stepped into the doorway, and fired, forcing Mark to duck. Two more rounds whizzed overhead. A third shot came from Mel’s area followed by loud crashing.
“Watch out, Mark. One’s inside to your left.”
She fired again.
Mark slid to the left side of the desk and peeked. One man hid behind a lounge chair. Mel shot and the attacker ducked, then popped up and returned fire. Mark rolled in the open to his stomach, brought up the rifle and aimed. The hurried shot hit the seat back in front of the man’s face. He dove behind the chair, but now Mel had a target. She pulled the trigger twice but missed.
Then she shouted again. “Got two inside.” Her voice became more anxious. “Mark, he’s near you by the front desk.” Two more shots.
The man by the chair aimed one shot at Mark then turned to shoot at Mel. He gave Mark too much of a view of his side. This time Mark had time to set the sights. He squeezed the trigger and propelled the shooter sideways into the wall.
More gunfire occurred, but out of sight from where Mark lay. He put down the rifle and pulled out the handgun again. He had no idea where the man by the desk was, but all the hairs on his neck and arms had sprung to life. He fought back the mounting panic, but the urge to flee grew. His throat constricted in response to the rising acid in his stomach.
Mel was busy with a shooter reaching through the door. She couldn’t help him. He inched forward on elbows and knees toward the opening at the side of the desk. Only the thin layer of plywood making up the front counter separated him from the second gunman. Focusing all his senses on the desk he listened, looked and smelled for any hint of the enemy’s location.
He paused at the edge of the opening, his nerve endings alive with rapid-firing warnings. Where was the shooter? He wanted to yell to ask Mel, but that would give him away. Mark wanted to peek, but the man could be waiting for him to do just that. A gun could be inches from his face. Paralysis spread through him, afraid to move in any direction.
Something fell to the floor inside the workstation. His prey was either leaning or climbing on something that held papers. Shelves, or the desk itself. Like a bolt of striking lightning, Mark knew what was going to happen: the man was inside the workstation. Pushing forward into the opening between the two workstation walls, and landing on his side, Mark pulled the trigger in quick succession at the man who had just climbed onto the desk.
The bullets struck him as he drew a bead on the top of Doc’s head. The wounded man rolled sideways and, draped across the top wall of the workstation, shot back at Mark. The hurried shots had the desired effect, forcing Mark back undercover.
Someone screamed. Fear for Doc’s life spurred him back into action. He rolled across the opening, bringing the gun to bear. However, his target clutched at a spurting wound to his neck. Mark rolled in the other direction. On the rear side of the workstation wall stood Doc, a bloody scalpel in her hand.
Gripping his ruined neck, the man slowly slid down the desk, collapsing to the floor as his life drained away.
Mark risked a quick look at Doc. Her face, contorted into an agonized yet furious, almost unrecognizable mask, she looked at Mark, blood streaming down her face. Her harsh, rapid breaths blasted through gritted teeth. Then her features softened and she dropped from sight.
Fearing the worst, Mark scrambled around the back of the desk. Doc inserted an IV into Smahls as if nothing else was going on around her or had happened. He took a quick breath and hurried to the opposite end of the workstation to see how Mel was doing.
She caught the movement and looked his way. “No one else has tried to come in.”
Mark crawled to the front of the desk and looked at the space beyond. Mel had added another body to the collection there. He waited and listened. Taking a gamble. He darted to the wall three feet from the door. He pressed his ear against the barrier, but couldn’t hear anything. Of course, that didn’t mean someone wasn’t out there.
Inching to the door, he steeled himself then dashed across the opening. No shots tracked him. He peeked out. A body lay to the right. The outside door was in view. No one lurked there.
Taking a large, quick step, he entered the waiting room and spun to his left, gun up. Empty. Four long strides took him to the window where Mel had made her shooting hole. He pulled the curtain back and took a long scan of the parking lot. If anyone was still out there, they were well hidden.
A moan drew his attention to the man on the floor, just past the door. Mark went to him, removed the gun from reach and bent to examine him. A bullet had passed through his chest. He tried to speak but wheezed instead. The bullet had passed through the lung.
“Help ...” he managed, arched his back, groaned and relaxed, dead.
Mark frowned. It didn’t have to be this way. He couldn’t understand why, in these strange times, people wouldn’t want to work together. To help and support each other. The violence and killing made no sense. Enough of the world had died. It was time to rebuild. To come together in peace.
He stood as Mel came to the door. “You all right?”
Mark just nodded his head.
Thirty-One
He handed back her rifle and left Mel to watch the parking lot. In the back room, Mark said, “Can you help him?”
“I don’t know,” Doc said. “The bullet’s still in there. It could be lodged against his spine. I don’t know. Without an X-ray, I’d be going in blind. I’d end up doing more damage than good.” She looked up, frustration etching extra worry lines. “This is really beyond my capabilities.”
“For sure he’s gonna die if you do nothing, Doc.”
She sighed. “He needs blood. Whatever they might have here is bad.”
Smahls opened his eyes and looked at them through pained, watery eyes. He tried to speak.
Mark bent lower. “What was that, doctor?”
He spoke again, then coughed. A splattering of blood flew from his lips.
“I think he said X-ray,” said Doc. “I know,” she said to him in a louder voice, as if he were deaf.
