Breathless - Swarm Book 2: (An Epic Post-Apocalyptic Survival Thriller), page 45
The assault was over in a flash. Émile sank back onto the engineer’s seat. “The plan worked!” Larry and David stared at the bodies lying on the ground, their lips pressed into straight lines. Either they were employing their poker faces and didn’t want to show what they thought of killing, or they’d become like him, emotionless. Émile pushed any thought of remorse aside. He thought about Aiden burning up in the back of the sailboat, and Brooke and the dead back on the docks. He’d lost enough of his own crew to care about a few lowlifes.
David grabbed the guns, giving the AR-15 to Larry and the six-shooter to Émile. “We’re not done yet.” He hustled toward the observation car. “Nicholas and Matt were firing at the train, but ran out of ammo. There should be two thugs left in the passenger car. I think that’s where Mary is.”
Émile hobbled behind as fast as his leg would let him.
Divots in the train's skin showed where most of the gunplay had happened. Three windows had been cracked, and another terrorist lay on the gravel. David was right, there were two left.
David racked a fresh round into the shotgun’s chamber, climbed onto the platform of the observation car, and pointed the barrel at the door. “Larry, stay here in case they get past me. Émile, watch the front.” He forged into the car firing for effect. Guttural screams rose above the shotgun blasts.
Thundering footsteps echoed down the aisle of the coach, then stopped at the boxcar. Émile raised the pistol. He lined up the sights, but wobbled. Pistols were never his strong suit. He let the gun down and pulled out the crate hammers. If he was close enough, he could hit the last man with the blades using his good arm. A wiry young man jumped from the car and fell. Rolling to his feet he whipped his head around and caught sight of Émile. The youth charged at him, and Émile threw his first hammer. It bounced short and buried itself in the gravel. A quick dip and the youth had the hammer and returned it with as much accuracy, landing several feet away. The kid rushed forward. Émile drew the gun. He raised the pistol and fired five wild shots. The youth jerked once, but kept coming. The recoil from the muzzle shocked Émile’s injured arm and he lost his grip on the weapon. It clattered to the ground.
Émile’s body screamed in pain. As he pushed through the fire in his shoulder, the wounded kid scrambled for the gun. Émile knelt to retrieve it before the hoodlum could get it. But he was too slow. The kid wrapped his fingers around the handle and pressed the barrel against Émile’s stomach, firing the last shot. Émile jerked and doubled over. Cold seeped into his side. As the new pain joined the old, he grabbed hold of the last crate hammer and drove the blade into the kid’s neck. The strike was true, and the last gang member fell dead on the tracks.
Larry was the first to arrive. He shifted the dead body off Émile. Even though the kid was an enemy, Larry had enough compassion to remove the hammer from his neck, lay him out straight, and cross his arms over his chest.
Émile was sure that if the Catholic had a cross he would have placed it on the kid’s heart. He covered his mouth and coughed. Blood leaked through his fingers. He explored his side as the coldness from his stomach seeped into his chest. There was a hole in the side of his stomach.
Larry stood tall, his eyes dry. His shadow crept over Émile. There was remorse, but no sorrow. He pointed at Émile’s side.
Émile managed a weak smile and grunted in a hoarse whisper. “Not a word. Help me up.”
Larry pulled Émile to his feet and supported him as they limped toward the end of the train. The crew gathered around, shouting and congratulating each other. Emmett stood with Mark on the sidelines, spectators lost in the shuffle.
The revelry was short-lived. The beating wings of a million insects thrummed the air and their screeching call echoed over the transportation center. The cicadas were coming. Everyone turned to stare at the looming black cloud. Émile leaned against the train. He sucked in all the air he could manage and belted out a command. “All aboard!”
Nicholas grabbed Mark and tossed him into the passenger car and dragged Emmett behind him. The urgent motion set the rest of the crew into action, scattering and diving into whichever car was closest.
Émile took Larry’s hand and gave it a firm shake. “Take care of yourself.”
When they were all inside, the Sackmans signaled the all-clear. Émile saluted and wrapped a hand around his side. He kept pressure on the gunshot wound while supporting himself by the train wall. His limbs were leaden and every injury of the past few days shocked his system. His brain, much less his body, couldn’t take much more of the punishment. He limped with Kevin to the engine, stooped to retrieve the conductor’s cap from the gravel, and dusted it off, keeping the blood from marring the symbol of leadership.
Émile offered the hat to Kevin, but Kevin refused to take it. “Told you, I don’t make decisions.”
Émile leaned against the engine and coughed blood into his elbow. “Not for you. Give to David in Phoenix. He’ll understand.” Blood seeped through his fingers. He was fading fast.
Kevin shot forward, grabbing onto Émile to keep him upright. “Hold on hoss, let’s get you aboard. Someone needs to patch you up.”
He spat more blood. “No time. Cicadas—” It was a struggle just to talk. “No medical onboard can save me. Get the train moving, that’s an order.” Using the last reserve of his strength, he shut the door, then lost his balance, and tumbled off the steps. Crawling to the platform with his elbow and his good leg an inch at a time, he reached the pedestrian platform and rested his back against the brick and cement.
The brakes let out a hiss and the train rolled out of the station, blowing its horn twice. That was the old man’s way of saying goodbye. The chug of the engine faded from hearing. The world went dim. His family was safe. He’d completed his mission. He leaned back as a single insect flew around him and landed on his chest. It was a lone cicada. Its beady orange eyes stared up at him as he closed his eyes for the last time.
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J.T. Sloane, Breathless - Swarm Book 2: (An Epic Post-Apocalyptic Survival Thriller)
