Her AR-15 wouldn’t do a thing against an armored helicopter. She had to get these people out of here. She had to get Gran.
Heart in her throat, Quinn kept searching, wildly scanning each familiar face. Not her, not her, not her.
And then there she was. Fifty yards away, Gran hobbled down the middle of the street. She held a little tow-headed toddler, her cane hooked uselessly over one arm.
Two boys no older than ten ran beside her, one dragging a screaming preschooler by the hand, the other clutching Gran’s Mossberg aimed downward, the barrel banging his skinny legs.
Their neighbors. The four orphaned boys that Annette King had taken under her wing after their mother drank contaminated river water. Gran had been showing them how to milk Oreo and make homemade cheese from goat’s milk.
Blind panic gripped Quinn.
Gran wasn’t moving fast enough. She wouldn’t make it.
The helicopter roared closer. Rotors beat the air. The engines growled like a living creature.
A predator on the hunt.
40
Quinn
Day One Hundred and Thirteen
Quinn started toward them. “Gran!”
The Black Hawk swooped low.
The townspeople shrieked and ducked as the great mechanical beast beat the air above them, casting a menacing shadow.
From the sandbagged rooftops, Fall Creek’s shooters fired at the helo. At least two of the stolen M60 belt-fed machine guns opened fire.
The Black Hawk swerved and kept going. It soared past them to the end of the road before banking sharply and heading back in their direction.
It pitched back and forth, avoiding the small-arms fire, veering to and fro like a dragon. Like some prehistoric monster hunting them, attempting to flush them out like frightened mice.
They hadn’t fired yet. Didn’t mean they wouldn’t.
Quinn sprinted toward Gran and the kids, running against the flow of frantic people, elbows and knees bumping and banging into her. Her sore muscles ached, her ribs throbbing.
Above her, the Black Hawk leveled out. Then it shot forward a couple hundred yards and hovered over the Clothesline laundromat on the corner. AK and AR rounds pinged against its armored belly.
With a great boom like thunder, its miniguns opened up.
The helo unleashed a stream of firepower and tore into the building. A 70mm rocket streaked through the sky. It exploded and blew off half the roof.
A sound like the fabric of the world ripping apart. The great tearing noise shredded her eardrums.
She reached Gran at the abandoned Schwan’s delivery truck.
Gran had slowed to a shuffle. Her back bent almost double. Without her cane, the toddler’s weight was too much for her old bones.
Quinn held out her hands. “Let me take him!”
Gran thrust the child into her arms.
His name was Joey. He carried a blue stuffed bunny everywhere, but he didn’t have it now. Maybe that explained his screaming.
He was heavy and squirming. His hands and face were sticky with snot and tears. The cuts on her hand stung so badly, she nearly dropped him.
“Get out of here!” Gran wheezed, waving her away.
Ignoring her, Quinn spun to the three boys. “Run! Come on! Run to the school!”
Their eyes wide with shock and fear, they obeyed. Tina Gundy sprinted past. She caught sight of them and slowed, motioning for them to follow her. Together, they ran for the school.
Over downtown, the Black Hawk circled higher to avoid the small-arms fire. Various security teams popped out of hiding to fire up at it with their ARs and AKs. More M60s shattered the air, driving the bird upward.
With a roar, it swung back around, aiming its 7.62mm miniguns to take them out. A brief burst. One of the M60s fell silent.
Their long guns seemed incredibly flimsy in comparison. Like water guns. Children’s toys.
“Go!” Quinn cried. “Go! Go!”
Gran stumbled. Her cane clattered to the asphalt.
“Gran!” Quinn reached for Gran, struggling to maintain her hold on the shrieking toddler. With her free hand, she yanked Gran to her feet. “We have to go!”
They were still a hundred yards from the school.
Gran swayed unsteadily. “You go—”
“I’m not leaving you!”
The Black Hawk turned and swooped back for another lethal run. It headed straight toward them. Incredibly loud, its engines roaring. The rotor wash beat at them with the fury of a mighty wind.
It was so close. Close enough to see the pilot through the windshield. Close enough to make out the twin miniguns swiveling toward them.
“Gran!” Her mouth was open; she was screaming but she couldn’t hear the sounds emanating from her own throat. “Gran!”