of them, but they’re running out of ammunition,” Clayton answered. “I’ve also diverted more troopers, but you might want to make sure you have easy access to your rifle.”
“Running out of ammo,” Robespierre repeated. “Are they in a restaurant or a grocery store?”
“Uh…no. A delivery truck, refrigerated, for produce,” Clayton said. “How did you know the call-in was about a food riot?”
“Because I saw the damage done at a roadside fruit stand,” Robespierre told her. “I don’t get it. There’s all kinds of food around, and these people are scrambling to down so much that they choke on it?”
He’d reached the rise of a hill and looked down on the small town of Albion. Bodies were strewed in the road running through the center of town, and fires had broken out in different corners of the little burg. Robespierre looked at the Smith & Wesson Military and Police 15 rifle locked into its dashboard rack. The weapon was one of the latest M-16 clones built by various companies foreign and domestic, but the M&P was the same “brand” as the .40-caliber pistol on his hip, so the Iowa state troopers had received a deal on both sidearms and patrol rifles. Robespierre had enjoyed shooting the MP-15; it was accurate and wasn’t prone to jamming like other M-16 knockoffs, but this would be the first time he’d have to utilize it in an actual fight.
Gunfire crackled in the distance, and from the sound of things, it was more than just a few deputies firing. This was a back-and-forth gunfight; no surprise here since rural communities and guns went hand-in-hand. Almost every household had a gun rack of some sort, and more than a couple had full-size safes. But these were sporting arms, legally purchased and owned, not the stolen outlaw arms that were smuggled into cities with weapons bans that only ended up disarming law-abiding citizens. Raging gun battles just didn’t happen in small, friendly communities where everyone had jobs and the means to support themselves.
But now, that had all changed, Robespierre realized. People were starving so badly that they risked shotgun blasts or gorged until their throats swelled and suffocated themselves. Now they were taking any means necessary to find a way to fill their starving gullets. That meant that someone between them and their food would have to die. Hunting rifles and shotguns might have been far too much for handgun-equipped deputies to deal with, unless starvation had been severely detrimental to their marksmanship.
Robespierre didn’t know what to expect, but he saw the refrigerated truck, bodies sprawled around in a battlefield of pure carnage. His Zeiss binoculars were sharp enough to give him a crystal clear view of the siege. Sweeping the scene, he saw one of the county deputy cars peppered with bullet holes. The fender hung off it like fluttering, ragged wallpaper, it had been blasted so ferociously. Deer-hunter rifles and 12-gauge buckshot were devastating against body armor, and even the fiberglass and metal of a squad car could be weakened so drastically with perforations that it fluttered like a tattered flag.
“Clayton, can you put me through to the deputies?” Robespierre asked as he adjusted the collapsible stock on his MP-15. His rifle was sighted in for point-blank at 100 yards, but the distance he looked at now was closer to 250. Immediately, he recalled his training class. The M-16’s classic 5.56 mm NATO round was lighter and much flatter shooting than the rifles Robespierre had grown up with. He’d have to trust the micrometer flip-up sights to not undershoot at the gunmen harrying his fellow lawmen. While he’d heard that abbreviated M-16s in the Gulf and Afghanistan had proved to be less than fully effective at long distances, the Iowa DPS had assured him that those failures were with rifles with barrels two inches shorter, and utilizing standard military ball ammunition. None of the alleged shortcomings were apparent in the hands of marksmen who placed their shots well.
“You’re hooked up now, Robey,” Clayton said over the radio.
“How many troopers we have here?” a deputy asked.
“Just one,” Robespierre said. “But backup’s on the way. What’s the situation down there?”
“I’ve got one officer down and bleeding badly,” came the response. “And there’s six crazies with guns still active around us. I’m on my last five shots.”
Robespierre hoped that his sights were tuned correctly as he pulled the trigger on the MP-15, spitting a single projectile out of the barrel. The 5.56 mm bullet struck the metal of a railing 250 yards away, sparks flying and causing one of the food-caked gunmen only inches from the point of impact to flinch, rifle slipping from his hands. Robespierre’s heart hammered as he realized that he’d taken a shot at another human being. As a lawman, his job was to save and protect lives, not take them, and shooting someone in the back was something he hadn’t anticipated.
This wasn’t a wild canine stalking a chicken coop or an injured farm animal that had been mortally wounded by a car; this was a fellow American citizen. Robespierre pulled the trigger again, nerves getting to him as his finger jerked hard, pulling the weapon off target. The second shot made another of the marauding riflemen stumble, and he realized that it was a teenage boy, his face smeared with crusted food. His shirt buttons had popped around his belly, exposing livid red welts where the skin and tissue had split from where his belly had expanded. The kid collapsed to the ground with enough force that his overstretched stomach burst, coils of stuffed intestine rolling out of splits in the skin.
Robespierre recoiled mentally from the horror of what had happened to the kid he’d just shot.
“Christ, not another popper,” the deputy groaned.
“Another?” Robespierre asked.
“These guys are crammed full of shit that’s been sitting in their guts for days. None of it’s digested,” the deputy explained. “Look out, they’re heading up toward you.”
“Then get out of there,” Robespierre said. “I’ve got their attention.”
“You can handle this?” the deputy asked.
Robespierre tried to tame the butterflies that whirled in his stomach, but managed the strength to lie. “I got this.”
The windshield of his Crown Vic suddenly violently shuddered, a fist-size hole punched through it. One of the remaining gunmen had cut loose with his bolt-action rifle, a powerful .30-caliber deer-hunting round easily penetrating the squad-car-quality safety glass. Another bullet made a loud crunch against the grille of the car, steam suddenly spitting out of the cracks between the hood and the fenders. Robespierre, even crouched behind the door of his car, had to recoil from the sudden wave of heat blowing over him. Other guns boomed downrange, but nothing came close. They were either pistol-caliber carbines or they were shotguns, unable to reach all the way up to the squad car.
It was a small consolation. Robespierre was half blinded by steam and he was in no mood to go up against a group of people who might as well have just been more victims than madmen.
Suddenly, the world seemed to go silent around Robespierre. A weight built up in the trooper’s chest, an oppressive force that seemed to crush his ribs and threatened to burst his lungs and heart. He glanced down at his chest and saw that his uniform blouse was darkening, growing slick against his chest. The squad car’s door had smoke curling through a hole that hadn’t been there before and Robespierre toppled helplessly away from the squad car, gasping and trying to fill his lungs.
He’d worn his vest, but the bullet, after cutting through sheet metal and the car’s interior wall, had gone through his side, only clipping the edge of his Kevlar. The overwhelming trauma of the impact was not an indication of the lethality of the hit, thankfully. The 30-caliber slug had shattered a
