Everyone Dies in the End #30

Cindy

It meant “wait a minute.”

Hell erupted in the street in front of the Best Buy as Dixon’s Sergeant, his men, and the M-60 machine gun tore into the Russians.

“Now,” Dixon mouthed, and he pushed open the door, rifle to his shoulder.

Cindy beat the other two through, and followed Dixon to the left, the two soldiers fanned to the right. At first they didn’t have a target, and then they did. Four Soviets lined the window, firing at Dixon’s men down the street. In the middle of the store, which looked as if it had just hosted the wildest Black Friday sale in the history of Black Fridays, sat two bloody corpses tied to office chairs. Dixon, Cindy, and the two soldiers didn’t care about them. They cared about the Soviets.

“We’ll take left, you get right,” Dixon screamed, not caring if the Soviets heard him. And then his rifle was on his shoulder, flame erupting from the tip of the barrel.

The Soviet machine gunner died first, the bullets from Dixon’s M-16 ripping open the back of his shirt and then the flesh beneath. The other three Soviets spun and dived for the floor. A bullet from Dixon’s soldiers caught one in the face, killing him instantly, but the other two men returned fire, whether by luck or coincidence both fired at the Americans on the right. The Soviets were good and the men died in a hail of bullets.

Dixon’s M-16 popped again, and yet another of the Soviets died. One remained. Judging by the stripes on his sleeves, he was some kind of leader, at least that was what Cindy surmised. Ignoring Dixon, the Soviet rolled on his side, and aimed his assault rifle at the ManPot.

Dixon pulled the M-16’s trigger. Cindy knew, because the world had gone quiet, the world had gone slow. No more firing came from the street, no more firing came from Cindy, Dixon, or the Soviet. No more firing because the pulling of Dixon’s finger didn’t prompt a spewing of lethal 5.56 rounds from the tip of the M-16, it didn’t stop the Soviet from leveling his weapon, it just prompted an impotent click. The magazine was empty and there was no time to reload. My turn, thought Cindy.

She blinked, and she was over the Soviet, her stomach churning only a little. The barrel of her shotgun dug into the back of the man’s neck, but the digging had no effect. She could see his finger whitening.

           Oh no you don’t, she thought, and she pulled the shotgun’s trigger. At least that was what she intended to do, but a nanosecond before the intent became reality she fell. Pushed down, would be a better description, but either way the shotgun’s storm of pellets missed their intended target.