Free Seven Out of Hell by George G. Gilman Page A

Four raiders screamed and reeled drunkenly before slumping to the ground, pumping blood from head and chest wounds. Two survivors on the street turned and scuttled for the cover of the houses opposite. One of them reached safety but the second was launched into a clumsy cart wheeling motion as a bullet from Forrest’s rifle took the man high in the thigh. He dropped his gun and tried to drag himself one-handed across the sun-baked street as his other hand clawed at the blood-soaked raggedness of his jeans. The rest of the raiders ran into the house where Terry stood, trembling in a rage, shrieking a string of obscenities.
    “Come on, Cookie!” the raider on the far side of the street yelled, not daring to break cover to help the injured man.
    “Yeah, Cookie!” Seward taunted. “Get the lead outta your pants!”
    “For Christ’s sake, they’ll kill you!”
    The injured man clawed at the hard ground, his features painted with agony. His body snaked forward a pitiful few inches. Four shots rang out simultaneously and pieces of bloodied flesh and shiny bone splinters spun away from the back of the man’s head. His face snapped forward into the ground and he lay still.
    “Bastards!” the man across the street screamed.
    “Just the way the Cookie crumbles!” Forrest taunted in reply.
    Since the houses were built in a straight line neither group could see its enemy and only the man who had reached the other side of the street was in a position to assess the situation.
    “Hemingway!” Terry yelled.
    “Yeah, Bill?” The man’s voice was still shaky with shock.
    “What d’you see?”
    “House next door and the one next to that.”
    Terry, sweating, irritatingly aware of the five pairs of eyes looking to him for a decision, began to pace the room.
    “We got took, Bill,” a bearded fifty-year-old complained. “Them army guys must have smelled a rat.”
    Terry’s arm swung and the saber point was suddenly resting against the man’s middle. “Must have been you,” Terry snarled. “You stink of fear.”
    The man’s beard quivered. “Yeah, Bill,” he agreed. “But what we gonna do?”
    Terry snorted, spun away from the man and went to the window. He stared out at the empty street. “We’re gonna wait, that’s what,” he hissed. “We’re gonna sweat the army into making first move.”
    And the troopers were sweating. The air inside the houses was cloyed with stale heat and the tension of knowing that sudden death lurked only feet away was a strong additional factor in sheening the men’s faces with moisture.
    “Reckon they’re waiting for us to do somethin’, Captain?” Bell whispered.
    Hedges finished reloading his Spencer and pumped a shell into the breech. “They sure as hell ain’t taking a coffee break,” he answered.
    “So what we gonna do?” Bell asked.
    “Keep ’em from getting bored,” Hedges replied, stepping to the door and jerking it open.
    Hemingway, one of the few raiders wearing a semblance of army uniform - a forage cap - heard the creak of the door. He poked his rifle around the corner of the house and fired one blind shot. His bullet had not found a wild mark in the roof before the Spencers of Bell and Hedges spat lead. Wood splinters flew into the raider’s face, hard and jagged enough to draw blood. As he screamed and threw up his hands to his face, his rifle clattered down on to the street.
    “Farewell to an arm,” Hedges muttered as Forrest and Seward sent a volley of bullets towards Hemingway’s position, driving the man further back from the corner.
    In the vibrant silence that followed the burst of gunfire the heat seemed to increase in intensity. But then the sound of running feet caused every man in the three houses to tighten his grip on his rifle. But the footfalls were moving away from the street and Hedges grinned as he spotted the retreating figure of Hemingway.
    Terry bellowed his rage and the shot that was sent after the fleeing man came from his gun. It