She Has A Broken Thing Where Her Heart Should Be - J.D. Barker Page 0,236

the GTO.

My father’s voice came through the tinny speaker of my handheld radio. “Jack. It’s not what you think.”

And from the woods, nearly fifty people stepped forward, all dressed in white. They carried candles as they started toward the gully between the distant railroad tracks.

20

“Shit,” Preacher said, peering at the rushing mob through the scope of his Savage model 110 long-range hunting rifle.

Hobson was to his left, Dunk to his right.

“Do you have binoculars?”

Dunk handed him a bulky pair of Swarovski’s. Military grade with a built-in laser rangefinder. Dunk then pressed the transmit button on his radio. “Hold fire until I give the word.”

Hobson said, “How many?”

Preacher panned back and forth. “Fifty, sixty…hard to say.”

They had heard the recording blaring from the speakers of the Pontiac GTO. They had also heard Eddie Thatch chime in at the end over the radios. When Preacher looked for him on the roof, he wasn’t there. He had seen him earlier, gone now, though.

Dunk said, “Do you see any weapons?”

“Maybe. Under the coats. Hard to say. Looks like they’re all carrying candles.”

“Candles?”

Dunk frowned. “Any idea why they always wear white?”

“Fuck if I know.” Preacher handed the binoculars back to Dunk and chambered a round in his rifle.

“You want to start a fire fight?” Dunk said.

“I’m gonna teach them some boundaries.”

Dunk pressed the transmit button on his radio again. “You’re going to hear some shots. Everyone else, hold fire. I repeat, hold fire.”

The rifle bucked, but Preacher’s shot held steady. Through the sight, he saw a chunk of the hill at the railroad tracks explode about a foot away from two of the approaching figures.

Dunk watched through the binoculars. “That could have ricocheted.”

“I’m not too concerned with their well-being.” Preacher tugged back the bolt, ejecting the expired shell casing and loading another round. He pivoted slightly and fired again, this shot landing near the opposite end of the gully. The shot struck a railroad tie about a foot away from one of the people in white. He didn’t flinch, didn’t react at all, just kept coming.

Dunk asked, “Can Pickford tell someone to ignore bullets or not fear death?”

Preacher fired again. The round embedded in the dirt less than four inches from a twenty-something woman in white. She didn’t flinch either, only pressed forward.

“If Pickford can tell someone to kill themselves and they do it, I think we’ve gotta assume he can get them to do damn near anything he wants,” Preacher said. He fired again. This time he hit the foot of a man coming toward them near the center of the line, now past the railroad tracks and moving faster on flat ground. The man’s shoe exploded, but he kept coming, dragging the damaged leg behind him, oblivious to what must have been a tremendous amount of pain. “I can do this all night long, but they’re not stopping. We need a new plan.”

“At their current pace, they’ll reach the building in about three minutes,” Hobson pointed out.

Preacher looked at Dunk. “This is your show, but the way I see it, you’ve only got two choices. We open fire and take them out, or let them get close and risk fighting one on one. It’s an even match by the numbers, but it will be bloody for both sides.”

“We don’t even know if they’re carrying. I’m not comfortable mowing down a bunch of unarmed, candle-toting nuts.”

Preacher smirked. “I thought you were some kind of gangster.”

Dunk thought about this for a second, then reached for the transmit button on his radio. “On my count, all shooters with long-range weapons fire half a dozen shots—group them about a foot in front of those people. Warning shots only. We don’t want to hit anyone. Not yet.”

“We need to go for the head and heart,” Preacher muttered, lining up his site.

“Kill shots come next,” Dunk said, giving the order to fire.

21

“Jack, are you okay?”

Stella’s gloved hand was on my arm.

The recording echoed in my head.

My father’s voice after. Jack. It’s not what you think.

I forced a nod.

That was when a hail of bullets streamed out from the roof and various positions at the front of the steel mill. Out in the open field between the railroad tracks and Carrie Furnace Boulevard, the ground exploded—dirt, dust, and grime filled the air just ahead of the large mob moving toward the building.

The people in white weren’t running. Instead, they all walked at an extremely fast clip, the candles cradled between their hands and held out before them.

They didn’t slow down.

They