Villain (Gone 8)

“Sir, no sir, we can’t just start blowing shit up!”

Poole drew his service revolver and pressed it against the man’s head. “I said fire!”

“I’m the driver, not a weapons operator!” Poole’s brain screamed NO! but he fired once. The driver’s brains decorated the inside of the windshield and side window.

The JLTV swerved left, bumped against a light pole, and stalled. Poole, afire with desperate need, leaped out and ran down the line of his column yelling, “Fire on all buildings! Fire on all buildings!”

He was tackled by a second lieutenant, still raving and punching. More soldiers ran and surrounded their commander, lifting him as well as they could given his hysteria, and hauled him toward the ambulances in the rear.

At that moment a pickup truck, its bed full of barrels, came roaring out of the Paris driveway and smashed straight into the number-one tank. The barrels, filled with gasoline, split on impact, spraying fuel over the tank. The tank’s commander stared stupidly, still yelling orders to his crew to fire! Fire! Fire on that casino! Gasoline found the hot engine block and burst into flames as the crew bailed out of their hatches. The fleeing tankers were immediately set upon by the waiting, sinister crowd and were beaten and battered to death.

The tank’s commander yelled, “Fire! Fire!” until smoke from the literal fire choked his throat and then rose to consume him.

“Irony,” Dillon muttered, shaking his head in mock concern. He had snuck away from the Triunfo to directly supervise his mob on the Strip, confident that his control meant he could return when necessary. But then, trying to find a place to hole up, he had been beaten back by determined (ear-covered) resistance at the Flamingo and at the Linq, the two casinos across the Strip from Caesars. But he’d been able to take control of a restaurant called Margaritaville, and now stood on the second floor, looking out through a window he’d had Kate shoot out so he could hear—and speak—as well as see.

He still had five Cheerios with him, as well as three ex-military who claimed to know how to use the missiles Dillon’s forces had seized in a raid on the National Guard armory. One of them had, when forced to do so, made some recommendations, among them that Dillon should divide his forces into battalions.

On the plus side, Dillon thought: I have a very nice margarita here, with extra salt. He had never tasted a margarita before, and he quite liked it. But after his earlier experience he made a mental note not to drink more.

On the negative side, he could not get the Jimmy Buffet song out of his head. Which was far from the most annoying thing in his head, because all the while the Dark Watchers were whispering their silent whispers and seeming—at least to Dillon—to be watching with the enjoyment of professional sports fans on Super Bowl Sunday.

And on the still more negative side, one tank round through the front of Margaritaville . . .

Dillon glanced at his ex-soldiers. “Yeah, we can’t have you guys shooting from here, you’ll draw fire. Go out, walk south, and take a shot when you find a good target.”

One tank was burning. The lead vehicle, the command JLTV, had been driven off the road. But a shocking amount of death-dealing armor was slowly but inexorably advancing, now less than fifty yards from the first line of Dillon’s slave army.

Dillon took a long pull from his margarita, raised his bullhorn, and yelled, “First battalion! Attack!”

Words I never expected to say . . .

With a will, a thousand or more people, people of all ages, from elderly down to small children, ran down both sides of the column, firing guns. As they ran they lit the Molotov cocktails Dillon had thoughtfully provided after having his Cheerios hijack a Chevron fuel truck. These they smashed against tanks and trucks and armored personnel carriers.

Half a dozen vehicles were on fire before the temporarily leaderless men and women in the column reached their own conclusions and opened return fire; .30-caliber and .50-caliber machine guns roared. Tracer rounds lanced here and there like bright lasers.

B-r-r-r-r-t!

B-r-r-r-r-t!

Civilians ran at the tanks and fell, heads blown open like dropped watermelons. They ran as parts of them—hands, ears, shoulders—were crudely dissected by slugs the size of a man’s fingertip flying at a devastating 2,910 feet per second.

But they did not stop. They screamed, they shouted apologies, they begged to be spared, but they did not turn tail. They were helplessly fearless, running down the column, throwing their gasoline bombs, firing at any exposed soldier. But it was flesh-and-blood amateurs versus professional soldiers, and the slaughter was horrifying.

“You like that, don’t you?” Dillon asked the unseen audience. “Yeah, you love that shit.”

The second tank in line swerved past the first, past the crashed JLTV, gunned its engine and drove right into the remaining crowd, machine guns blazing.

“So much louder in real life,” Dillon muttered. “You! Get me another margarita. Extra salt!”

The tank treads crunched bone and squashed flesh, but none of Dillon’s voice slaves ran.

None moved aside.

They stood and were crushed. Or, if they were in the first battalion, attacked and were gunned down. Dozens had fallen already. Blood in slick pools reflected the Las Vegas lights.

The machine guns tore big red holes in legs and chests, in stomachs and groins and faces. In men and women. Young and old. And as they fell to the guns they were crushed beneath the M1A2’s seventy tons.

Woosh . . . BAM!