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on anyone stupid enough to show themselves.
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John and Paul were both furious.
"Bastards will raid our food supplies once they get into the cellar," said the
older boy. "Could finish us. Must be twenty still alive and unwounded."
"Can't have that." Mac glanced at them. "We stay up here and they steal
everything. Might as well get killed quick as face that. Think of the little
ones starving slowly to death."
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"Should we risk attacking them?" asked Paul. "Lot of them."
"Sure. Rabble. Six of us, well armed. Six McGills against a raggedy mob. Let's
go get the bastards! Check ammo."
"If we go down the stairs, they'll& " began John McGill.
"I'm going out on the roof. And you're coming with me. Shotgun each. Won't
expect us attacking them through the broken kitchen door. Moment you hear us
open fire, then Paul and Pamela come down to help. You two " Mac pointed at
Angel and Jeanne, " stay up here and guard the little ones. No matter what
happens, you both stay put."
"I'd forgotten how forceful Mac could be," Jeanne said with a grin, kissing
him lightly on the cheek. "Go get them."
IT WAS BITINGLY COLD and the shingles on the sloping roof were treacherous
with ice. Mac and his son were both barefoot, picking their cautious way down.
There was still bedlam from inside the first floor, with someone singing out
an obscene parody of the good old hymn, "Shall We Gather at the
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River?"
There was deep snow piled at the eastern end of the porch, and Mac went first,
gasping as he landed clumsily, twisting his ankle on rutted ice. But he was
able to stand, wincing as he put weight on the right leg. John was quickly
down at his side.
"You all right, Dad?"
"Sure. Can't run far, but I'm not figuring on doing any bastard running. Sure
a squid like you can keep up?"
"At your shoulder, Dad."
McGill nodded, feeling a surge of pride and love for his boy.
He gripped the Brazzi tight, and John followed suit with the Winchester. He
had a handful of shells in his pocket.
The door had been completely destroyed, the wood ripped apart by dozens of
hacking ax blows.
"Need to layer it with steel next time," muttered John.
"Get the house back first."
His son clapped him on the shoulder.
Mac braced the shotgun at his hip, carefully stepping in over the splinters of
painted wood, picking his way between the shards of broken glass.
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A man and a woman were copulating on top of the table, taking it in turns to
swig from a green bottle of wine. For several heartbeats neither of them took
any notice as the two men appeared at their side.
Then the woman's mouth dropped open, showing toothless gums, and she drew in a
long breath ready to scream.
Mac didn't hesitate. He pressed the muzzle of the Brazzi shotgun into the
man's back, just to the right of his spine, and squeezed the trigger.
The sound of the shot was muffled, but the effect was utterly devastating. The
shot tore through the liver, shredding it to rags, then carried on almost
unchecked into the woman's lower stomach.
Mac knew enough about death to be certain he didn't have to waste another
round on either of them.
The man rolled off, the back of his shirt flaring into yellow flames from the
proximity of the blast. He was rigid with shock, arms spread as he crashed to
the floor. Blood was pouring from the massive exit wound above the hip.
The woman lay on the table, legs splayed. Both hands had gone to the gaping
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wound in her belly, as though she was trying to stuff the yellowish coils of
intestine back inside herself.
The man was making a harsh rattling sound in his throat, and the woman was
gasping, her breathing fast and shallow.
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Nobody else on the first floor of the house seemed aware that the avengers
were among them. Ahead of them, in the dining room, the light was on, and the
singing was louder, accompanied by the smashing of glass. McGill had a moment
to wish he'd put on his combat boots.
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