Standard Disclaimer: No copyrighted material used in this chapter belongs to me. This story belongs to Linda Howard/Jones with some RIB and the writers of Glee mixed in. Rated M for violence and deaths and racist language...a whole lot of ugliness...No dedications in this chapter this is when the ugliness happens, but it is over quickly, I promise. It's Christmas Eve if you celebrate, and I hope you are enjoying today, that is the only positive thing I have to say...

Chapter Twenty-Four

An hour before Lawrence's scheduled meeting, Sam, Mike, Brett, and Dave were in place around the deserted crafts building, which was literally no more than a mile, a mere skip and a hop, from Cedes's house. The curvy, hilly roads made it seem farther than it was. The layout of the surroundings was just as Tina Cohen Chang had described it, providing them with adequate cover. He had weighed the anonymity of walking in, using the terrain as cover, against the benefit of having vehicles nearby in case they needed to get somewhere fast. He'd opted for driving to a barn about half a mile away and concealing their vehicles there.

He could've used more men, definitely, but the more who knew about the plan the more likely it was someone would say the wrong thing to the wrong person, deliberately or by accident, it didn't matter. Not only that, concealment for more than four would have gotten exponentially more difficult. Four men were enough, in Sam's opinion, and he instinctively trusted the other three, as well as the two guarding Roz's house and the women in it.

Paul and Carl were guarding Roz's house, where the women waited. Sam didn't expect trouble, but he'd be damned if he hadn't planned for it. These MFers had nearly killed Cedes once, and once was more than enough.

There was no cover at the front of the building, a single-story dark-wood box that looked very much like a cheaply built mountain house. There was a faded sign near the road, advertising arts and crafts, as well as homemade jam. He didn't know how long the business had been closed, but it had been long enough for bushes to grow up to the windows on the side, and for that sign to weather so much you had to be right up on it to read the words. Sam and the men he had chosen to be here were situated at the back and to both sides. Those who were positioned on the side could see most of the entrance, the front steps and most of the wide, rustic porch. The parking lot was in full view.

Ten minutes before the scheduled meet, Cody and a second man arrived, went into the store. Sam couldn't connect all the names with the faces, but Mike could. That didn't do him any good, since Mike was on the other side of the building. They had walkies, but they were for emergencies only; in such close proximity, no sense in taking a chance that someone would hear.

A few minutes later two others arrived, and one of them had a pronounced limp. That had to be Cooter, the man Bree—or Cedes—had wounded during the attack on her store.

The time to meet came and went, and no Lawrence. There was one other man other than Lawrence who hadn't arrived, but Sam didn't know which one that might be. By process of elimination, he guessed it was Lawrence's brother, Rick, who was also absent.

He didn't like it. He began to get an uneasy feeling, because the man who had called the meeting wasn't there. This wasn't good.

Herb pulled into the gravel lot, parked crookedly, and sat in his car for a moment before he opened the door and got out. The man would make a lousy operative. He was pale, looking like a dead man walking, and even from here Sam could tell he was nervous. He should have known yesterday how the man was acting at Mike's home that something was wrong with the man. He was obviously in shock and maybe in fear of his own mortality. Sam felt unease about using the man in this operation, but it was too late to stop the plan now.

Herb's only job was to get the group outside, all together, either by calling an early end to the meeting or taking it to the front porch. In the open, Sam and the members of the community patrol who surrounded the building would surround and capture the group. There was some debate about what to do with them afterward. To kill them would be murder, under the existing—if currently unavailable—law. If they arrested the men, where would they be housed? Not only did the town not have a jail, but detaining them would make the community responsible for feeding them and keeping them warm for however long was necessary, likely at least a year and probably longer, until they could be turned over to whatever kind of law enforcement resumed activities first. And the amount of crimes that they would be prosecuting; this could be a never-ending responsibility.

As far as Sam was concerned, there were two options: execution, or banishment. These men were a menace, but so far they hadn't done anything that warranted a death sentence. The best solution he could come up with was to split the group and drive them in several different directions, drop them off with no weapons and a day's worth of food, and be done with them. They'd probably end up being trouble for someone else, but he couldn't worry about that. He had to concentrate on keeping his own little corner of the world safe.

They'd shot at Cedes and Bree. They had to go, one way or another.

A few more minutes ticked past, and still no Lawrence or Rick. Had they smelled something wrong? Or were they just delayed, for another reason? For that matter, they were meth addicts; God only knows what could have sidetracked them.

The waiting was eating at him. He'd sat for days in ambush with more patience than he had as he waited to get his hands on Lawrence Nelson.

Gunfire reverberated inside the building, shattering the quiet. Sam leaped to his feet and charged toward the building, the four of them converging on it, two toward the front door, two at the back.

Sam went in first, with Mike right behind him. From the rear of the building came the sound of splintering wood as Dave and Brett began breaking through the locked back door.

Four of the men, all gathered in the main room near what had once been a checkout counter, were caught by surprise. All four were armed, one with a rifle, the other three with handguns. Herb was on his back, on the floor, writhing and screaming, "Wait! No!" He was bleeding heavily from a wound high on his chest, and Sam knew immediately his situation wasn't good. Cooter had his rifle aimed at Herb's head, about to finish the job.

Cooter swung his rifle toward Sam and Mike, and Sam fired the shotgun. The heavy slug would drop a deer, and it knocked Cooter back several feet before he crashed into an empty display rack, then collapsed to the floor. The other three men scattered like cockroaches, not knowing where to go with men coming in both the front and back doors. But they didn't go down easy, they were shooting as they scattered. Sam was faster than any of them, his reactions pure instinct honed by years of training. Cody fired and missed, then Sam shot him between the eyes. He sprawled backward, dead before he hit the floor. Mike's aim wasn't as good as Sam's, but he got one man in the arm. The guy screamed and spun to the side, dropped down, raised his pistol again.

Brett shot but his aim was high and wide. Dave went down on one knee and coolly took down the wounded man armed with the pistol, but not before the man got off a shot at Mike. Mike stumbled and went down. Brett kicked the wounded man's arm and sent the pistol flying.

Ears ringing, nose and eyes stinging from the smoke, Sam swiftly knelt beside Mike and checked how bad he was wounded. The wound was in the fleshy part of the chest just under his arm, likely not life-threatening as long as there wasn't infection, but painful as hell.

"How are you doing?" he asked casually, pulling his knife from his pocket and slicing off the bottom of Mike's shirt to make a cloth pad. Taking a pack of blood-clotting powder from the cargo pocket in his pants, he sprinkled some over the wound then covered it with the cloth pad and pressed hard.

"Beyond crappy, don't you know that doctors make the worst patients," Mike answered, his voice raspy.

"Look out!" Herb half shouted, half groaned. Sam spun on his knee; Cooter had struggled to a partial sitting position, despite the massive wound to his chest, and was struggling to steady his rifle. Sam rolled into the clear, and fired again. Cooter shuddered and lay still, the rifle falling from his limp hand. This time the piece of trash was dead, but Sam cursed at himself for not checking to make sure the first time. This time, he went over and picked up the rifle, though he was damn sure Cooter was dead now.

Three men were dead, and three injured.

Swiftly Sam checked Herb, who had gone still. He was unconscious now, which was probably for the best. Sam tore open his shirt, and cussed under his breath. Herb's wound was much worse than Mike's; in different times, with a hospital nearby, he'd have a good chance of surgery and a possible recovery. With Mike being injured and unable to perform surgery, Sam didn't think he'd make it. Nevertheless he swiftly did what he could with the same rough first aid he'd used on Mike. Frothy air bubbles in the wound told him Herb's lung had been hit.

"How is he doing?" Mike ever the doctor asked, panting as he tried to struggle to his feet.

Sam silently shook his head and took Mike's arm on his uninjured side, and helped him get upright.

Urgency was still gnawing at him. He went over to where Brett was holding a weapon on the other wounded man, and dropped to his haunches beside him. "Where are Lawrence and Rick?"

The man just laughed. That short laugh was followed by a raspy cough, a groan. He didn't look good, and Sam wasn't going to waste any clotting powder or sympathy on him.

Mike edged closer, hunched over against the pain. "Come on, Hunter. No point in being loyal to Nelson, he'd throw you to the wolves without thinking twice. What the hell are you doing here with this crew anyway?"

Hunter grimaced. "I always liked you, Mike, but this mess . . . I don't want to die. I don't want to starve to death, and I sure as hell don't want to sit back and let folks who don't give a shit about me tell me how to live my life. Lawrence's plan seemed like a good one. No point in letting someone else have it all. I have never been poor in my life. Lawrence allowed me to barter jewelry and cars for drugs. He also came up with a plan to make us all rich. He is looking out for guys like me."

Mike shook his head. "You know you are lying to yourself. The only reason you are with Nelson is that you didn't want to have to do without your drugs, and you saw this as a way to make sure you didn't have to. I knew your parents. They'd be so ashamed of you."

Hunter sneered. He was from a wealthy family, but they were gone and all their money was in stocks and bonds. They knew not to trust him with their wealth. So, he was set up on a trust that prevented him for blowing his inheritance on sex and drugs. After the CME hit, he had little to no cash, no food, no hunting or fishing experience, and the drugs he did have provided him with a way of escape. An escape he knew well with coke and pot. But there was no more coke, and pot and meth were his only ways to get high. If he'd cared what his family thought, he wouldn't have gotten involved with Nelson. He cast a glance at Herb, then back at Sam. "Lawrence was certain that Duncan there might go soft on us, so we've been watching him for the past couple of days. You think you've won, but just you wait. Lawrence and Rick are taking care of those black bitches." He laughed again, choked hard, and then he stopped breathing.

Sam surged to his feet, hell burning in his eyes. He hit the door at a run, cursing every second it would take him to get to his truck not even noticing that Brett was close on his heels. His mind was on the one he used to call his Kryptonite.

His Cedes.

Cedes paced in Roz's living room. This had been the longest afternoon of her life. She hated waiting, and she hated worrying even more.

Sam was in harm's way, and the knowledge filled her with cold dread. He could handle himself better than anyone she knew or had ever known, and still she worried about him. She always would. That was what loving someone meant, and she had chosen to love someone who wouldn't hesitate when the hard things had to be done. He gave the impression that no worry was necessary. He was tough as nails, capable of handling any crisis, he needed nothing and no one.

But everyone needed someone to worry about them. She was Sam's someone, she would always be his someone.

If all went well, this would be over quickly. If all didn't go well, she was prepared—not to lose Sam, but to protect her family as best she could. Nerve-ridden, she'd brought her .22 rifle with her, not wanting to be helpless. She wasn't walking around with it in her hand but it was close by. She didn't think she'd need it, she prayed that she wouldn't need it, but she'd brought it just in case she did.

Bailey, Roz, and Carmen were in Roz's bedroom, Roz propped up in bed, Bailey and Carmen in the dining chairs they'd dragged in there so they could sit beside her. They were drinking wine out of tiny paper cups, sipping, savoring, being careful not to consume too much. Roz insisted they had to be clear headed, in case things went south . . . like those three would be so much help if there was trouble. Roz had just that morning used the crutches to get herself to the portable potty by herself, but the effort had been very awkward and painful.

Now and then Cedes heard them laughing. Well, why not? They were drinking wine, tiny cups notwithstanding. They were talking about how things had changed and what other changes could be coming. Carmen had been giving Bailey tips about cooking in the fireplace, a skill everyone was developing and expanding on.

There were two members of the community patrol stationed to stand guard outside the house. Paul was at the front, Carl had been posted at the back door. Sam was experienced enough in combat to know things never went the way they'd been planned, and you never knew which way a rat would run. In the way of losers, Lawrence likely blamed Cedes for what had happened at the store, therefore in his mind she was the enemy. However the confrontation at the craft store went, Lawrence would blame Cedes, and if he somehow escaped . . .

Bree sat on the couch. Right after Sam and the others had left, Bree had walked around with Roz's .22 in her hands, looking almost comically determined. Like Cedes, she had eventually relaxed and set the weapon aside, in a corner near the stairway. What did it say about their world now that Bree was just fifteen, but this wasn't her first rodeo. She'd already proven that she could handle herself in a crisis.

All was quiet. Maybe nothing had happened yet. Maybe everything had gone so smoothly not a single shot had been fired. If and when they heard gunfire, from the direction of the meeting place or from any other direction, those rifles would be in their hands, and ready.

Cedes checked the clock, paced in front of the dying fire, sat by Bree for maybe half a minute before popping back up to continue her nervous pacing.

Nothing would happen. Sam would take care of the men who were planning to create their own coup, and that would be that.

Nothing would happen. Sam would knock on the front door any minute now, and tell her it had been a piece of cake.

Nothing would happen. God would not be so cruel as to take Sam away from her just when she'd found him.

Cedes took a deep breath, calming herself, then went to the fireplace to add some wood and poke at the embers to make them flare.

In the distance, she heard gunfire, a lot of gunfire. Bree jumped off the couch at the noise, and headed toward the stairs to retrieve her .22. Cedes whirled toward her own rifle, across the room. Before either of them could reach their weapons the front door was kicked in and Lawrence Nelson stepped into the room.

Beyond him, through the open door, Cedes saw Paul's still body. There was blood on the porch, on Nelson's sleeve and boots, as well as down the front of his heavy jacket.

"Ladies," Nelson said. He was smiling as he pointed his rifle at Cedes.

Cedes's blood froze, but somehow she kept functioning. She motioned for Bree to go to Roz's bedroom, and after a moment's hesitation the girl obeyed, walking backward, taking small steps until she was inside the room. Roz shouted out, "What's going on out there?" Bree whispered an urgent answer, and Roz went silent.

Cedes didn't look at the .22 that was closest to her but she knew exactly where it was, and exactly how far away. It wasn't close enough, not nearly close enough. Even if she could reach it, she wouldn't have a chance in a close gunfight with Lawrence and his hunting rifle, which he was already aiming at her. Bullets went through walls. If he started shooting, the women in Roz's bedroom would be in the line of fire. There had to be another way. She didn't see it, but there had to be, if she could just keep calm and stay alive.

Lawrence kept the barrel pointed at Cedes as he went to the back door and opened it, letting his brother Rick inside. While the door was open, she caught a glimpse of a still shoe. Carl was down, too. Dead or injured she couldn't know, not from that one shoe. At least Rick wasn't covered in blood.

At his brother's direction, Rick collected both .22s and placed them even farther away from Cedes, propping them near the front door, while Lawrence edged around so that his back was to Roz's bedroom. Through the open door Cedes caught sight of Bailey easing forward furtively. Good Lord, was that a vase in her hand? Bailey had guts, but—a vase? Cedes caught Bailey's eye and shook her head slightly, warning her to stay back. This could go sideways fast, with one wrong move.

"I guess you heard those gunshots," Lawrence said. "I wonder what it means? Who survived? Your guys or mine? If it was mine, which I suspect it was because I thought something like that might happen, and we were ready, then your ass is in a sling. Oh, wait. Your ass is in a sling anyway because I've got this"—he lifted the rifle a little—"and you don't. Boo-hoo. Too bad for you I didn't trust Duncan. Wish I could have, I've always been a fan of doing things the easy way, but this time . . . this time it was a mistake."

He swung his rifle to the side and, for a moment, pointed it toward the front door before again taking aim at Cedes. "I hope that son of a bitch coon loving Evans comes running to the rescue, any minute now."

Cedes lifted a stilling hand, as if she could ward off a bullet. "Why?" she asked. Talk. Get him to talk, keep him talking. She needed to buy some time.

"So he can watch me blow your black face off before I take him out," Lawrence answered with a sly grin. "We were going to have to do something about him ASAP, anyway. Once he got involved, I knew he'd be a huge pain in my ass."

"No, why do any of this? You and your friends were all going to get a share of the gas. We've gone to a lot of trouble to make sure that everyone will get by. It won't be easy, but if we stick together we can all survive this." She tried to sound merely bewildered, not angry, not threatening in any way.

She had just lied. Not everyone would survive. Even in the before world, with electricity and modern medicine and conveniences, not everyone survived. Now their existence was much more precarious.

But Sam was a survivor. In any kind of fight, she'd put her money on him. Lawrence thought his guys had won, but she didn't. Sam was on his way, she knew it. God, I know I am continuing to pray for you when in peril, but I need another miracle. I need to survive. When she finished praying, she realized that she just couldn't pray; she had to do something, if only she could just stall Lawrence long enough . . .

Nelson laughed. "You think your pissy little five-gallons of gasoline was going to work magic? We need more gasoline than you were going to give us. We need to be able to make short trips into other areas, and we'd like to be able to get home again."

"You have been taking trips?" Raids of other communities more than likely.

He made a mocking half dip of his head. "Some of us need more than canned beans to survive. My wife, Zoe, needs her pills. She's a nervous wreck without them. There's a basement weed farm in Maryville I would also like to visit. And who knows what kind of stash some of the folks right here have? With all the trauma and stress, why, we can make a small fortune in the weed business, and there's a fortune in meth—but I needed that gas, and you screwed up everything. Why couldn't you have stayed your fat black ass at home, instead of sitting in the store in the dark? Now I'll have to go from house to house to get it. More people are going to get hurt, and it's all your fault bed wench, but you're just a temporary obstacle. I'm going to get through this mess and come out the other side a very rich man."

"But innocent people will die—"

"That is not my problem." He'd reached Roz's bedroom door, and glanced over his shoulder into the room. What did he see, what was going on in there? Was Bailey still holding the vase? Roz would still be in bed, and frantic, because they would all have heard what Nelson had said. What was Bree doing? Bree was the wild card, and she'd been involved in the gunfight at the store. She might try to jump Nelson from behind. But, thank God, after looking inside the bedroom Nelson began edging away again, back toward where Cedes stood in the middle of the room.

"Rick," he said, grinning at Cedes, "take care of the ladies in the bedroom."

Rick steered well clear of Cedes as he circled around, walked to the door, and looked into Roz's room. "You mean, tie them up, there is a white woman and a kid in there, too?"

"No, that is not what I mean," Lawrence said sharply. "When you stage a coup you wipe out the previous administration. And that white woman is an outsider, the wife of that traitorous Duncan. She deserves to die just like her husband. Take care of it."

"But—"

"I don't care how you kill them. You can gut them or shoot their asses. Your choice but nobody but the two of us is leaving this house alive."

Horror filled her at Lawrence's insane words. Rick paled as if that was even possible considering how white he was, and it wasn't her imagination. She knew nothing about him other than he was Lawrence's younger brother, and she wouldn't have known that much if not for Herb. Was he the kind of man who would do as his brother ordered, no matter what?

She had to do something, anything. She tensed, nothing on her mind except blindly rushing Lawrence and taking her chances with that rifle. If she could distract both men for just a little while, not even a minute, maybe the others could escape, maybe they could barricade the door—anything.

Rick let his arm drop to his side. He was still holding his rifle, but he wasn't aiming it at anyone. "I'm not killing a bunch of old women and a kid."

Lawrence erupted in fury, spinning toward his brother. "Damn it, you always were a little asshat. I'll do it myself!"

Planning required calculation, and she didn't have time for that. She sent up another desperate prayer to God as she simply jumped, driven by desperation. She tackled Lawrence from behind, driving her shoulder into his hips. He staggered but didn't go down; she grabbed at his legs and jerked, lost her own balance, and sprawled hard on the floor. Her face was nauseatingly close to the man's blood-splattered boots. He stumbled again, recovered again, and still didn't fall. She grabbed one of his ankles and jerked, then drew her legs up and kicked as hard as she could, catching him behind the knee.

He grunted and stumbled forward again, but the dirty bastard still didn't go down. Sobbing, desperate, she tried to get to her feet.

Lawrence turned around and pushed her so hard that she landed on her back, the breath knocked out of her. He kicked her leg and then on the thigh, cursing at her with each kick. The pain was excruciating, paralyzing. Dimly she thought she should fight through it, but at the moment all she could do was curl up and protect her head with her arms.

Rick backed away from the bedroom door, hands up in a way that indicated he wasn't getting involved. Over Lawrence's shoulder Cedes glimpsed a blur of movement. Bailey rushed forward with the vase in her hand, while Carmen—Carmen!—was swinging one of Roz's crutches. Bree had the other one.

Cedes rolled away, somehow finding the strength, desperately hoping Lawrence's attention would stay on her and he wouldn't notice the poorly armed women. She came to a stop against the couch and could go no farther. Lawrence came toward her like a demon, his expression twisted with rage. She closed her eyes praying that she would go to heaven and pleading for a miracle once again, waiting for the gunshot that would end her, or another savage kick from the psychopath. Maybe she hadn't been able to save herself, but maybe the others could make it out, somehow. She couldn't imagine what her death would do to Sam. Sam. Sam. Sam. His name echoed in her mind.

The sound of the blast was deafening.

She didn't feel anything. Was she already in heaven with her mom and dad and God—?

She opened one eye and saw Lawrence in a boneless, awkward heap a couple of yards away. Weakly she struggled to her knees, not understanding and wanting nothing more than to get away while she could. Then there was a blur of movement and Sam dropped down to wrap his arms around her, hugging her tightly to him.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, his voice raw and close, so wonderfully close.

"I thought he was going to kill me," she said numbly, still dazed and not thinking at all. She had to be in shock.

"Are you hurt?"

"He was going to kill us all, Roz and Bree and—"

"Are you hurt?" Sam bellowed.

She blinked, looked up into those blazing, beautiful green eyes. "Not really." She lied. Her thigh was on fire where Lawrence had kicked her, and her leg was numb. She expected that would change any minute now, and she'd really miss the numbness. But she wasn't dead, she wasn't shot, and both of those were what mattered most. Thank you Lord.

He helped her to her feet, and she heard him say that he was never letting her go. That was fine with her, because her leg wouldn't hold her weight right now. She had no intention of letting go of him anytime soon, anyway.

Lawrence was definitely dead, half of his face missing. Cedes turned her face into Sam's shoulder, sickened by the sight. Rick stood to one side, disarmed, pale, his focus on the rifle Brett held on him, rather than on the raised vase and wooden crutches that were also threatening him.

"Lawrence told Rick to kill the others, but he wouldn't do it," she said into Sam's shirt, afraid they were going to execute Rick on the spot. Maybe they should; she didn't know what else he'd done, if Carl was injured or dead, if Paul, who'd been at the front door when Lawrence had arrived, was alive or dead. All she knew was that if Rick had done as his brother ordered, Sam and Brett wouldn't have arrived in time to save anyone.

The stench of death was strong in the room. Bree rushed at her, crying; Sam didn't release her, just pulled Bree in and held her, too.

Cedes tried to think of practical matters, tried to turn her thoughts away from the death that surrounded them, but for right now she was both numb and filled with a relief that pushed out everything else. Sam was alive. Roz, Bree, Carmen, and Bailey were all alive. She'd been prepared for the worst, the worst hadn't happened, and she hadn't yet got her mind wrapped around everything that had transpired.

It was Carmen who sucked in a deep breath, looked at the dead man on the floor, focused on the brain matter, and said, "It is going to take forever to get this mess cleaned up."

In the bedroom, Roz was crying with harsh, violent sobs. Bree pulled free and ran into the bedroom to her grandmother. "It's okay, Grandma," they heard her say. "It's over. We're all going to be fine."

"Fine" was a stretch—a big stretch of the truth.

Other men, both members of the patrol and their own close neighbors, came into the house, one after another. Sam deposited Cedes at the table, and Carmen brought her some water. Cedes listened to their whispered conversations. Carl had been cold-cocked but would be okay, and was sitting up . . . but Paul was dead. Lawrence had cut his throat; he'd never had a chance.

Paul a husband and father . . . Tears stung Cedes's eyes, and she stared down into the glass of water. If Lawrence could be resurrected, she thought she'd bring him back and tear him apart with her bare hands.

Rick's hands were bound with zip ties, and a couple of the men roughly took him out of the house. Cedes didn't know where they were taking him and she didn't care.

Bailey looked around the room, her eyes wide, her expression drawn with worry. "Where's Herb?"

Sam took a deep breath, then sighed. He reached out and put his big hand on her shoulder. "He's been shot."

Bailey sucked in a ragged breath and slow tears dripped down her white face. "Is he..?"

Sam admitted reluctantly. "He's still alive, but—I'm so sorry. Dave doesn't even know about his father, but he is still at the craft store with your husband and Mike. We got to send Hank Saunders and the vet to them."