Storm Girls (The Juniper Wars Book 4) by Aaron Ritchey (best books to read for teens .txt) 📗

The recoil bashed the stock into my shoulder, but in the muzzle flash, I saw the surprise of that first Regio, near the mirror, turning. Too late.

My bullets took her down. Used too many bullets. Dang. My empty shell casings rained in a tinkle onto the floor.

Dutch fired. The noise of the gunfire left my ears ringing and damaged, so loud. Those rifles and all that noise, so loud in an enclosed space. It sounded like the Devil screaming obscenities in my ear.

The second Regio fired at me and concrete bits flecked onto my cheek.

I changed my aim and took her down as well, using the rest of my clip. More music of shell casings.

Dutch’s AZ3 pounded and pounded and pounded.

My MG21 clicked empty.

“Gotta reload!” I hollered.

“Gotcha covered.” Dutch maneuvered around me, to protect me with his body. I was pinned between him and the dresser. I ejected the old clip and slammed in a new one.

Memories of Mama and our battle with Queenie came to me, but then the adrenaline winged them away.

I pulled the action, chambered a round, and I was ready. “Loaded!”

Dutch rolled across the floor. He had his Colt Terminators out, and he came up in a crouch. I swept the doorway with rounds and took out another Regio. I turned, and the last of the Regios was near the mirror, her white suit so bright in the darkness.

I fired and hit her in the leg, then the side, then the shoulder. She didn’t drop. She aimed at me.

I was fixing to shoot her through the skull when my gun jammed. It happens, even with fine assault rifles.

In the dark, I felt for the empty shell blocking the action even though I knew it was too late. The last Regio had me in her gunsights. “The chalkdrive. Where is it?”

“Wrong question, wrong answer,” Dutch laughed. “Cavvy, baby, always get ’em right between the eyes.”

He fired, and the last of the Regios dropped to her knees. A red hole marked her forehead.

She slumped over.

Our fight was over for the moment. Too bad my mind had come apart, jarred loose by the raging turmoil inside.

(iii)

Like before, the shakes took me. My ears screamed, and I couldn’t think, couldn’t feel. All I wanted in the world was to clear the jam, but I couldn’t see.

I gritted my teeth and cursed, “Goddamn thing.”

Dutch came over. “Come on, Cavvy,” he said gently.

“I have to fix it. My jackering gun jammed, and I have to jackering fix it. Goddammit.” My muddied mind was insanely set on clearing the jam, but it did allow one memory through: Mama, during our fight with Queenie, and what she had said: If you keep jacking up, we’re all gonna die.

“I ain’t jacking things up,” I growled. “I did my part. Killed three. And I would’ve gotten that last one, but I got unlucky.”

I was out of my mind, surely.

Dutch gently eased the MG21 out of my hands. “It’s okay, Cavatica. We got ’em. You did great. It’s okay now.”

I blinked, tried to think. But my ears, the ringing, the fight, the guns, waiting for those last two Regios to get into the room so we could ambush them ...

I couldn’t stop shaking, and I couldn’t stop my racing mind and, I felt like I was teetering on the edge of sanity.

Dutch grabbed me and held me, stroked my hair.

I was hyperventilating, and yet I couldn’t get a breath in through the shakes and the horror.

“It’s okay, Cavatica, it’ll be okay. I’m with you. We’re alive. And if I know Wren, she’s killed all the rest and is prolly eating a can of beans right about now. You Wellers are tough, toughest sisters in the Juniper. It’s okay. It’s okay. We got ’em all.”

On and on he went until my heart slowed, my mind came to a rest, and I could step away from him. I’d lost it completely.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I didn’t want you see me like that.”

“How old are you?” Dutch asked in a low voice, full of compassion.

“Seventeen. Just turned.” My hands started to shake again. I made fists to stop them.

“Girlfriend, you’re seventeen years old, and you just ambushed a squad of highly-trained super soldiers. You shake, you cry, you do what you need to do. And don’t you apologize. Sometimes this world gives us too much to swallow. Sometimes it gives us no choice but to choke on all the crapperjack. You survived. That’s the important thing. You survived. And I did, too.” Dutch walked out into the middle of the room. Gunpowder hung like a mist in the basement room. The smell of it brought back a million memories.

I felt a grin crack my face. “Always get ’em right between the eyes, eh, Dutch?”

“That’s right, baby,” Dutch said, laughing. “That’s exactly right.”

I grabbed my dumb pink coat, but before I left, I opened a drawer in the dresser. The woman’s brassieres were there in a pile. I grabbed two, one for me, and one for my sister.

Dang wool sweater was killing me, and I prayed they’d work. In the end, they did just fine.

Dutch and I walked out of the basement room, and the air was silent.

Finally, I had enough light to fix the jam on my rifle. Like I’d thought, the empty had failed to eject. I used my Betty knife to pry it out, and the action snapped closed. I chambered another round, and I was ready for the next battle.

But there was no more war that evening.

Edger was tied to the backhoe. Around her stood Sharlotte, Wren, Rachel, and Marisol.

Dutch and I walked out of the mall to join them.

Wren’s face was wan. “She doesn’t have Pilate. Never did. Goddammit.”

I shut my eyes in a wince.

My heart crumbled into dry snow.

Chapter Six

Fiesta time for the poor in need

I have a party of five up my sleeve

Play the music loud and never stop

We’re all just balloons bound to pop

—Al Stainback and the New Developments

(i)

THE SNOW HAD STOPPED