Chapter 20: THE FIRST ATTACK — Part 1
The flare went off at 3:17 AM.
Eastern perimeter. Bright magnesium light painting the compound in harsh white. Then Sofia's voice—not spoken, projected—screaming into every mind in range.
[THEY'RE HERE HOSTILE FIFTEEN MAYBE TWENTY ARMED MOVING FAST]
I was running before I was fully awake. Grabbed my pipe—the one I'd practiced with for a week. Still felt wrong in my hands.
Ruth was already at the defensive position, organizing. "James, main gate! Eva, south flank! Danny, hold position until I signal!"
People scrambled. Some to fighting positions. Others—the fourteen non-combatants—toward the evacuation routes. Emma ran past me, wings folded tight against her back, eyes wide with terror.
"Go!" I shouted. "Route two! Don't stop!"
She disappeared into the darkness.
I reached the eastern wall. Looked over.
Fifteen men. Maybe twenty—hard to count in the dark. Masked. Armed. Moving toward the compound with the confidence of people who expected sleeping victims.
They weren't being quiet anymore. Why would they? They thought we were helpless.
"Hold positions!" Ruth commanded. "Let them get close!"
James stood at the main gate. Seven feet of living rock, completely still. Waiting.
The attackers approached. Fifty feet. Forty. Thirty.
One of them threw a Molotov cocktail. It arced through the air, trailing fire. Smashed against James's chest.
He didn't move. The fire washed over his stone skin and died. He just stood there.
The attackers hesitated. Their leader—I recognized him from Tom's descriptions, the man with white supremacist tattoos—shouted something. Raised a gun.
Fired.
The bullet sparked off James's shoulder. He still didn't move.
"NOW!" Ruth screamed.
Everything happened at once.
Ruth hit the first attacker from the flank—steel pipe against skull. He went down. Eva blurred past, her enhanced reflexes letting her disarm a man before he could aim. Danny's fire roared to life—not a wall yet, just illumination. Turning night to day.
The attackers scattered. Tried to regroup. Found themselves facing twenty defenders who knew the terrain and weren't running.
I ran toward the fighting. Didn't think. Just moved.
A man swung a baseball bat at my head. I blocked with the pipe—barely. The impact jarred my arms. We grappled. He was stronger. Pushing me back.
I'm going to die. This is where I die. Beaten to death in the place I built.
Then Eva was there. Her speed let her kick his knee—perfectly placed, devastating force. He screamed and fell. I hit him with the pipe while he was down. Felt bone crack under metal.
He stopped moving.
"You okay?" Eva asked.
I nodded. Couldn't speak. Hands shaking too hard.
"Stay close to defenders. Don't isolate."
She vanished back into the fight.
Gunfire. Someone screaming. The crack of metal on bone. Fire roaring somewhere to my right.
I ran toward the sound. Found Danny holding a line of flame between three attackers and a group of defenders. His face was twisted with concentration and fear.
"Hold it!" I shouted.
"I can't—it's too much—"
"You can! Just ten more seconds!"
The attackers tried to go around the fire. Ruth intercepted one. James grabbed another—literally picked him up and threw him twenty feet. The third ran.
Smart man.
The fire died. Danny collapsed to his knees, gasping.
"Good work," I said.
He looked at his hands like they belonged to someone else.
More gunfire. Closer. I turned. Saw one of our defenders—David, the ex-cop—take a bullet to the leg. He went down hard.
Miles appeared from nowhere. Dragged David toward cover. "I need help! Gunshot wound!"
I ran to them. Held David down while Miles worked. Blood everywhere. David screaming.
"Pressure here," Miles commanded. "Don't let up."
I pressed. Blood soaked through the cloth. Through my hands. Hot and too much and not stopping.
"Is he going to die?"
"Not if you keep pressure. Shut up and press."
A shadow moved behind Miles. Attacker. Knife.
"Behind you!"
Miles turned. Too slow. The knife came down.
Tom phased through the ground. Grabbed the attacker's arm. Pulled him down, partially phasing him through the earth. The attacker panicked, thrashing.
"Go!" Tom shouted. "I've got this one!"
Miles kept working. Tourniquet on David's leg. Bandage over the wound. "Move him. Now."
We dragged David toward the medical area. Behind us, the fighting continued.
Gunfire. Screaming. Fire. The smell of blood and smoke and fear.
I'd read about combat. Watched movies. Thought I understood.
I understood nothing.
This was chaos. Noise. Terror. People trying to kill each other in the dark.
My hands wouldn't stop shaking.
Keep moving. Just keep moving.
I ran back toward the fight.
Ruth was holding the line.
Three attackers pressed her position. She moved like violence given form—pipe swinging, bones breaking, never stopping.
One attacker got through. Raised a gun. Aimed at her back.
I shouted. Threw my pipe at him. It missed. But he turned toward me.
The gun came up.
This is it. This is where it ends.
James's fist hit the gunman from the side. The man flew—literally flew—fifteen feet and hit the ground hard. Didn't get up.
"Watch yourself!" James shouted at me.
I retrieved my pipe. Hands still shaking.
Around the compound, the fight was turning. The attackers had expected easy victims. Found hardened defenders who knew the terrain. Their confidence was breaking.
But so were our people. Peter—weak telekinetic—was down. Knife wound to the shoulder. I could see him being dragged to safety.
Angela—the winged woman from the refugee group—had a gash across her arm. Still fighting. Blood streaming.
Two of our defenders weren't moving at all.
Please be unconscious. Please don't be dead.
The attackers' leader shouted something. His remaining men started falling back. Not a rout. A tactical retreat. They'd realized this wasn't the slaughter they'd planned.
Ruth pressed the advantage. "Drive them off! Don't let them regroup!"
We pushed. The attackers ran. Some dragging wounded. Some leaving equipment behind.
One dropped a gun. I grabbed it. Metal cold and heavy and wrong in my hands.
I'd never held a real gun before. Didn't know how to use it. Held it anyway.
The last attacker disappeared into the trees. Silence fell.
Not complete silence. Breathing. Moaning from the wounded. Someone crying. The crackle of dying fires.
But no more gunfire. No more fighting.
Dawn was breaking. Gray light revealing the compound in harsh detail.
Shell casings everywhere. Blood—so much blood. Scorch marks from Danny's fire. Bodies that weren't moving.
We'd won.
Barely.
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