I rack my brain, and wear out my fingertips, calling and texting every mutual contact Tilda and I have ever had. I am hoping, against all reasonable hope, that somebody has heard from her. After four hours of this, I am plumb near crazy.

A few minutes after two- thirty, I am aroused from my thoughts by the sound of pounding footsteps on the gravel. Deputy Wheeler is hauling tail to his cruiser. He climbs in, and doesn't bother to fasten his seatbelt, before burning rubber down my dirt driveway.

Had they found Tilda? Was there some word? Is she okay? What could be so urgent that he would abandon his post?

I grab my truck keys and bound out of the house. I pull the door to, but don't bother to lock it. Following Deputy Wheeler won't be hard at all.The cloud of dust he left is still visible.

***************************************

It doesn't take me long to catch up with Deputy Wheeler. Despite the fact that he's doing upwards of eighty miles per hour, in a zone for no more than thirty-five. My 4x4 ain't no joke.

Wheeler makes a sharp right turn, and I am right behind him. Twin clouds of dust turn everything in our wake an opaque brown.

Then, all Hell breaks loose. The first bullet shatters my windshield, sending slivers of glass everywhere. Including in my direction. A sharp pain erupts high up on my cheekbone-- followed by a spreading warmth down the right side of my face.

The second bullet makes a muffled thunk as it slams into the passenger seat.

I slam on the brakes, and drop my head, in the same instant. No more bullets enter the vehicle. That gives me time to jam the truck in gear and pretty much dive to the ground. Bullets whizz through the air and ping off of the five patrol cruisers several yards away.

One cruiser is definitely Sheriff Edwards'. Obvious because of the specialized plate in the back. Two of the others belong to Carswell and Wheeler. An unknown officer is crouched behind the fourth cruiser. I am unable to see beyond that.

Glancing around, I try to pinpoint the person firing. And that is when I recognize where I am. It really should have come as no surprise. Crawford Farm.

°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°

John Crawford, the patriarch of one screwed up family, owns a thirty acre spread only about six miles from me and Tilda. Basically, three generations of Crawfords live there. They grow produce for pretty much all of the local grocers. Always charging outrageous prices and refusing to budge. But, the way I hear it, just about every grocer claimed it was a hair more expensive not to do business with the Crawfords.

Since I've known them, the Crawfords have lived like hillbilly kings and queens. Their oldest son, Mel, drinks like a sailor and has bedded more housewives than I have fingers on both hands. Melba, John's step-daughter, is on her fourth baby, without a husband in sight. You'd think all the daddies were deadbeats. You'd be wrong. The last guy Melba had procreated with was a lawyer. Rolling in money. But, all it took was an argument and Melba was back home with Daddy. Daddy John would make a few threats, and wave his expensive rifle, and that was that. Various other colorful characters made up the Crawford clan. But, what the Crawfords are most known for are their guns.

The Crawfords own a hell of a lot of guns. The elder Crawford was always on the lookout for a new addition to his collection. And if John saw something he liked, he spared no expense. Rumor had it, he was up to about three hundred. From Civil War muskets, to ghost guns, and even a fair amount of assault rifles.

If a showdown like this was gonna happen...It was gonna happen at Crawford Farm.

°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°

I drop down even lower, my face nearly in the dirt, and drag myself towards the first cruiser. As I reach it, I spy a pair of shoes on the ground some distance away. Almost directly in front of the second and third police cruiser. They can't be more than a woman's size 8 sneaker. Carswell.

"Goddammit!" I utter under my breath and continue dragging myself forward-- toward the fourth cruiser and the deputy crouching beside it. Bullets continue to ping off of the vehicles around us. The sound of breaking glass rings out from time to time-- as car windows explode from bullet impacts.

As I get closer to the police cruiser, the deputy catches my eye and gestures for me to stay in place. He bats one hand through the air, in a downward motion, prompting me to drop facedown in the dirt. Only my eyes remain upward, staring ahead at the crouching officer.

"Dispatch! Dispatch? Do you copy? This is Deputy Nesmith...Do you read? Dispatch. We're at the Crawford Property...Rural route 17...Just north of mile marker 3...Address 414 and 419 Willow Road. Pinned down by heavy fire. Sheriff Edwards and Deputy Carswell are down. I repeat...Officers down!...Do you copy? Send units A-S-A-P! Two suspects...Heavily armed. No sign of the other occupants of the home. I repeat....Taking heavy arms fire. Two officers are down. A third is unaccounted for. Backup needed and requested. A-S-A-P. Dispatch....Do you read? Rural route 17....Just north of mile marker 3. Crawford residence. Two heavily armed suspects in tactical gear. Send support A-S-A-P. Over."

Deputy Nesmith releases the button on his shoulder mic, and glances in my direction. I resume me crawl, ignoring the deputy's second warning to stay put. When I am close enough to the fourth cruiser, I take on the stance of a low crouch and scuttle in Deputy Nesmith's direction. I press my back against the side of the cruiser and attempt to look through what remains of the rear window.

"They got the Sheriff?" I whisper hoarsely.

"Yeah. They practically ambushed us as soon as we pulled in here. Nailed the sheriff before he got two steps from his patrol car. I've tried gettin' him to respond on his remote radio, but nothin'. I can only assume, he's either dead or unable to speak," Deputy Nesmith checks his six and then returns his attention to the front.

"I heard Carswell try to call out a bit ago. So...She's hurt, but she ain't dead. Deputy Wheeler's out looking for a good vantage point. Haven't heard from him either. Officer Burgess...He was the first unit on the scene. Last I seen of him, he was hunkered down by his patrol car. Might have made his way into the treeline? Scoping out the place. I don't know. Never heard him cry out. Don't think he's hurt."

Nesmith and I are barely two feet apart, but the hail of bullets around us makes conversation very difficult.

"Goddamn! How many bullets you reckon they got!?" Nesmith ducks below the front sideview mirror, as a bullet zings off of a piece of plastic on the drivers' side door. "Damn it!"

I roll my eyes heavenward, and press my back harder against the steel frame of the cruiser.

"More bullets than you or I would care to think about. Not if we don't wanna give up right now. And I wouldn't count on seeing your boy, Wheeler, again. Probably holed up somewhere waitin' for this whole thing to blow over. That is...unless he can convince these backwoods idiots to drop their guns with just that goofy smile of his?"

At that exact moment, what remains of the cruiser's back window shatters and falls out of the seal holding it in place. Tiny shards of glass spray everywhere.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

"Jee-Zus....Christ!" Nesmith hollers and clutches at his shoulder mic. Once again keying up his remote radio, Nesmith tilts his head and speaks into the mouthpiece.

"Dispatch....This is Unit 22. This is Unit 22. Requesting backup. Do you read me, dispatch? Pinned down at the Crawford Residence. 414 and 419 Willow Road. Rural route 17...Just north of mile marker 3. Sustaining heavy fire. Two gunmen...Send units A-S-A-P. Damn it, dispatch....Do you copy? Send units to my location immediately! Over."

Releasing the mic and grabbing out his pistol, Deputy Nesmith leans around the patrol car and fires off several rounds. He is immediately fired upon by at least one of the suspects. Nesmith returns to his previous position at the side of the cruiser.

From somewhere, in the distance, a second pistol fires. This, too, is answered by a hail of bullets from an assault rifle. This time, directed at someone else.

"Your boy, Burgess?" I ask. Hope slowly creeps into my voice.

"Nah, sounds like Wheeler. He's got a trademark shot pattern. We can always tell when it's him at the range."

"He any good?" I inquire. "Wheeler's shooting, I mean?"

Nesmith fixes me with a hard glare.

"Good? He's the best!"

"You're kidding?" I state with unveiled disbelief.

"Nope. That boy's been shootin' since he was barely knee high. He can shoot the tail off a squirrel...At 50 yards...unload seven rounds into a guy center mass...And send your larynx out through the back of your throat....All before you even realize he's drawn down on you. Don't let his goofy exterior fool ya. Wheeler don't play. He's all business, when it comes down to business."

"Uh...Good to know," I mutter. Only a tad ashamed.

"Believe me, if anybody can get a drop on these pricks...It's Wheeler," Nesmith continues. "And since it looks like we're on our own...We'd better think of a plan to end this real soon. Before these wackos think about seeking us out. We've gotta get to Carswell. See if she's still alive. But, first....We need to think of a way to disarm these sons of bitches."

"I think, I've got one piece of that plan figured out," I venture.

"I'm all ears," Nesmith says with an energetic shrug.

I gesture to my truck.

"Where my truck is sittin', there's an incline. If we can get over to my truck...I can throw it in Neutral and then we can give it a shove. Push it between Carswell and them psychos. Provide enough cover to maybe get her out of there...And possibly obstruct their view to get off some lucky shots. What do you say? Sound like a plan?"

Nesmith offers me a wide grin and slaps my shoulder.

"Anything's better than sittin' around waitin' to be smoked like a Christmas ham. Besides...It's your truck!"

I sigh deeply and lower myself to the ground.

"Don't remind me."

Facedown once again, I begin the crawl towards my truck. Nesmith follows not far behind. Going through my plan, in my mind, I try to ignore the bullets whizzing all around me. Once I reach the driver's side of my truck, I raise off the ground a bit and grab the door handle. With slow, yet calculated motions, I open the driver's door. I slink inside the vehicle just enough to depress the brake and shift the truck in Neutral.

Nesmith, who was only a few seconds behind me, has the back door open and is preparing to push. I nod my head. Muscles strain, as we start to push the truck forward. No small feat, when you are trapped in a low crouch. The incline helps a bit-- gravity pulling the truck forward just a hair faster. Before long, the truck is positioned right where we need it.

I wince as the first bullets to land ricochet off of the passenger sideview mirror-- and send it spinning towards the ground. Throwing the truck in Park, I dive for the earth. Carswell is only a couple feet away. An angry wound on the left side of her collarbone oozes blood onto her beige uniform blouse.

"Carswell, can you hear me?" Nesmith is at her side. Bullets zip through the air nearby, but most are deflected by the massive bulk of my truck.

"Carswell?" Nesmith glances at me with deep concern in his eyes. "We've got to get her out of here and to a hospital. Her breathing is real shallow and she looks close to bleeding out."

A truck window shatters loudly, almost confirming the gravity of our situation.

"Can we get her to one of the cars, you think?" I ask without certainty.

"I don't think we can. Not without risking gettin' shot. Still too exposed," Nesmith seems almost defeated.

"Then, what do we do?"

There is a sudden lull in the shooting. One of the gunmen curses loudly. Then, there is a soft thud of flesh against metal, as the gunman clouts his temperamental weapon with a wet palm. An irritated holler fills the air.

"Goddamnit! Goddamnit! Stupid! Fu--- Goddamn!"

John Crawford. The sorry son of a bitch. Gun probably jammed. Did assault rifles overheat? Does it matter? There is never gonna be another chance like this one.

I reach under my shirt, and retrieve my own pistol hidden there. I raise myself to a half- standing position to scope out the area. John Crawford is almost parallel with the front of my truck. Nearby, lying dead on the front stoop, is his wife. Leslie's body lies half on the porch steps and half off. Her eyes are still open and her neck is tilted at an odd angle. Probably, one of John's first victims.

Mel Crawford continues to fire intermittently, and in small bursts. He fires into the surrounding woods and the battered patrol cars. Branches snap, leaves flutter to the ground, and glass slivers fly wildly-- under the rain of Mel's heavy firing.

With an angry growl, I take aim at the elder Crawford. What feels like lava, instead of red blood, bubbling in my veins. Without another second's hesitation, I squeeze off a shot. The bullet, with no barrier to stop it-- all of my truck's windows have been shot out by this point--finds its target. In John Crawford's leathery neck. The broad man clutches at his throat and tries to holler. The fountain of blood pouring from his mouth causes him to sputter instead.

Mel Crawford, in his surprise, whips around-- his gun still blazing. Before his slow mind can connect the dots, he fires into his own father. Several rounds strike the elder Crawford center mass. John falls bodily onto the bloody earth. Mel stops firing and drops to his father's side.

"Dad---"

Several shots rings out and Mel is sent reeling back. Bullet holes are visible in his upper torso. Blood already has begun to pool around the oval wounds. Mel reaches out a hand to his father from where he lies in the dirt. Deputy Nesmith looks around for whoever fired those last few shots.

"That had to be Wheeler! Wheeler?! Where you at? You goddamn son of a bitch?!"

A wistful laugh escapes Nesmith's lips and he brushes a strand of hair from Deputy Carswell's sweaty brow.

"It's okay, Loranne. It's okay. We're gonna get you out of here, now. Wheeler...Boy, where you at?"

Turning to me, Nesmith reaches out a hand.

"Never got your name."

"James." I utter, and shake his hand.

"Alright, James. Uh....Help me get the deputy over to my patrol car?"

Deputy Wheeler approaches from the garage on our right. His gun is still trained on the two downed gunmen. Only Mel appears to have an ounce of life left in him. The elder Crawford has succumbed to his injuries.

"I'm here, Rich!" Deputy Wheeler states in a subdued voice. The goofy grin is no longer present on his thin face.

"You seen Burgess?" Nesmith yells.

"Nah. Not since we all split up. It's weird. Can't pick up anyone on my radio. Not even static, though. Almost like there is some kind of interference. Who knows what these boys were doin' up here? Phones don't even work. I tried all the ones up at the house. Even the cellphones. Oh god, Rich. The house. You don't wanna go in there! It's bad. It's so bad! They killed all the younguns and the women. What they did to some of them. Oh Jeezus. It's so bad!"

The color drains from Nesmith's face and he motions towards Deputy Carswell.

"Keep an eye on them, Frankie. We've gotta get Loranne to my car."

Deputy Wheeler nods slowly. With his solemn expression, he seems like a totally different person.

**************************************

Deputy Nesmith drives off in his bullet-riddled cruiser. Deputy Wheeler and I elected to stay behind and keep watch over the scene. And also to try and ascertain the whereabouts of the missing Officer Burgess.

As Wheeler combs through the buildings, and the nearby woods, I stand guard over the slowly dying gunman. Hopefully, Deputy Nesmith's reinforcements will arrive soon. Assuming his shell-shocked cruiser can make it back to civilization.

Mel lets out a sudden cry and reaches out for his dead father. A death knell? I hope.

"Dad? Dad!? Dad, I'm sorry."

I briefly turn my head and spit angrily into the dirt. Dumb son of a bitch has just killed almost a dozen people-- and nearly killed five more. But all he's worried about is his asshole father. His next words freeze me to my core.

"It was the lights. All those damn lights. I'd rather die than go into those lights. I'd kill them all before I let them take them into the lights. Oh god. The lights. So many of 'em?! Those damn lights!"

I stare silently down at Mel. Horror, disgust, and a touch of curiosity, keep me from putting a bullet in him and ending his miserable life.

Lights? What lights? And what the hell is he talking about?