“Who’s going to have…?” Leo’s voice trailed off as the helicopter floated in over the trees.

The pigs huddled around Rakkim and Leo, complaining at their intrusion into the pen, trying to settle back in the mud.

Rakkim gently eased Leo alongside a huge sow, tucked him against her bulging flank. The sow nuzzled Leo, then reared back, tore at his hair, squealing, starting the others going. Rakkim had his knife poised to drive the tip into the sow’s ear…then reversed it, slammed the hilt into the base of her skull. The sow sighed, collapsed, breathing heavily. He pushed Leo farther under her body, where he’d be protected by her blubbery flesh, then watched the helicopter hover near the farmhouse. He hoped Tigard had time to get Florence and the boys into the basement shelter.

Figures rappelled down from the helicopter, seven, eight, nine of them in light combat gear, landing gently on the ground. They fanned out around the farmhouse, short-stocked assault rifles swiveling. One of them sauntered through Florence’s flower bed, crushing red and yellow blossoms with every step of his combat boots. He glanced at the pigpen, then moved toward the house, directing the others with hand signals.

The helicopter opened up on the farmhouse, its high-speed Gatling miniguns blazing away in the rain, the nitrogen-cooled machine guns disintegrating the walls and ceiling, setting the house on fire. With twelve spinning barrels, and a firing rate of ten thousand rounds a minute, the Gatlings turned the whole place into a kill zone.

The pigs squealed, beating against the rails of their enclosure. Rakkim dragged a pig against him and hung on, banged and bruised, part of the mass of muddy beasts, lost in their heat and panic.

“Abort!” the team leader shouted into his headset. “I repeat, no incendiaries! Goddamnit, I want Jeeter alive!”

The helicopter made a lazy arc over the burning structure, still firing. One side of the house exploded, a fireball rising. As the chopper dipped over the pigpen, Rakkim heard music blaring…“Sweet Home Alabama.”

Rakkim saw the second story burning, the room they had been in just a few minutes ago crackling. He felt the mass of pigs hunker down into the mud, grunting their complaints as Rakkim crowded them.

The team leader moved closer to the farmhouse, hands on his hips. He removed his helmet, tossed it aside, reveling in the heat. In the light from the fire his red hair was the color of blood.

The chopper hovered overhead, guns bristling but silent now. Its searchlights illuminated the burning house, as if this were an old Hollywood movie premiere.

The back porch collapsed in a wave of sparks, the heat rolling out like a tidal wave. The pigs burrowed deeper into each other, restless in the glow from the burning farmhouse, rain splattering against their broad backs. Rakkim had to grind his teeth to stop himself from shouting. Clutched at the mud to keep from making a move. He could cut his way through the raiders, or at least cause enough confusion to make his way into the basement…but there was no way to get away from the helicopter and its Gatlings. Rain dripped down his neck as he buried himself among the pigs, working himself deeper and deeper.

The redhead slung back his machine gun. “Jeeter!” He lit a cigarette. Cupped it in the rain as he watched the house burn. His silhouette was tall and muscular, slouching as he faced the cinders. “Jeeter! You still in there, boy?”

The door to the basement clanged open. Black smoke poured up from below as James and Matthew charged out, coughing, firing their rifles wildly. One of the raiders went down before the twins were caught in a full-auto crossfire, cut to chunks, blood spurting down their chests. James tried to stand and the redhead shot him in the forehead.

Bill Tigard stumbled out, his overalls on fire, carrying Florence in his arms. Her head flopped with every step, half her face blown away. He held her close, his bare feet making sucking sounds in the mud with every step.

The redhead laughed, and Rakkim remembered the file he had read on the Colonel. Remembered comments on his second in command, Gravenholtz, a maniac from the border brigades, a redhead with skin like sour milk and a love of killing, a true infatuation with pain. Now he had come a-calling.

Tigard gently laid Florence among her flowers, then staggered over and grabbed the old scythe from the back porch. The scythe hung loose in his hand, the rusty blade cutting a furrow in the soft earth as he dragged it behind him.

Gravenholtz waved his men back, still smoking his cigarette. “Anyone in the barn?” he said into his headset. He nodded, watching the fire.

Tigard wiped the rain from his eyes, trying to focus.

“Jeeter!” Gravenholtz called to the basement. “Real disappointed in you, Jeeter. Deserting your post sets a bad example. Where would we be if everybody got to make their own rules?” The thought seemed to amuse the redhead. He noted Tigard staggering nearer with the scythe. “Lookee, boys, it’s Father Time.”

Tigard’s hair and beard were burning now. Rakkim could hear the rain sizzle on him.

“You best be careful who you invite into your house next time,” Gravenholtz said to Tigard. “A man like Jeeter, man who betrays his comrades’ trust…no telling what he might have done to you and your family if I hadn’t showed up. Hell and rye whiskey, if you had an ounce of respect, you’d thank me.”

Tigard labored to stay standing. “I know…I know who I let in my house…motherfucker.”

Gravenholtz flicked his cigarette into Tigard’s face.

Popping sounds from the basement. Ammunition going off. Or Florence Tigard’s canned peaches. Whatever it was, it drew the redhead’s attention. His and his men’s.

“Come on out, Jeeter!” Gravenholtz shouted. “I’ll get you a sweet tea.”

Rakkim could see Tigard gathering himself. Bracing his one good leg as he glanced up at the redhead. Rakkim silently urged him on. Said a prayer into the burning night.

Tigard stood up, swung the scythe with all his strength.

Rakkim saw the scythe strike the redhead. Saw the blade rake across his chest. The stroke should have cut the redhead in half. Cut him wide open. But it didn’t. The redhead howled with pain as he scrambled up, his jacket sliced open, stuffing falling out. Rakkim saw blood, so it wasn’t that the redhead was wearing body armor, but it wasn’t the mortal wound Tigard’s slashing attack should have caused. The redhead seemed more angry than hurt.

“Goddamnit, that stings, you farmer fuck.” The redhead tore the scythe away from Tigard, snapped the wooden handle like it was a pencil. “Now where’s Jeeter?”

Tigard stood there, hair burned away, eyebrows singed.

“Where is he?”

Tigard stared at the bodies of his sons. His wife. Turned back to the redhead. “Jeeter…he’s inside. Guts blown out. Why don’t you go check?”

The redhead drove the broken handle of the scythe into Tigard’s chest. “Don’t tell me what to do, you damned hick.” He slammed the handle flat with the heel of his hand, the jagged end protruding from Tigard’s back.

Tigard’s lips moved silently.

“What?” The redhead cupped his ear. “I can’t hear you.”

Tigard sank to his knees. Curled up, shuddering, and finally lay still.

“Royce, bring the bird down,” Gravenholtz said into a throat mike. He examined his jacket. “That son of a bitch done ruined my flight suit.” He turned toward the pigpen.

Rakkim huddled under an enormous pig as the redhead approached. He stroked the sow’s belly, calming her. Felt the mud around him warm as the pig urinated into the soft muck.

“Here, piggy-piggy.” The redhead put one boot on the fence around the pigpen, made soft sucking sounds. “Here pig-pig-pig.”

Rakkim pressed his face into the mud, watching the redhead with upturned eyes, Gravenholtz so close that Rakkim could see the scuff marks on his jump boots. Rakkim tensed, watching the boots. If Gravenholtz pivoted suddenly or shifted back on his heels, it meant he had spotted Rakkim. Time enough for Rakkim to act then. Time enough for him to spring out of the pigpen and gut Gravenholtz before the rest of the squad opened up on him. Perhaps even time enough for Rakkim to enjoy the sight of Gravenholtz trying to push his insides back where they belonged before the bullets chopped him down. Allah was merciful, after all.