Dylan reached further down the rebar handle and pulled Highway Hammer from where it had stuck into the scull of one of the East Trackers. The armor of cut up tires and car panels had not helped when fifty pounds of roadway concrete had crashed into the Tracker's head. Armor always lost to weapons in Dylan's mind. Better to move quickly.
Scanning around, Dylan saw that his Foothillers had pushed off the first assault from their 'compound', really nothing more than refuse and garbage pushed into blockades on the subdivision streets. He scrambled back up and over to regroup with his people.
When the East Enders attacked again, they came off of the on-ramp in a wave then shifted their attack to one of the backyard fences.
"They're trying to flank us," he yelled. Dylan pushed through the house attached to that yard, jumping over jumbled furniture and then going through the sliding glass door, already opened. Most glass panes had gone when they hit Colorado Springs, thirty miles to the south. This one had survived and his Foothillers had opened it in preparation for the attack.
In the yard, the East Trackers had already punched through the wooden fence slats. It had taken the old Priors two years to scrounge enough of the slats to repair all of the complex's fencing. The slats barely slowed the enemy down.
Dylan raised Highway Hammer above his head and screamed. He brought it down through the rushing Enders, crushing arms and ribs with its passage. Others rushed him while he tried to recover his balance, raising weapons made from similar materials: sharpened rebar spikes, wooden clubs with nail spikes. One of them had what the Priors called a rifle, but to Dylan was just a club with a metal handle and a oddly shaped wooden head. He rolled out of the way and kicked one of the Trackers in the crotch. Leaving his hammer, he pushed himself back to his feet just in time to take an iron spike through his left side. Screaming again, Dylan grabbed the hand of his attacker and head butted him, breaking the Tracker's nose and getting him to release his grip.
Taking a step back, Dylan pulled the rebar out and stabbed it into its former owner. By then, the other Foothillers had made it into the backyard and started to help stem the attack. In a matter of minutes, it was all over and the the Trackers withdrew.
"Any idea what they wanted?" asked one of the Priors. They had been holed up in a storm cellar and now were creeping out to help pick through the dead.
Dylan shrugged. "Probably just food or clean water. Just look at them." As the armor was removed, the bodies of the Trackers showed scabs and bumps that did not belong on a healthy body. Most of them were skinny with dusty skin, veins showing through. The eastern prairies had taken a few extra hits during the Big One, so the Priors claim. To clear out any of the old silos that might still be active. Whatever a silo was. "Your slats were next to useless."
"Yes," said the Prior. "Maybe if we backed them with rubble? There's certainly enough around. That would force them to climb the wall and give you and your group a place to stand and kick them off."
"Let's get to it then."
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