As the first of the escaped cons scrambled out of the shipping container, Worth opened fire with his automatic rifle. The first man out caught a round in the head, which popped like an overripe melon, and so it went with the next one and the one after that, with Worth emptying the entire clip at the open doors of the container. Most didn’t make it more than three strides away as his autofire ripped into their ranks. A writhing mound of orange jumpsuit-clad bodies began to form outside the hatchway, blood leaching into the dusty soil to create a crimson-stained muck. Sparks flew as rounds ricocheted off the heat-shimmering metal exterior of the shipping box. Here and there lay improvised weapons tossed from nerveless fingers – a fire extinguisher, a jagged shard of hull plating, a couple of stun batons. A few cons – some running, some crawling – managed to get out of the line of fire, but most of them, well, didn’t.
That was all well and good, but Worth wasn’t the only one shooting. Worth’s partner and a Boxer started trading shots at close range as the first crew of infiltrators made it to the locked back door of the sheriff’s station. Worth had to duck down and reload, nearly catching a bullet in the process.
The town defenders stationed atop the roofs and water tower started picking off the approaching convicts with all deliberate speed. The crazed attackers, who were approaching Evan’s City from three directions, had little choice but to run towards the town with little to no cover protecting them.
Up in the church tower, an emboldened Doc pulled out a hand grenade (Sheriff Dayton had given each character one from his private stock), and hurled it at the armored hover mule that was about to crash into the blockhouse. His throw was right on the money, and the explosion damaged the vehicle and rattled its passengers. However, the hit didn’t stop the heavy-duty machine from plowing into the building, rattling it to the foundations. The hydraulic crane shot out like a scorpion’s stinger, battering the reinforced wall.
One of the squads of Boxers made it to temporary safety underneath the town’s water tower and immediately lit their blowtorches in an attempt to bring the structure crashing down, hoping to use the resulting confusion (and torrent of water) to cover their infiltration of the shipyard.
From his position at one of McKittrick’s impressive ground floor windows, Johnson caught sight of a pair of cons trying to break down a door to an adjacent building on Main Street, and opened fire with his flechette pistol. One retreated while the other fell face-first into the street.
Worth popped back up from behind the low wall atop the trade station roof and set his sights on a ladder that had suddenly swung into view at the rear of the sheriff’s blockhouse. He waited until a Boxer’s head appeared at the top of the ladder and then squeezed off a burst, sending the unsuspecting infiltrator (and his ladder) flying back down out of sight. Worth changed position to get a better shot at the squad of Boxers working on the back door, in the process dodging a hail of suppressing fire. He pulled his own grenade and tossed it right into his enemies’ midst, knocking them flat.
Up in the church tower, the Doc and the Preacher picked off those cons that hadn’t yet made it to cover, noting that it seemed as though the criminals were converging on the church to work out their frustrations.
Johnson convinced three other defenders to follow him out to cover off the alleys behind Main Street.
A wave of cons were shot down by the town defenders, leaving perhaps a third of the original invading hostiles still standing. What was left of the rampaging mob had gotten behind cover, and there was a sudden lull in the fighting as available targets all but vanished.
Doc heard fierce pounding on the church’s back door and started down the tower steps with the Preacher hot on his heels. Worth shouted a warning as first one, then two Molotov cocktails sailed through the air, one hitting the church and bursting into flames while the other arced towards the trade station.
The turkey shoot was over; a street fight beckoned.