Copperheads - 12 by Joe Nobody

rolling to his side and snap-firing a couple of return shots. Then, much to Bishop’s relief, he scrambled upright and ran.
    Bishop and Grim slammed into the villagers’ line, pushing back one, then two, and finally three of the men who were firing at their friends.
    Kevin’s big rifle had already baffled and confused the locals, one of his heavy bullets seeming to impact every time they had tried to advance. Now, with intense fire coming from the south, absolute bedlam swept through their ranks.
    Bishop and Grim’s fire was coordinated, accurate, and intentionally non-lethal. Yet, from the villagers’ perspective, it seemed as though an entire infantry platoon was hitting them from the south. 
    As the fourth escaping local reached a full run, Bishop keyed his microphone. “Make for the boat! Now! We’ve opened the route, but they may regroup quickly. Go! Go! Go!”
    The two Alliance men found good positions and set up to provide a blocking force until the team passed them by on the way to Hannah’s boat.
    It was only seconds before Bishop could hear a decline in Butter and Terri’s rate of fire. Less than a minute passed before the Texan saw his wife’s hair flying in the wind, and she scurried down the gully. There was no time for words.
    Looking at Grim, Bishop ordered, “Go with them. Get that damn boat running and let Butter and Kevin keep them at bay. I’ll hang back and be the rear guard just in case our friends get frisky.”
    Grim didn’t like it and started to protest. Bishop’s expression, however, made it clear any debate was a fruitless waste of precious time.
    Watching Grim rise and rush off to join the rest of the team, Bishop returned to the business of scanning for any locals whose bravery managed to override their common sense.
    He didn’t have to wait long.
    The large group of reinforcements evidently interpreted the Alliance team’s all-out rush for the boat as a retreat. Emboldened by seeing their foes pick up and run, they decided to pursue with all haste.
    Bishop was surprised when at least 10 individuals rushed the gulley, hot on the heels of his fleeing team members.
    The hunters were just as shocked when the Texan’s carbine opened fire.
    Bodies were scrambling, diving, and bounding in all directions as Bishop’s rounds raised a wall of sand and grit to their front.
    One man went down, howling in pain as he ran directly into Bishop’s line of fire. Another, older assaulter twisted his ankle, howling in agony as he fell. All the while, the Texan was backing away, his weapon spitting bullets to buy time for his friends.
    It took the villagers almost two minutes to regroup. Perhaps it was anger at one of their own going down or pride and honor overriding any sense of self-preservation.
    This time, they advanced with caution, heads poking over rocks, weapons up and ready. They moved with short, quick jumps, scrambling from rock to rock, cover to cover.
    Bishop, however, was no longer there.
    Hearing their comrades take up the fight encouraged the locals who had been rolled up by the Alliance team’s flanking maneuver. They stopped running and turned, rushing back to join the fray. Now Bishop was about to receive a dose of his own medicine – fighting in two directions at the same time.
    “We’re on the boat,” Grim’s welcome report crackled over the radio. “Get your ass back here, boss.”
    “On my way,” Bishop breathlessly responded.
    In the distance, Bishop heard the big vessel’s engines thunder to life, the sound generating a wave of relief through his core. Terri and his men were safe. Any thoughts of providing a rear guard vacated his mind. In a flash, his boots were pounding for the shore.
    Reaching the flat stretch of sand next to the reservoir, the Texan was surprised to see Butter and Kevin still in the water while Grim and his wife watched from the bridge.
    The houseboat’s engine roared, water boiling to the surface from the vessel’s stern.
    It took Bishop a