Compound Fracture

by Franklin Horton

  The main complex, where Arthur’s cabin was located, was also referred to as the Command Pod by some of the residents. Besides his cabin, there was a green metal shop building containing tools and equipment. There was a repair shop attached to it for maintenance on the various machines and vehicles used to work the property. There was the commo shack, and a firewood storage shed. Out of view of Arthur’s cabin were two bunkhouses, a solar shower facility, and more outhouses.

  Located at a remote site, away from the roads travelled by students and guests, there was a fuel facility with several five-hundred gallon tanks of gasoline and diesel. Fuel was dispensed by twelve-volt pumps operated by solar power and a battery array. This was the only convenient way to manage refueling the many ATVs, tractors, mowers, and other machines used on the property. There was also a site where logs were processed into firewood for bonfires and the many woodstoves used to heat the buildings.

  Cutting firewood was not allocated to a certain time of year. It was a continual process. Arthur and the other folks that lived on the grounds spent all year dragging fallen trees to the wood yard where they could be cut to length and split into firewood. Several open sheds contained wood in different states of curing. One shed contained pine logs which were used in bonfires but not in the woodstoves. Other sheds contained oak, poplar, walnut, and cherry all cut to length for the woodstoves.

  Robert walked to the wood yard, deep in thought, rifle dangling over his shoulder. He was pleased to find a pile of logs waiting to be split. A splitting maul with a yellow fiberglass handle was sunk into a stump. Robert retrieved it and checked the edge with a thumb. He leaned his rifle against the wall of a nearby shed and removed his gun belt, snapping the belt back closed so he could hang it from a hook near his rifle. He rolled a short log onto the chopping block, took a wide stance, and heaved the maul up over his head. His first stroke cleaved the log neatly in half with a satisfying thunk.

  He made short work of several more logs, cutting them into halves, then quarters, and even some smaller pieces. He worked up a sweat, relishing the feeling of physical labor. It was satisfying and made him miss home. On his small farm he could find work like this every day, something to get the heart pumping and ease the mind. He wanted to get back there. To get back to his life. His routine. His family.

  "Is this splitting for exercise or clearing your head?"

  The voice startled Robert and he spun, nearly stumbling over the growing mound of split wood encircling his feet. It was Sonyea.

  He leaned the maul against the chopping block and wiped his forehead with the tail of his flannel shirt, squinting against the sun and the sting of sweat in his eyes. "Maybe a little of both."

  She turned a fat log on its end and took a seat. "I’ve been there myself. It’s therapeutic. When my son Tom first came back from the Middle East and the VA doctors had nothing but bad news, that’s where I always ended up. Splitting wood. Sometimes I’d be cussing. Sometimes I’d be crying."

  "I miss home," Robert said.

  As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he immediately regretted saying them. After all, Sonyea’s entire home had burned to the ground and she wasn’t certain she’d ever see her farm again. She didn't respond to the comment but he could tell he’d pushed her to a dark place. He seemed to have a talent for that, also known as insensitivity. From the look on her face, she was reliving the whole thing—getting shot, the fire, having to bury Grace’s friend Zoe. He forgot sometimes that he’d lived a pretty comfortable existence for most of this crisis. Sonyea and Grace had both gone through a lot more than he had.

  "Look, I’m sorry. That was thoughtless."

  Sonyea gave a strained smile. “Well, now that you mention it..."

  He smiled back, thinking she was joking at first but she wasn’t. Sonyea looked distracted. Something was on her mind. Something besides the memories he’d just dredged up for her. "Everything okay with you? How are you feeling today?"

  She shifted on her log seat, leaning forward to rest her elbows on her knees, her head in her hands. She looked at the ground. "I’ve thought a lot about the breakfast conversation today."

  “You mean the breakfast altercation?”

  “Yep. That one.”

  Robert sighed. "Me too," he said, halfway hoping he could preempt whatever direction she was heading down. He knew that his mouth had gotten ahead of his brain, as it sometimes did. He knew that made him come off as a jerk or an asshole. The problem with coming off as an asshole was that it pretty much meant you were an asshole and just didn’t want to admit it.

  "Your friends have been really good to us," Sonyea said. “They helped us without question and without regard for how it affected their supplies or their personal safety. At no point in our stay have I ever felt like they were pushing us out or were concerned about the supplies we were using. Heck, their doctor saved my life with medical supplies they can’t replace. They never made it seem like we were imposing. They did the same for our kids when they arrived here too. They kept them safe until we could get to them.”

  Robert was nodding in agreement the entire time she spoke. "They're good people."

  "That’s my point,” she said, raising her face to him. “Are we being good people?"

  Robert waved his arms in the air as if the answer was obvious. “Of course we’re good people. I’m not even sure what you mean by that."

  "That could be part of the problem."

  He looked at her, confused and frustrated.

  “That you don’t know what I mean by that,” she clarified. “That you don’t understand.”

  "What’s the problem?" he asked a little too loud. “I’m still not seeing any problem.”

  "If I thought Tom was in danger, I would move Heaven and Earth to get to him. I know you would do the same for Grace because I've seen it. The thing is, our kids are not in danger now—at least no more danger than anybody else. They’re at your compound. They have access to gear and supplies. They're looking after your family. For now, the people we love are as safe as they can be."

  Robert shook his head. "That doesn't affect me wanting to be with my family. Just because they're safe doesn't mean I’m not obligated to get to them. It doesn't mean they won’t need my help again."

  "Of course it doesn't. The tides could turn at any time and they could be back in danger again. Could. But these folks here need our help now.”

  Robert still wasn’t getting it. This happened to him sometimes. It was the way his brain worked. As a writer, he spent so much time in the nuances of language that he often missed the obvious. He was never actually in the present but instead miles ahead or off to the side of what was really going on. “So what’s your point, Sonyea? Just tell me.”

  “I'm not sure I can just walk away from this fight. To be totally honest, if you can walk away from this fight and return to your family with a clear conscience, it makes me wonder how I could ever really trust you. How could anyone ever trust you? I don't want to align myself with someone who can turn their back on me as easily as you're turning your back on these people. Your friends."

  “I'm not turning my back on anybody," Robert said defensively, annunciating each word loud and clear. “I’m just trying to get to the place where I’m supposed to be. I had a plan for this possibility. That plan didn’t include me being somewhere else while my family was at home alone facing whatever dangers show up on their doorstep.”

  “Well, I had a plan too and it didn’t include any of the shitty things that have happened to me in my life. It didn’t include a dead husband and an injured son. It didn’t include some nut killing a beautiful young girl in my house. And it sure as heck didn’t include my house burning to the ground.”

  Robert flipped up a log and sat down by Sonyea. “I think we need to try breaking out of here one more time. We go on foot. We sneak out just like the observer did this morning. We travel light. We can walk it. I know we can.”

  Sonyea shook her head. “No. Have you eve
n been listening to a word I said?”

  “Yes, but we have to try,” Robert pleaded. “I can’t just sit here and not try.”

  Sonyea looked him in the eye, her expression one of sadness, of disappointment. "If you go, you go without me. I'm staying until this is settled, for better or worse. I may not be a sniper, a soldier, or even a doctor, but I can shoot. I can help. That’s the kind of person I am. You really need to think about what kind of person you are, Robert."

  A lot of nuance went over Robert’s head but there was no mistaking the accusation in Sonyea’s expression and her words. He hated feeling like he was being interrogated or questioned. He hated this loss of control. He hated it when people made him doubt himself. It was part of why he wanted to be back in the little world he’d made for himself, behind his fences and private road.

  He got to his feet and angrily snatched up the splitting maul. He lined up another log, heaved the maul over his head, and split the chunk. He used significantly more force than was necessary and the maul buried itself in the chopping block, sending the split sections flying in opposite directions like they’d been tossed. He tugged on the handle, worked the maul loose, his mind processing what had just happened between him and his friend. When he finally came up with the words he wanted to say, he turned to Sonyea, ready to rebut her arguments, but found her stump empty.

  7

  Brandon tried to make his steps blend in with the natural sounds of the forest. Nothing rocked his single-minded focus—not the men anxiously waiting on him back at the compound, not the objective that lay ahead of him, and not the risk that lay in between. It was just like being back in the Army Sniper Course. His only goal was to not make noise and not be spotted as he went about his mission.

  With each step he paused, listening for any reaction to his movement. During that pause, he searched for his next foot placement. It was to his benefit that the leaves had not fallen yet. When that happened in a few months, there would be no stealthy movement in this forest. For now, the forest floor was mostly ferns, moss, sparse grass, weeds he couldn’t identify, and the thick mulch that came from the endless cycle of plants living and dying in the deep forest.

  He gave the enemy camp a wide berth, circling and approaching from the back. He assumed most of their security effort would be directed toward the side of the camp that faced Arthur’s compound. That would be the logical place for their eyes and assets. They would not be looking for visitors to wander in from the rear.

  Within visual range of the encampment, Brandon slipped a pair of binoculars beneath his camo net hood and observed the scene before him. He'd re-watched the videos from that morning’s incursion. They'd gone over the layout of this camp a dozen times and he was fairly certain he knew the basics. They’d even mapped it out on a whiteboard, wanting to imprint a visual map into Brandon’s brain. Besides, he knew if he had any trouble it wouldn’t be from his failure to recall the exact layout of the camp. It would be from something unexpected. That was how these things always happened.

  He studied the pop-up awnings and the campers. He saw the huge RV that served as the command center, or “head shed,” and the long tent that served as the mess hall and meeting space. The sides were rolled up and the tables empty. That was good. It was what he expected to find.

  Adjacent to the mess tent was another square pop-up tent where the cooking was done. There was a prep table, plastic storage totes, and another table with a line of propane camping stoves. Just as they’d hoped, no one was cooking a meal. The cook was elsewhere.

  Beyond the dining area Brandon found a two-man backpacking tent set up in the shade of a hemlock. The proximity to the cooking tent, combined with the intel from the morning, led Brandon to think this was the cook’s tent. He changed positions to get a better look. From a different angle he saw the person sleeping in the tent had removed the rain fly to improve ventilation on the muggy day. It occurred to Brandon that the thin mosquito netting would allow him to see inside the tent if he got close enough.

  Using the same stealthy approach that got him to the camp, he maneuvered tree-to-tree, edging his way down the shallow slope. At one point he froze in his tracks when he heard raucous laughter coming from the RV. This erased any wonder about whether there were men inside there. His assumption had been confirmed.

  The owner of the backpacking tent, apparently wanting a little separation from the main group, had positioned his tent so that it was blocked from the main encampment by trees and underbrush. Brandon figured as long as no one came down to the mess tent he should be okay. If they did, that might be a little too close for comfort but he felt confident he could disappear into the forest and lose them before chaos erupted. If that failed, he had the suppressed .300 over his back and clearance to use it if he had to. Still, if it went to either of those options, it was likely that his mission had failed and that wasn’t how he wanted this to end. As trite as the saying may be, failure was not an option.

  He warily closed the distance between himself and the tent. With each step he paused and listened, then repeated the process. While it was painfully slow, that was the nature of stalking a target. You only had the one chance. There were no do-overs.

  Brandon broke from the last of his cover around thirty feet from the tent. With no rapid movements, he performed a careful 360-degree check of his surroundings. No threats. No movement.

  He proceeded. One step. Another step.

  Another.

  At fifteen feet from the tent he did hear a sound and froze. While the forest was far from silent, this was not a naturally-occurring sound. It was something alien, abrasive. While the normal gut reaction of most folks might be to turn tail and retreat to the last cover, that was not how Brandon worked. He examined the sound. He wouldn’t react without thinking it completely through and determining the best course of action. He listened and at first it sounded like a person choking. Brandon didn’t move as he struggled to decipher it. He was frozen like a deer hoping to disappear into its surroundings. Then it hit him. It was snoring.

  Brandon almost smiled. It was an optimal condition, a sleeping target.

  He checked his surroundings again. There was the murmur of loud conversation, the occasional raised voice, coming from the distant command RV but they were completely obscured from him by woods and underbrush. Brandon moved forward again, walking slowly enough that the knee-high weeds barely whispered as they brushed against his legs.

  He kept a consistent cadence. Step. Listen.

  Step. Listen.

  Inside the tent, the snoring continued, the rhythm of the breathing unchanged even as Brandon closed on him. Then he was at the side of the tent, his toes within inches of the nylon sidewall, and he leaned forward to peer through the netting. Sometimes people woke from the sensation of being watched. What would Brandon do if he looked inside to find an awake man staring back at him?

  Fortunately, he was spared that circumstance. He found the sweaty cook out cold on top of his sleeping bag. His hand was draped across his eyes and his mouth gaped open like that of a dead fish. Even in this disheveled and unflattering condition, Brandon was certain it was him. He remembered the clothing, so distinctly different from that of the other men in the party.

  He needed to strike before something went wrong. Any delays could give the cook time to wake up or allow someone else to show up on the scene. Brandon couldn’t let any sense of urgency force him to rush and become careless, though. He’d made it too far to screw this up now. He moved forward with cool, determined efficiency.

  He crept toward the end of the tent where the cook’s head lay. He considered the zipper but decided even that small sound could be too much and might wake the sleeping man. He only needed a small opening in order to carry out his assignment, perhaps six inches. Just enough to get his hand and the Taser through.

  Brandon dropped a hand to his belt and slipped the custom James Huse bowie from its sheath. The knife was a beast, designed for both combat and survival. It
was honed to razor sharpness, the cutting edge polished to a mirror finish. Brandon eased the blade toward the netting. It slashed the fabric with such ease that he couldn’t even detect the moment it penetrated the fabric. He moved the blade upward and then withdrew it, leaving behind a slit of more than sufficient size.

  Brandon returned the knife to its sheath, coming back with the Taser Bolt he’d been issued for the operation. When it was in his hand, he paused to focus. This was the moment of truth. He slid the protective cover back from the trigger and verified the green LED was glowing. The device was ready. He carefully pushed the Taser through the netting, aimed at the cook’s neck, and pressed the trigger.

  The cook’s eyes shot open, his jaw clenched, and he grunted as slobber ran from the side of his mouth. Brandon let the device do its job, watching impassively as the man’s body clenched and seized from the burst of electricity. When he felt it was safe, Brandon yanked the probes free and rolled the wires around the device. He shoved it into a dump pouch on the back of his belt. He knew he had a brief window before the effects of the neuromuscular incapacitation began to wear off and the man might begin to react. Brandon wanted to have his prisoner securely packaged by that time.

  He unzipped the door, grabbed the cook by his shirt, and yanked him swiftly out the opening. A special carabiner on his belt held a partial roll of duct tape. Brandon yanked off a two foot strip. He slapped it over the cook’s mouth and wrapped it around his head until he ran out of tape. Brandon could feel the cook regaining control of his body, encountering some feeble resistance as he manipulated the man’s limbs. Before the cook totally regained his faculties, Brandon dug a hand into a cargo pocket and came out with one set of flex cuffs and one long zip tie. He secured the cook’s hands with the cuffs and his ankles with the zip tie, then straightened the body out on the ground.