…
Only a few minutes later they crossed the boulevard, making sure their movements stayed clear from the view of the Butcher’s guards on the southern post. Thomas hesitated as they moved through the unmown field. A nagging uncertainty kept him from taking those initial steps into the wood line. He looked back in an effort to verify the snipers' presence on the roof—half the moon and a sky full of stars lit up the area surprisingly well, but it wasn’t enough to squash his concerns. He groaned.
“What?” Riley asked.
Thomas ignored him, not wanting to utter his doubt and seem ungrateful for their support. Deep down he knew they were there, but the weight of the mission continued to bear down on him. He had to be sure. He hit the quick-release on the scope and scanned the horizon, taking in what could be seen of the southern service road and over to the rooftop and across it. Two green figures leaned against the air conditioning units atop the college. He snapped the scope back onto the rail.
“Everyone in place?”
“Yeah, we’re good.”
They penetrated the woods in a triangle formation—Thomas and Riley at the two front posts, James at rear guard. Each one minded their path—each rifle alert and ready as they weaved through the trees in front of them. The effect of night fell harder upon them as the canopy grew denser with each footstep toward the camp. Thomas kept them on target, peering through the scope, making certain their direction was true and remained safe. It wasn’t long before a few dancing fires in the distance uncovered the Butcher’s campsite.
“Time check,” James whispered.
“22:13. We’re getting close.” A rustle of leaves. “Shhh.” A few noisy footsteps came toward them. Shit. They stopped then broke formation—each of them peeled off to a position of concealment. Thomas caught first glimpse of a guard traipsing toward them, his flashlight swinging casually with his stride, ignorant to any concept of light discipline, unaware of the threat that loomed just ahead.
“Here, come here,” Thomas whispered into the night as he retreated into a more favorable position. The three men hunkered down together, observing as the flashlight finally came to a pause. “It looks like just the one ahead of us.”
“Move on him?” James asked.
“I'll handle it,” Riley said.
“Wait.” Thomas placed a hand on each of their backs. “Until he shows his intention—”
“But we don’t have all night.”
James is right, but it’s possible he’s out here on patrol. “Just hold tight for now.”
The flashlight held steady for what seemed to be an eternity. What the hell’s this guy doing? A trickling sound of liquid spattering against the ground and a low whistling of “Dixie” gave Thomas his answer.
James sighed a breath of relief. “Alright. Let’s g—”
“I’m heading out,” Riley interrupted him. “It’ll be better if I go at it alone—less likely to grab hold of each other during the scuffle.”
“That’s bullshit. I’m going with you,” James hissed back.
“No, me and you hold here.” Thomas could feel James glaring at him. He knew how badly James felt the need to prove himself. Thomas squeezed the shoulder—just a slight reminder of him being shot earlier. “I need you to follow the plan.”
“Yeah…” James shifted from him. “I got ya.”
“Get back here once it’s done, Riley. We can’t afford to get separated before this thing gets kicked off.”
“Got it.”
Riley stood, and gradually his large silhouette faded into the darkness surrounding them. The Soldier moved adeptly, proficient in his approach of murderous intent. The Butcher has no idea what’s coming. Payback for all this bullshit. Overcome with an unfamiliar warmth of revenge, Thomas focused on the light, waiting for the last breath to escape this man. Silence. Stillness. Waiting for the flashlight to hit the ground. Only a matter of time. This mother—
“He's got to be close,” James said. “Right? I mean that dude's not even paying attention to shit.”
“We're holding here unless something happ—”
A muffled groan, the light fell to the ground, and a few thumps followed. James shuffled forward, trying to push past Thomas’s hand pressed firmly against his chest, but couldn't. “Hold, damn it. He's got this.”
“What if he's in trouble?”
A crack of skull on wood, and a body dropped to the dirt.
“He's not.”
Immediately, the light was scooped from the ground and abruptly shut off. The two of them remained kneeling side by side in anticipation of Riley's return. Good. No trouble and barely any noise. “Shouldn't be long, and we'll be back on our way.”
“Do we know it's him?”
Thomas lifted his rifle to view him through the scope, but there was no such luck—the tree guarded the man from this angle. “I can't tell. Just give it a second.”
A little over a minute passed and there was no indication, whether good or bad, of what occurred. No shots, he reminded himself as he let the rifle go from his shoulder, dropping its weight against the sling while he simultaneously unsheathed his knife. “I'll go check it out.” Thomas ignored the frustrated puff of air that James expelled, and he crept forward, holding the knife in a reverse grip in front of him.
He rounded a few trees, discovering that every angle available to him proved poorer than the last. It would take a more direct approach, positioning him much closer than he would have cared to be. His steps lightened, the weight kept on the balls of his feet as he pushed forward, finally sidling up to the scene, crouching behind the base of an elm tree maybe ten yards away.
In the darkness, he could barely make out the body lying face down in the dirt or the dark figure kneeling next to him. It was the sound of frantic hands rummaging through pockets that pulled the complete picture together for him. Still can't tell who. Thomas scrabbled at the ground, picked the first hard object he found, and tossed it in the man's general direction. The shadow took pause from his search, giving it a second or two to see if the noise had been deliberate. He must have decided it had been, because he rose from his position and whispered, “Hawk.”
“Dove,” Thomas responded. He let out a calming breath and joined him once he knew the coast was clear. “No trouble I see.”
“Not at all.”
“Roll him over, and let's see which asshole this is.” Thomas took hold of the arm and began to pull at it.
“Hey!” A stern voice called out from the woods. Thomas and Riley snapped their rifles level and spun toward the camp, backing steadily toward cover.
“Where's he?” Riley whispered—their shoulders touched as they peered out from either side of a large tree.
The night vision placed the man near the tents on the north side of the camp. “A good ways out. He's got his rifle hanging from the sling.”
“What are you doing? Crappin'?” The guard raised his voice. “Turn your damned flashlight on, so we's can see ya out there, or I'm comin' to check on ya.”
Riley dove toward the body, and Thomas followed—the two of them scrambled for the light. “Where the hell is it?” Riley muttered, clearly struggling to find it among the twigs and debris of the forest floor.
“It's got to—”
“Here.” Riley switched it on and waved the flashlight's beam toward the guard as if his arm had turned to rubber.
“Alright! Alright! Just hurry it up already.” The guard seemed satisfied enough, and Thomas watched him stagger off into a nearby tent.
“We have about ten minutes,” Thomas said. “Bring that light over here just a bit. Let's check this guy out real fast, but be careful not to shine us.” Thomas took hold of the shoulder and rolled the body toward him. The light cast a slight glimmer upon the face, revealing what immediately made his heart sink. A lump swelled within his throat. Scotty... Lost within the vacant stare of his eyes, the scar across his cheek, he tried to clear the obstruction but couldn't. He never stood a chance wit
h this crew.
Around Scotty's neck, dirt caked the blood leaking from a well-placed laceration—the throat sliced from ear to ear. Riley took to the young man's pockets again, completely unfazed by any of this. An iron man. A man without emotion. I don't want to be like that. Thomas grabbed hold of Riley’s wrists. “Shut off the damn light.”
“What?” Riley asked. “Cause he's a kid?”
“No, it's just—” The night hid Thomas’s true feelings as he took his hand across Scotty's eyes. This poor kid. I can't... Thomas stopped himself. These weren’t the thoughts of a Soldier. Death would become part of his everyday life. Hell, it already had. Get over it! This isn't you anymore. You can't care for everything and everyone. He let one last silent breath escape from his lips. Never again will you feel like this. Moral killing is your duty now. “Don't worry about it,” he snapped. “You find anything on him?”
“Just the flashlight.”
“Sure he didn't have a weapon?” Thomas stood from Scotty's side and swept his foot over the immediate area. “He had an AK earlier.”
“He didn't have one, not even a pistol on him.” Riley patted along his body once more just to be sure. “Yep, nothing.”
“James... James...” Thomas hissed into the woods behind them. “James... get up here.”
“Yeah,” he whispered back, unexpectedly standing with them. “We ready?”
“Give it a second.” Thomas eyed the camp. Only occasionally did any sign of life emerge, a shadow here and there, passing before the flames in the distance. A still silence—the moans and laughter that floated through the camp earlier in the day were gone. Everyone, either asleep or occupied with tending to their post, left the site in peace for the moment. “Alright.”
The three formed up like they had before and beelined toward the middle of the camp. It took shape as they drew near. The lines of tents. The gazebo. The trucks. Fortunately, from this distance, the camp produced no additional concerns. It was still as it appeared from a distance—a few unattended campfires.
Thomas raised his fist, halting the advance. He carefully slid the ruck from his shoulders and onto the ground. James and Riley knelt down with him as he pulled the Molotov's from inside. A deep breath. He handed two of the bottles to James. “Those there,” Thomas whispered while he pointed to a cluster of tents just outside the treeline. “I got these here.” He swallowed. “And nothing anywhere near the women's tents to the left of that blue one there. Riley, you're with me. We have three minutes. This is it. James, keep your eyes on me. I'll flick my lighter on as the signal. Respond with the same, then we light and throw.”
“On it.”
James slid off to the right, and Thomas and Riley moved straight ahead. Behind that little raised area will be perfect.
Once their position was secured, they waited for what Thomas believed to be a sufficient amount of time for James to get to his. Here we go. His thumb popped the lid to the Zippo, producing that self-gratifying clink, and he struck the wheel. His flame held reliably, but there was nothing from his counterpart. What the hell? Maybe I don't have the angle. Thomas took measured steps toward where James should have been. Finally, another flicker in the distance. Here we go!
Like clockwork, they lit the rags, and the bottles soared end over end into the sky one after the other. The spiraling flames were hypnotic, up and then down, down against the earth. A rush of flame as the bottles burst—a blue pursuit of heat across the ground as the fluid spewed forth, saturating the tents and surrounding grass and brush with fire. Two distinct gunshots rang out south of them and several more from the west. The camp had been ripped from its slumber.
…
Holy Shit! Thomas held for a moment, watching the devastation of the Molotov's engulf their intended targets. The tents deflated, melting and trapping some of the guards within them while others rose from this hell as tormented bodies wrapped in flames. “Hold this line!” Thomas shouted, his voice challenged by the panicked cries tearing through the night. Smoke lifting from the curling grass and nylon tents provided a foul-smelling screen of concealment for James and Riley as they went straight to work. Their rifles sounded, and the muzzle flashes danced through the tree line as they broke up their shot pattern. They got this. On to phase two.
Thomas took his ruck, swung it wildly onto his back, and raced to connect with Delta team as the sound of gunfire followed him deeper into the woods. Know that you're not alone out here. Sign. Hawk. Countersign. Dove. He repeated it with every step until it became his cadence along that overgrown trail he took earlier in the day. Flashes of familiarity guided him over a few fallen trees—ducking between twigs and brush as best he could in the dark. As he neared the ridge that overlooked the western service road, he stopped and took a deep breath in an attempt to collect himself. Getting close. A few more shots ahead of him, measured in their spacing, precision shots, but not effective enough to prevent the barrage that countered. Delta team hasn't pushed through yet.
Another volley. A bullet buzzed past, and Thomas slammed his body against the nearest tree. Two more shots toward him. He took his rifle into a crook where the branch met with the trunk to return fire, but there was nothing. Crack! The bark ripped from the tree just overhead. Thomas’s face met with the dirt. Delta’s shots are coming from downhill! He hugged his rifle and rolled headlong down the face of the ridge as more shots peppered his last position. He high crawled, taking the soggy ditch that paralleled the road over a slight hill that descended toward the rear of the guard post. Crack! Crack! The muzzle fire gave away Delta team's position, but the Butcher's men were overwhelmed and in no position to view it.
Thomas watched them through his scope, zeroing in on the guards as they panicked, unsettled. One of the men tilted on his knee, his other leg extended, quite possibly hit from an initial shot. Despite that, both of them managed to prop their rifles over the barricade, pulling their triggers with no eyes to observe where the bullets struck. The crude tactic seemed to be working as Delta team thus far had been unable to meet their objective.
Without regard for concealment or cover to their six, Thomas held the advantage. One simple press of the trigger, and the uninjured guard crumpled to the pavement. The shot, through and through, caused the man to writhe upon the ground holding his chest. His partner limped over to him, slid the shirt from his back, and struggled to keep the blood from spilling forth.
Thomas took aim—Too late—and ended this act of bravery, striking the man in the shoulder. With a primal urge for self-preservation, the guard hobbled away from cover, breaking toward a clearing where the hill fell toward the bourn. Another shot, coming opposite of Thomas, threw the man into a slide and tumble—his rifle spun off into the grass. Once the man’s momentum ceased, Thomas gathered his sight picture again and sent another round downrange. Goodbye!
He lifted himself from the ditch and angled toward the guard he just downed. The last thing they needed was him slipping into the night only to come back to haunt them later. He neared, and the man didn't stir. “Hey, shit bird,” he whispered, giving him a tap with the toe of his boot. “Get up.” Thomas pressed his heel onto the guard's hand and removed the weight from his other leg. Dead. Good. All's quiet now.
The thought gave Thomas pause. The cracks of gunfire from the camp had thinned out. The initial burst of chaos was over, and it seemed that both sides had entrenched themselves into a stalemate. That, or something had gone horribly wrong, and they had already lost. But, how? I have to get back. He turned, taking back to the hill with haste.
A tramping sound of boots caught his attention, and he saw Delta team double timing it atop the ridge. He emerged from the brush, trying to meet with them before they trailed off without him. He cleared the street, and not wanting to remain completely exposed, he pressed forward within that shallow ditch that rested between the street and ridge—each step slogging in and out of the filth he had recently crawled through.
Delta team advanced aggressively, more so t
han Thomas had anticipated, there was no choice but to call out, “Hawk.” The word left his mouth, low yet forceful, but not nearly enough to reach them. He spoke louder and finally the call sign caught up to them. Two hushed “Doves” were given in response, and Delta team held for Thomas to join them.
“You guys alright?” Thomas asked, craning his neck to speak with the men above him on the ridge.
“Yeah,” one of the Soldiers spoke. “We had a good jump on them, but they got loose with their firepower. Knew you were coming, so we figured we'd keep them distracted for ya.”
Thomas pitched his rifle to one of the men and grabbed hold of a few roots to assist in his climb up the face of the embankment. Once he reached the top, the team huddled around him as he spoke, “Remember we're here to save the women. No mercy for the Butcher or his men.” A few shots echoed outward from the camp. Someone's still shooting. That's a good sign. “This is it. The final push.”
“Then, let's go!”
As they approached from the north, moving into a portion of the brush that had not been taken by flame, Thomas gagged—the indescribable smell of cooked flesh overwhelmed him. Holy... Some bodies remained intact, sprawled out across the pavement, but most had not been so lucky. The initial spray of the Molotov's reduced them to nothing more than burnt heaps. A call for help—the only word discernible above the scant gunfire and shouting, but there was no telling from where it came. The camp lay in ruin.
The area west of the gazebo was well lit—the flames expanding into the forest—anything within its indiscriminate reach became fuel. From Riley's post there were still muzzle flashes. South of those came a few more. Charlie team made it. Another shot—each flash thus far came from positions assigned during the briefing. They must have someone holed up. Unable to visibly place their target, Thomas sent two Soldiers and the medic off toward James’s location, leaving him and Krenshaw to hold their own. Crack! Crack! Near misses shaved a tree of its bark. The three departing members of Delta team dove to the ground and took to crawling. “Get them some breathing room!” Thomas yelled.
Days Since...: Thomas: Day 758 (Almawt Virus Series Book 1) Page 15