by Lopez, Rob
“Okay,” sighed Packy. “Duty calls.”
*
Leon ordered another rocket flare to be sent up, and prepared his mortar crew to begin another bombardment. The battle hadn’t gone badly, but it wasn’t great either. He wasn’t impressed by his troops, in spite of the extra training they’d received over the normal militia. They weren’t what he’d call real soldiers yet. It also didn’t help that he had no communications. After the first attack, he had to rely on runners to bring him news and to issue new orders, and that took time. The ferocity of the defense surprised him too, considering the camp was meant to be mostly women and children. Well, they weren’t going anywhere, so he figured another bombardment would soften them up for a breakthrough. Standing on the bank of the creek, he trained his binoculars on the slopes of the draw, trying to find a good target.
“Bring it three degrees left,” he intoned.
A bullet cracked past his ear, and he dropped down quickly and turned around. The shot had come from behind, downstream. He realized he and his men were silhouetted against the light of the flares. The mortar crew, focused on aligning the mortar and getting one of the bombs ready, didn’t even know they were under fire.
“Get down, you idiots,” said Leon, bringing his M4 around and aiming it. Gun flashes flickered in the darkness, and bullets zipped by. Leon fired at a couple of the flashes then relocated, finding better cover.
“They’re behind us,” he shouted to one of his units up the slope. “About face.”
*
Scott heard the cracks of gunfire in the woods, and was baffled. At first he assumed that one enemy militia group had bumped into another militia group and begun engaging them — an easy mistake to make in the dark. The longer he listened, however, the more it seemed that another front had opened up, with the firing getting more intense.
Packy appeared with a couple more fighters and the Molotovs.
“Where’s Chuck?” asked Scott.
“Ahh, he got to feeling his age. Figured it was better to send someone more capable.”
“So why’d he send you?”
“Gee, that’s original. Tell me you’ve got a more expansive repertoire than that.”
“What’s the situation in the camp?”
“The perimeters are kind of holding, but some of the bad guys got into the camp. They’re dead now. Seems okay so far, but everyone’s kind of worried it can get worse.”
Scott listened again to the distant firing. When he saw the flares go up, he expected another attack, but it seemed to have been interrupted.
Packy too listened to the firing. “Are they fighting among themselves?” he asked.
Scott weighed up the possibilities. “I say we go find out.”
“We’ve still got enemy militia in front of us, somewhere in the darkness,” cautioned Harvey.
“So let’s hit them while they’re distracted.”
Scott readied the squad and they sallied out from the position. Almost immediately, gun flashes in the darkness forced them to drop and hug the dirt.
“Distracted, huh?” said Harvey.
Scott turned. “Packy! Molotov.”
Packy got his lighter out and ignited one of the Molotovs, throwing it toward the gun flashes. The bottle smashed against a tree, flaming gasoline running down the trunk and illuminating the shooters. Scott sighted one of the militia and double tapped him in the head, throwing him backwards.
“Go,” shouted Scott.
Guns blazing, his squad charged forward, and the enemy militia, sheltering in a hollow, broke and tried to flee. Packy reached the edge of the hollow and let rip with his submachine gun, cutting one of them down. Harvey discharged his shotgun at a running figure and saw him stumble.
Scott continued the pursuit, moving from tree to tree and snapping off shots. The militia didn’t even attempt a fighting retreat. Running headlong into the darkness, they spooked other militia squads who were gazing nervously at the huge firefight downstream. Fearful of being caught from two sides, they routed, saving their skins and disappearing into the darkness. Camp fighters in position along the ridge witnessed the victorious charge of Scott’s squad and joined in, sweeping the area in a wave.
Scott reached the edge of a downward slope and saw where a holdout group of militia near the creek were fighting back furiously against a long line of muzzle flashes. The parachute flares had burned out, and Scott wasn’t sure who was friend and who was foe, nor even who the ‘friends’ across the creek were. Lighting Molotovs, his squad rained them down on the area, bringing everything into sharp relief.
Scott saw the mortar, still set up but abandoned. He also saw one soldier fighting professionally, picking his shots and rallying those around him.
“Leon, you son of a bitch,” roared Scott.
Leon turned and immediately fired his reply. Scott was already moving and he dived behind a tree. When he peered out, rifle at the ready, he saw Leon relocating to a new position. Scott rapid-fired three shots and Leon threw himself down, returning fire.
The light from the flames allowed the assailants across the creek to better pick their targets, and Leon’s militiamen dropped like flies. It was obvious that Leon was doomed, and he knew it too as he tried to fight his way out, but Scott kept him pinned down, inching closer.
The militiamen began to surrender, throwing their weapons out and raising their hands. Devoid of support, Leon saw the futility of continued resistance and tossed out his M4, raising his arms and rising from cover.
Scott shot him anyway.
With a gout of blood spurting from his neck, Leon fell. Scott jumped up and raced over. The surrendering militiamen, seeing Leon’s fate, feared it would be the same for them, but Scott told them to relax and get on their knees with their hands behind their heads. Standing over Leon, who tried in vain to stem the blood that flowed from his neck, Scott said, without a speck of sincerity, “Well, sorry about that Leon. I guess my finger slipped.”
He crouched down beside the dying Special Forces soldier, and added, in a quieter voice, “That’s for Martinez. And for every other poor sucker who got in yours and Connors’ way. You’re a disgrace to that uniform.”
Leon’s eyelids drooped as the energy drained from him. His face paled. “Screw you,” he murmured. “Nolan’s still a dead man.”
Scott pressed his hand against Leon’s hand to help stanch the blood. “How do you figure that?” he said.
“You’ll see,” said Leon, the ghost of a smile on his face.
Scott gave the other prisoners a reassuring look. Then he savagely punched Leon in the face. The hand fell away from the neck, the blood flowed like a river from the carotid artery, then slowed as the heart ceased beating. Scott stood up, flexing his fist.
“Way to hit a man when he’s down,” observed Packy, standing nearby.
“Not a very Christian thing to do,” said Harvey, a little troubled.
“That it isn’t,” said Scott with a certain satisfaction.
A line of people came out of the woods and crossed the creek. They carried a variety of rifles, but they all had scopes.
“Nice to see they put my merchandise to good use,” said Packy.
“Who are they?” said Scott.
“They’re the good folk of Marion. And, uh, maybe a few more.”
Scott looked at all the faces in the trees. The group that crossed the creek approached his position and they were led by a woman.
“Hey, there,” called Packy to her. “Is it Salina? Farina? I keep forgetting.”
Farah ignored him and walked up to Scott.
“You’re not Rick,” she said to him.
“No, I’m the other one,” he said. “And who might you be?”
“You’re the one he said was injured. I’m Farah.”
“Ah, right. You’re with that guy.”
“I was. Until they murdered him.”
Scott nodded down at Leon. “This the one who did it?”
“One of
them. The other was Fick. I thought he’d be here. I thought Rick would be here too.”
“No, he’s … someplace else.”
Farah shouldered her rifle. “I think you need to warn him. I heard Fick say he was preparing a surprise for Nolan.”
Scott looked down at Leon. “So that’s what he was talking about,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“Damn it,” said Scott. “That intel was too convenient. He’s walking into a trap.” He turned around to address Packy. “Is your car nearby?”
“A few hours’ walk from here,” said Packy.
“We won’t be walking,” said Scott.
“We found your other vehicles,” said Farah. “The vehicles the militia arrived in are also there.”
Scott thought for a moment. “How many of your people can you spare?” he asked.
“As many as you need,” said Farah. “It was my fault this happened.”
“Don’t worry about that now. Harvey, can you take charge of the prisoners? Take over the security of the camp. There’s still militia out there in the woods. Packy, you come with me.”
“Are you sure you should be doing this?” said Harvey to Scott. “Your wound. I can take your place if you want.”
“No, I’ve got a score to settle, and I ain’t going to be delicate about it.”
29
Connors stood on the roof of the highest building on campus at UNC Asheville. Behind him, in the campus, his mortars lobbed illumination rounds over the city. He could see the fighting where he knew Lauren was trapped. Farther north, he was able to track the firefight as Rick’s besieged forces attempted to make their way south. Taft lay down with his fifty caliber sniper rifle, looking for targets through his scope. Fick stood impatiently next to Connors.
“When the time comes, I want to take him down myself,” said Fick, still rubbing his neck. He’d been massaging it since he arrived, and it was giving him problems.
“You’ll get your chance,” said Connors. “He’s not going to get out of this one now. We’ve got him where we want him.”
“You’re underestimating him again.”
“Are you afraid of him, Fick? Or maybe you admire him a little.”
“I ain’t afraid of no one, but our militia are raw, and Nolan always manages to get away. You let me go down there with my squad. We’ll get him.”
“No need for that. You see, I understand Rick’s weakness, and she’s right down there. He’s not running away. He’s moving farther into the trap. He ain’t that smart, really.”
“He ain’t that dumb either.”
“No? Then explain what the hell he’s doing. He’s surrounded, but he’s moving deeper into the tar pit when he should be trying to run.”
A militiaman came running onto the rooftop.
“We’ve got civilians taking up arms and fighting against us,” he said breathlessly.
Connors was unfazed. “Good,” he said. “It’ll make disarming them tomorrow easier, especially after we kill the trouble makers.”
“You don’t understand,” said the militiaman. “It’s not just a few of them. It’s hundreds.”
Connors paused to take the information in.
“You idiot,” Fick told him. “Nolan’s gathering support as he moves.”
*
The wooden houses were no match for high velocity rifle fire. As citizens tried to defend their homes, casualties mounted as bullets punched through cladding and drywall. Braving the gunfire, Lauren ran from house to house, rallying the defenders and warning them of outflanking militia. When an illumination round arced directly overhead, she realized the site was zeroed in for the mortars. What would follow next would be a combined massacre and demolition.
Farther back, on a corner, stood a brick house, styled like a prairie barn. Lauren ran into one of the wooden houses.
“We need to get out,” she yelled. “File out the back door and make your way to the brick house over there.”
A man firing his rifle out of the living room window turned to look at her. “Lady, who the hell are you?” he asked.
“Sir,” said Lauren, “that’s not important right now.”
A bullet splintered a wooden panel near the man’s head. He ducked down. “This is my home,” he said. “I ain’t leaving it.”
Lauren moved to the brick fireplace, which provided better cover.
“I appreciate your sentiment,” she said. “But when the mortars begin their bombardment, your house is going to be matchwood.”
“What do you know about mortar bombardments?”
“More than I’m comfortable with. Now please, we need to get everybody out of this house.”
Underneath the stairs, a middle aged woman was comforting another woman who wasn’t coping well with the gunfire. The middle aged woman glanced at Lauren with a shrewd eye. “Aren’t you that lady who was going to be hanged?” she asked.
Lauren didn’t think this was quite the right time for that kind of conversation, but the people in the house appeared to be in no hurry to move.
“Yes, I am that woman, and Sheriff Eagleburger, whose body is lying on your street, is the man who saved my life. The people who killed him mean business, and I’ve seen them use mortars against innocent people.”
“Yes, but you’re not really innocent, are you?” pressed the woman.
Lauren looked at her for a moment. “No, I’m not innocent, and I’m no victim either. Anybody who threatens myself or my children stands a good chance of getting a bullet from me. If that’s not good enough for you people, then I’m done. I’ve tried to help you. I can’t do any more.”
Lauren turned to go.
“Wait,” called the man. “You’re a convict. Why should we side with you instead of them?”
“Find out the hard way,” said Lauren. “Surrender to them and see what kind of justice you get. How much do you trust the system to give you a fair trial?”
The man pondered for just a moment. “Martha, Rose,” he said, “get up now.”
*
“Rick Nolan’s here! We’re raising the city!”
That was Moresby’s proclamation as they moved through the neighborhoods, and it made Rick increasingly uneasy. Far from arriving with a liberating army, he only had a squad of eight men, and he was running away from the encircling force hard on his heels and headlong toward a mortar barrage that was falling on what he suspected to be Lauren’s position. The people coming out of their homes now were poorly equipped to take on such a force, even if they had the numbers. Rick feared that a catastrophic number of people were about to die in his name.
His original plan was in tatters, and he needed to weave something out of the chaos. He was conflicted by the need to link up with Lauren, however. Before it was too late.
He chose to ride the upwelling tide and continue his attack southward.
His ramshackle force reached the line of Reed Creek, where militia forces who’d been attacking Lauren’s position waited out the bombardment prior to attacking again. Rick’s citizen army fell upon them, taking them by surprise. Rick led the way in savage hand-to-hand fighting that decimated the militia.
“Over the highway,” called Rick, trying to keep the momentum going.
He had the feeling that momentum was the only thing holding his force together, preventing them from dwelling on the consequences of what they were doing.
Plunging deep into the next neighborhood, he approached the area of devastation. The mortars had ceased for the moment, and illumination shells were lobbed over the area again. An entire street of wooden homes lay smashed and burning.
Amid the desolation, however, stood a solitary brick house. Its roof had caved in, but the structure remained intact. Fanning his force out, Rick pushed on. From the other side of the house, squads of militia advanced, no doubt looking to mop up what remained after the bombardment. They were somewhat surprised, therefore, to be met by an advancing line of citizens who charged at them through t
he ruins. Dismayed, they retreated back to their original positions, pinned down by the enthusiastic sniping of Rick’s larger force.
Witnessing survivors stumbling out of the brick house, Rick ran over to them.
“Where’s Lauren?” he asked.
The bewildered faces that looked at him made it clear they didn’t know who Lauren was. Barging his way into the house, he searched every room, but all he saw were people stunned by the bombardment. Dashing back outside, he stumbled through the wreckage of splintered homes, looking for his wife. The parachute flares swayed as they dropped low, making the shadows waver. Reaching the end of their life, they snuffed out, bringing the darkness back, and the gunfire petered out as targets faded and people drew back into cover, feeling alone.
“Lauren,” called out Rick.
A single bullet zipped by as someone probed the location of his voice. He crouched down and continued his search.
“Lauren!”
By the light of some flames, he saw a body and raced over to it. It was a man who’d been caught by an explosion and partially ripped apart.
“Lauren!”
There was a groan nearby, and a voice croaked. “Rick?”
Rick turned and immediately started pulling at boards and broken furniture.
“Lauren, where are you?”
“Here,” said the voice.
Rick plowed through the wreckage until he saw his wife’s face. Shifting a door that had fallen across her legs, he crouched down and touched her bloodied face.
“Tell me we’re not dead,” she said.
“No,” he said. “Are you okay?”
Lauren flexed her arms and moved her legs a little. “I think so,” she said. She looked around. “Did we win?”
Exhaling in relief, he said, “Not yet.”
Lauren looked at him. “You’re late,” she said.
Rick couldn’t help but smile. “You want to argue about it now, or leave it till later?”
“Later’s good with me. Help me up.”
He lifted her up and she wobbled on her feet.
“I think I’m a little concussed,” she said.
Rick kept his arm around her. “That’s okay. Watch where you’re putting your feet.”