by Blair Smith
Butch shook his head. "But, Sir. I'd like to say--"
"No don't. Just get ready." Charlie shook his head to try to stay conscious. The Scout leader didn't want the boy to say something that would make him feel guilty. Charlie couldn't return the admiration; he had never cared for the Rousell boys and didn't want a lie to be his last word. "Ready?" The man got up and ran out to latch onto a dead tree stump. The gun turned and popped him with one shot to his chest.
At the same moment, the Rousell boys sprinted toward the boulder in the other direction. Driven by fear, Thad's quick, lightweight frame darted yards ahead of his brother. Butch dove to make it behind the boulder in time. Thad bounded on like a deer, lightly jetting across the span toward the roots of the toppled tree. The auto-gun pivoted from Charlie to Thad and began firing; Thad outran the bullets' dust plumes that followed him, diving into the hollow pocket of dirt at the wall of tree roots. Bullets raked the edges of the uprooted tree end, throwing dust in all directions. But part of the roots were blocked by the boulder in front.
Charlie waved an arm and the gun turned on him again, shooting twice to the chest in exactly the same spot it hit before. Then, it pivoted back toward Thad's direction and waited. Charlie slumped from the tree stump and fell to the ground. The gun turned and shot through the top of his head as he lay dead; it rotated 180 degrees to shoot a boy who moved on the other side of the clearing--and mystically turned its aim back to the roots again.
Butch watched it all from behind the boulder. What was once a thick clod of dirt giving life to a fallen tree, now looked like a spiny-faced creature with a mouth that had gulped his brother. He didn't see Thad in the cavity. "Thad? Thad? You there?" Butch turned back to see Barry behind the edge of the rock. "Barry, don't move a muscle! Just don't move!" The gun detected Butch at the side of the boulder; bullets raked the rock's edge, tossing a chunk of stone into Butch's forehead and gashing it open. He sat dazed behind the stone holding the sticky blood in. The plaid Webelos neckerchief that seemed to be a part of his daily attire came off; Butch wrapped it around his head. If the injury hurt, he didn't feel it.
He crawled on his belly to the base of the roots as Charlie had told him. Thad wasn't there. "Thad!" Butch dug around and found a foot and followed it up to the head: Thad had buried himself all right. His face was completely mucked with black soil, his body rigid. "Thad, you all right? Say something!"
Thad's bulging eyes had seen it all: He could still hear his friends' pleas for help, he could still smell the bitter scent of gut; all this, Thad relived in his mind's eye.
"I'll get us out of this. Don't worry, Thad." Butch found a flat rock and began digging a tunnel out the opposite of the roots. He figured if they kept the boulder between them and the gun, they could crawl out the back and down the hill.
Thad's look of terror only changed when a moan floated up from the pack. The auto-gun shot occasionally if a body rolled from its original position or a corpse slumped. But it always turned back to the roots--as though it knew they were still there.
Butch dug frantically. He had no idea how much time had lapsed from when the shooting began to now. He hadn't tired yet. Instead of sitting still as Charlie had said, Butch felt compelled to get out and go for help; Barry was still alive. The parking lot where parents would be waiting for them was just down the mountain. He could send Thad, the fastest runner in Pack 220.
"What the hell's that?" Butch looked back. A tandem helicopter hovered above the clearing and churned up leaves and dust; some of the Boy Scout hats went spinning through the air to the heavens. The copter landed.
Both boys looked out the hole. "Those are Federal soldiers," said Butch in amazement. "We've got to do as Mr. Ronolou said." Both boys feverishly pushed dirt up from the inside to fill the opening until only a peephole remained.
Troops jumped out both sides of the helicopter and flopped belly down with rifles readied. A technician, who carried a remote controller, punched a few buttons. He then darted to the auto-gun, threw off the cover, and flipped mechanical switches in the innards of the thing.
The weapon, called an AutoMan, sensed motion, heat, and target mass. The device was designed to target armored vehicles and soldiers over a particular weight who carried weapons. An electronic program memorized and tracked victims for "neutralization." It could strafe a crowd, then come back and neutralize individuals with single shots.
The technician waved all clear to the squad. The soldiers scattered out to the tree line, securing their unit's position. Additional Rangers jumped out of the copter and took positions with the troops. They were ready but didn't expect any fighting.
Captain Edward Thomas, an African-American, jumped off the chopper as the props coasted to a stop. A veteran of numerous campaigns in the Middle East, Haiti, Africa, and the Carolinas, he had become conditioned to the gore of battle. This was different. He looked at the child faces, the hats, the Scout uniforms. "Oh God." He had expected to find the bodies of men, part of a smuggling syndicate.
"I don't understand it. They're all gut shots, Captain. Gut shots." The technician came up behind Captain Thomas and spoke rapidly, not really looking at any of the faces for fear of losing his composure. "I think it must have something to do with our disarming the metals sensor. I don't know why but it's the only thing I can think of."
"The targets were children." the Captain whispered in horror.
The technician looked around more closely. "This is terrible!" He started walking through the carnage. Vapors rose from opened abdomens and hovered aimlessly above the corpses. The technician found an open spot and vomited on the ground. He stumbled back to the gun turret to help with its disassembly.
"Get three soldiers to check for any survivors," Captain Thomas told a private. The Captain started toward the tree line where it seemed the Scout troop had entered the clearing; he tried to look at bodies, not faces. He found Barry behind a rock; the boy's legs were shot up. Massive hemorrhaging still oozed from both legs. "Medic, here!" The boy was breathing, his face scrunched into distorted shapes to hold back pain. "You hear me, boy? Can you speak?"
"Yeah. Mom can help." Barry's mother was a nurse. As he spoke, scenes of childhood raced through his mind . . . the cuts . . . the bruises; his mom could fix anything.
Two soldiers jogged over with a stretcher and medical kit. "Hold him together the best you can. I'll call it in," said Thomas. On his way to the chopper, a private told him about two remaining targets locked into AutoMan's memory. "One target must have been the boy," the Captain concluded. "Just take the thing apart. I don't think we have to worry about smugglers jumping us, trooper."
"Here you go, sir." The pilot handed him a radio headset.
"Hawk's Nest. This is Sparrow. AutoMan hit a Cub Scout Troop. Out."
"What?" replied General Beaudock. "Repeat that. I said, repeat that. Out."
"A Cub Scout Troop of about sixty boys were hit, sir."
"Fatalities, Captain? How many dead? Out."
"All but one. We're patching him up and bringing the boy into Hawk's Nest. Out."
"Hold on, Sparrow. We'll get back to you. Out."
The radio fell silent at the Hawk's Nest end. It was a scrambled channel so they spoke freely. Unable to focus on the carnage, the Captain walked back over to watch the medic prep the boy. When the medic finished the initial prep, Thomas signaled him over to the chopper. Ducking the props, he crawled into the craft. "What's up, sir?"
"I don't know. Hawk's Nest is getting back to me. How's the boy?"
"Real bad."
The Captain dropped his face in his hands, "This is a nightmare."
"Sparrow. Come in."
Captain Thomas lifted the headset, "We're back, Hawk."
"What's the status on the boy?"
"I'm putting the medic on," the Captain handed the headset over.
"Sir, Corporal Jim Mathers. The boy's condition is critical. We've bound him and have him prepped for transport. Must move out as soon as possible, sir. I repeat, as soon as possible."
"Can you guarantee the boy will make it back alive?"
"Well, no."
"Put the Captain on," ordered General Beaudock. He handed the headset back to Thomas. "Captain, abort the mission. Disassemble AutoMan and return to Hawk's Nest without the boy."
Thomas looked at Corporal Mathers. "They want us to leave the boy." He asked Beaudock, "Repeat that, sir."
"You heard me, Captain. Leave the boy and come back to the nest. Now!"
To Mathers, "Do you think he has a chance at all, Corporal?"
"I don't know, but we can't just leave him here."
Thomas lifted the headset, "Sir, we can't leave the boy."
"Leave the boy or your asses will be mine, Captain! That's an order!" The General screamed over the radio.
Captain Thomas slammed the headset down. "Son-of-a-bitch! I can't believe this." He jumped from the copter and yelled to the technicians. "Break-down AutoMan, we're out of here. Leave everything here as it was. He followed the medic to the boy at the top of the ridge. "Take the boy off the stretcher and put him back where he was."
Three young men who were prepping Barry, looked up at Thomas in disbelief. One of them spoke. "Sir, we got him to talk to us."
"It's not my decision, Private. The fat asses on the other end of the radio gave the order, and they don't have to see this shit. Now, do as you're told."
The Captain turned on his heel and went to AutoMan. "Where were those recorded targets?"
The technician pointed in the direction of the large boulder and the spiny roots. Thomas walked between the boulder and the uprooted tree and found a fragmented rock with blood on it. Fresh dirt from where Butch had crawled, led to the base of the tree roots; loose dirt had recently been heaped at the root's base. Thad's footprints also led to the same spot. Captain Thomas looked right in the hole.
Butch leaned back from the opening. "Thad, don't say a word," Butch whispered. "The guy is right above us." Thad began to whimper. "Shhh." Butch put a hand gently over his brother's mouth.
The Captain stared at the hole, looked back at the blood-splattered rock and noticed the alignment of the boulder to the tree roots. He circled the roots through the woods and came back to the AutoMan turret. "A bullet hit the kids behind the root cluster," he told the technical team. "How soon before you're ready to go?"
The medic approached Captain Thomas one more time: He was distraught. "Leaving that boy is wrong and you know it."
"I know it. But we have our orders." Thomas paused. "But leave the boy prepped." Corporal Mathers was going to ask why, but years of training stopped him.
Thomas turned to his Sergeant, "Pull the troops off the perimeter and have them scoop up any vomit from our people and put it in a bag. Brush any boot prints." At last he spoke to the technician, "This was a terrible mistake and the top brass want it to go away."
Ten minutes later they hovered above the landing zone. Captain Thomas looked down to the pocket of dirt at the base of the roots and murmured to himself through the racket of the Mitsubishi engines, "Good luck, boys." The chopper spun and headed southwest.
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Chapter 2
Butch clawed out of the hole first. He saw it all from the peephole and couldn't understand why they left Barry. Butch had considered coming out if they began to put his friend on the helicopter, but they didn't. They just left him there. He found Barry with his legs wrapped and tourniquets on. Thad followed with trepidation. "Get that duffel over there," Butch told his brother as he pointed.
Thad, still in shock, could hardly function. He looked around, but saw only carnage as he grabbed the duffel and gave it to his brother. In a sitting position, he rocked back and forth, breathing rapidly.
Butch placed the bundle under Barry's head and lowered his ear to his friend's chest. "I'm having trouble hearing anything. We've gotta get him home. We gotta make a stretcher." He looked about. "I'll pull the shorts off the others. You get some long sticks; we'll string 'em through." Thad rocked in a daze. "Do you hear me, Thad?" He went over and carefully took his younger brother's face in his hands. "Thad, I can't do this alone. Barry needs us. Can you get two strong limbs? Do you understand?"
Thad shook his head yes and sprinted for the brush at the tree line. Butch frantically cut shoelaces with his Scout knife and yanked the shorts off several of his dead friends. Thad returned with two thin saplings.
"Those won't work," Butch stated. "Here, hook these belts together, Thad, I'll get the wood."
"Thad," Barry whispered. Thad turned around like he had heard a ghost, then bent over close to his friend's mouth. "I'm scared. Is this real?"
Thad shook his head yes. Tears began streaming down his face, along his nose, across his tight-lipped mouth.
Butch returned. Thad took the limbs from his brother and frantically began constructing a stretcher.
Butch didn't understand the change in Thad; he just pitched in. They threaded the poles through five pairs of shorts and strapped Barry on top of the makeshift stretcher with the belts. The boys trotted across the clearing with stretcher in tow and headed down the steeper trail on the other side. Butch took the back of the stretcher as they started their descent. Though a strong boy for his age, Butch had trouble holding back the downward rush of the stretcher from behind; adrenaline drove the frantic boy. Rocks and trees whizzed by in their desperate race. Only footsteps and heavy panting resounded through the shadowy pine underworld, as woodland creatures paused to watch from their hideaways.
A two-mile stint to the base of the mountain and they were nearly there. Butch cut a corner around some brush; an inclined log, sticking up from a thicket caught Thad in the stomach, punching him to an abrupt halt. The sudden stop sent the older brother headlong down the hill. Butch continued holding on to the litter as he fell on his face and skidded down the trail; Barry's stretcher finally came to rest.
Butch got up, woozy. He spit blood and dirt before yelling to his brother, "Are you all right?" Thad had the wind knocked out of him, but rose to his feet and nodded his head yes. Butch put his ear on Barry's chest. He sat back. His pug face looked beaten, "I don't hear nothin'."
In dismay, Thad staggered to his friend and also put an ear down to his chest. He jerked up excitedly like he heard something, and scrambled to the end of the stretcher. Butch sprang up and grabbed the front. By the time they arrived at the parking lot they had fallen two more times, the second time gashing their legs and knees on a stony ledge.
Middle-aged parents stood around the vehicles chatting. One man had brought a large thermos of coffee he shared with the others. An overweight woman passed out cookies.
Thad lost his footing and tumbled forward down the last steep grade to the parking lot. He'd lost all strength in his legs. Butch dragged the stretcher into the gravel lot as onlookers watched the boy with blood-soaked scarf and red-streaked legs stumble to the middle and drop to his knees. Gravel was embedded into the puffy flesh of his kneecaps. He bowed his head and waited.
It took a full four seconds for the scene to register in the minds of the parents. Finally, the group dropped what they held and rushed to the boys. "What happened, Butch?" asked Mrs. Larson, the heavy woman.
"The Feds did it." Butch could hardly talk. Mrs. Larson helped him stretch out on the ground and took off her jacket to put under the boy's head. "A machine killed everyone," Butch claimed.
"Did he say everyone?" another mother blurted out with a horrified look.
Mrs. Larson leaned close to Butch. "Now take your time and say what happened."
Butch took several breaths, "Everybody but Thad and Barry and me got killed in an ambush. Then the Feds came in a helicopter and took the machi
ne away. It killed everyone!"
Parents looked to one another in astonishment. Four thick-middled men sprinted up the trail into the woods. Two mothers followed. Mr. Larson rushed back to his truck and yanked a rifle from behind his seat; he grabbed a box of shells and loaded the weapon en route.
Mrs. Larson checked Barry's vital signs and found none. "Oh God, is Helen here? I think it's Barry!" She looked at Butch, "Was he alive?"
"He was alive a minute ago. He spoke to Thad just up the trail."
Without hesitation, Mrs. Larson began CPR on the boy. Her tears dropped on Barry's soiled face as she cried with the realization of her own boy still on the mountain. The drops blotched and smeared, transforming Barry's angelic face into a streaked warrior, fighting a battle to survive. Everyone watched as Mrs. Larson struggled to move blood and air through the boy's fading, limp form.
Butch pushed away any help for himself, spellbound by the events unfolding before him. "It was just a few minutes ago he said 'Mom.'" Watching Barry lie limp dropped Butch into a hopeless despair, as he personally realized the death of a friend.
Thad felt it too. Though others pawed him, checking his injuries, Thad's eyes never turned from his friend's face, peering past the adults who surrounded him, listening for some sign of life.
Max, Helen's older brother, had given her a lift to the Notch to get Barry. Tater's enthusiasm for truck rides made it difficult to leave the dog behind; she rode in back under the cap. As they pulled in, Helen knew instantly something had gone wrong when she saw the circled group in the parking lot. She recognized the Rousell brothers off to the side, bloodied and bruised. A wave of panic swelled inside her as she scanned the group for her son. She opened the door and began running before Max had even stopped the truck. Helen slipped on the gravel and caught herself with her hands on the jagged stones.
Tater sensed her distress. She pushed up the truck's back lid with her nose and bounded to the ground. In four bounds, she was in the thick of the crowd staring down at her lifeless master.