by G. R. Carter
“How many? Better be a bunch to be giving away our position like that,” Lamar replied.
“Can’t tell for sure, but they’re already past the sentries. I do know for sure, there’s enough that we’re completely surrounded.”
Lamar did some quick calculations, figuring up how many enemy it would take to surround their group; he decided at least 50 and probably more like 100. Plus his adversary possessed the tactical advantage of knowing the terrain. It all added up to one thing, this was bad.
“Okay listen, the sentries will stand on their own at this point, we’ve trained them for this. Pull everyone else in together so there’s no friendly fire,” Lamar ordered. “Then we can shoot at anything that moves in front of us.”
“That means we’ll be trapped,” Roy said, half questioning the plan.
“We’re trapped anyway,” Lamar answered. “We’ve got to play for time. When daylight comes, we’ll be able to tell what we’re up against.”
Satisfied with the answer, Roy slipped away into the darkness to pass orders to the rest of the groups. “How do you know it’s not Cogs finally finding us? Instead of this scarecrow group.” Pina asked from the side.
“Cause if it was, they wouldn’t be firing on us already. And those aren’t Cog issue weapons going off out there. Scarecrows aren’t a group, they’re just scavengers and thieves that live in packs out in these forests. They probably been tracking us for a day or so, waiting to spring the trap. Roy said a couple of sentries saw something yesterday, but I didn’t figure for an organized attack like this. This shows some level of planning,” Lamar said.
“I wish you would have done a better job of figuring. Because of you I’m going to die out in the boonies under a cold rock,” Pina said spitefully.
“Well Miss Pina, I promise I’ll leave a nice message on your stone. The Congregation don’t die that easy,” Lamar replied, and slipped into the shallow fox hole dug just feet from where they were.
More muzzle flashes came from their left, the direction Roy had slipped off into the dark. Shouting pierced the dark, and then several crouching figures came into view through the dim moonlight.
No one said a word as each person crouched into the exact same firing position, all pointed back towards where they came from. One of the Congregation members fired their weapon, temporarily blinding anyone looking that way. Lamar’s ears started ringing from the roar. He subconsciously opened his mouth and moved his jaw around, trying to free the imaginary cotton balls filling his ears.
Another group came in from the opposite direction, and now he had about thirty of his people fanned out in a semicircle from the rock outcropping behind him.
“No one fires until I say,” Lamar sound firmly. “We should have more folk coming in, we can’t risk hurting them.”
Eerie calm in the woods contrasted with the racing hearts Lamar felt as much as heard in his people. The shock of the attack was wearing off, now replaced with the terror of not knowing who was hunting them in the dark. Each second brought more concern for their friends and family still out there. Lamar could feel them getting edgy to go into the dark and help.
“Hold on everyone. I want to go out there, too. But right now there’s too many itchy triggers. If we see a major fight break out, I want five men with me. First five up, everyone else stay and protect each other. Understood?” No one said a word, but the message was delivered.
As if on cue, multiple rifles went off directly in front of Lamar’s position. Without thinking, he rose and began crouch running towards the fight. He could hear leaves crunching underfoot behind him confirming that he was being followed by his volunteers.
“Onward Christian Soldiers, marching as to war,
With the cross of Jesus, going on before!”
The chorus of the hymn was taken up by the men behind Lamar, using it both as encouragement in the face of death but also to let fellow Congregation members know who was coming. The powerful lyrics were used by their people in every skirmish large or small as a rallying cry. The same lines repeated again, parroted back from baritone and base voices in front of them.
In a few steps, Lamar found himself striding past familiar faces. A quick count told him at least ten more of the Congregation were here, pinned down and unsure of where to go. Using the momentum of their run, and the brief confusion of the noise created by his rush, Lamar intended to go on the attack.
In a matter of a few yards, he smelled the stench of unwashed human bodies. Movement flashed and he squeezed off a burst from his rifle. A face appeared and he instinctively swung the rifle’s butt up to hit under the chin. The shock of the impact tore the rifle from his hands, causing him to grab for the pistol at his hip. Another form came at him, seeming to be almost parallel to the ground, a long stick in one hand with something sharp that caught a glare of moonlight. Lamar fired his pistol but the creature came on, finally sliding to a stop at his feet as the last bullet left the barrel.
Then something was one his back, grabbing at his throat with wire like fingers, searching for a soft spot. He raised himself up in the air, and fell back with all his might. Two hundred pounds of muscle drove his attacker into the ground, forcing a disgusting blast of breath out of a rotted mouth. Lamar didn’t have time to gag as he sprung and spun at the same time, bringing the full force of his knee down into the soft abdomen of the scarecrow. He paused for a millisecond, staring into the distorted face of a young woman, suddenly not so scary.
A scream lashed into his ear drum and he was tackled from the side. A knife blade tore into his leg, then pulled out to try to strike again. The pain flashed like white fire, turning Lamar’s survival instinct into rage. He grabbed the scarecrow’s head and twisted, feeling the bones pop and the sudden limpness of disconnected nerves.
Like a leopard he was up on his feet, trying to survey the area and get a handle on the situation. He worked to calm his breath, focusing on the surroundings instead of the pain radiating from the gash in his leg. He could feel blood seeping into his pants around the wound but it still held weight for now.
“Rally to me, Congregation!” Lamar shouted. He was relatively confident the scarecrows didn’t have any guns left, so there would be strength in grouping his men back together. “To me, to me!” he shouted again, his bass voice echoing through the trees. Some limped, some jogged and some just seemed to appear around him. “Weapons check,” he commanded, and the ten Congregation members all grabbed for their pistols and knives. That means at least five of my folk are still out there, probably hurt Lamar thought to himself. That couldn’t be helped right now, not in the middle of a life or death fight in the dark.
He wasn’t sure how long all of this had been going on, could have been minutes or hours.
“Alright, did anyone see where the scarecrows were coming from?” Lamar asked the group.
No one answered.
“Okay, then we’re going to advance a little ways out, see if we can find any of our guys hurt, okay? Scarecrows get the mercy stroke, can’t trust any of them alive at this point,” he commanded. Pastor will be getting an ear bent because of that order… Lamar thought of Pastor still back at the cave, probably praying for their safety right now. His two living sons were along with him on the westward trek, though Lamar wasn't quite sure just where they were right at this moment.
The men didn’t sneak now, unafraid at this point to make noise. They came across two bodies intertwined; a scarecrow and a Congregation member locked in a final death struggle. Then another three scarecrows, one still moaning and laying in the fetal position. Lamar’s knife flashed into the back of the man’s skull, causing the sound to stop.
“Lamar stop!” a shout up ahead in the dark stopped them in their tracks. “They got me tied up, it’s a trap!” then a scream of pain and the pitched howls of men running at them through the trees.
“Back to the ridge!” Lamar shouted, then turned and made sure everyone was moving before he began his own run. The wounded leg was
throbbing now, barely overcome by another adrenal dump that forced his muscles to act.
His men were shouting at their friends in front not to shoot, needing a miracle and discipline to keep from being hurt by friendly fire. Crashing sounds came from behind as his pursuers made their way through the branches and leaves behind him. He detested being prey, longing to turn and fight again instead of waiting for a blade in the back. He pushed down the panic that came with flight, trying to regain his strategic plan.
He tripped and fell face first while trying to leap over a small washout, his leg finally betraying him. He grabbed at a tree’s roots, trying to pull himself back up. Debris of the forest floor gave way with each grasp robbing him of any handhold he could use. Try as he might to stay calm, panic began to set in at the thought of his pursuers right behind him.
Incredibly strong fingers dug into his neck and forced his face into one of the puddles pooled at the bottom of the washout. Shock of the wetness made him gasp, sucking mud into his mouth. Gagging with dreadful terror his mind raced - I’m going to die here along with the rest of my people. Infuriated, he began to thrash wildly using every last muscle to throw off his tormentor. Finally he gained footing on a rock and thrust his body forward. He heard the man on his back gasp from the force, loosening the grip just long enough to give Lamar the chance to jump up. He swung blindly, unable to see through mud caked eyes.
“Lamar wait! It’s over, we’re safe!” He could hear Pina’s voice start to burn through his primal rage.
Why is she talking? Where is everyone else? Mind racing, he began to rub his eyes. The shock of the fight caused him to begin to sob as he sank to his knees. “I don’t understand,” he was able to finally cough out through the grimy mud still lodged in his teeth and tongue.
A familiar voice finally calmed his nerves. “Lamar, it’s Ty. I’m going to come up next to you now. Okay? It’s all safe now,” Ty told him as he walked carefully beside his still heaving cousin. “I’ve got a handkerchief to help you clean up your face.”
Lamar simply shook his head while the cloth wiped across his eyes. He grabbed it in his own hands, rubbing as hard as he could stand. There seemed to be light now, not bright but still the sky was becoming gray instead of pitch black.
“The Creek men are here,” Ty told him, anticipating the upcoming question. “They showed up just as the scarecrows got to us. You held them off the bad guys just long enough, brother.”
Roy also arrived, and now had an arm around Lamar’s shoulder and he was sobbing a bit himself.
The Creek men…right, that’s who we’re looking for. They’ll help us make it west he reminded himself. “How…how many lost,” Lamar stammered.
“Not sure yet. The Creeks are helping us look for some that are missing. But we saved most…did what we could.”
Another arm settled around Lamar, this one decidedly feminine. “You saved us Lamar. Thank you,” he heard Pina’s voice crack. There was sincerity in the statement.
Lamar nodded again and allowed the two to lead him over to a roaring camp fire. Everything happened so quick… how long has it been? How did the fire get this big this quick?
Confusion overcame his mind again as he began to shake. Someone placed a heavy blanket on him and then a man with a deep mountain accent was looking closely at his face. The man’s long whiskers covered most of his mouth and moved in a strange up and down movement, like he was saying something but Lamar couldn’t understand.
His gashed leg throbbed and then he felt himself being slowly being lowered to the ground. The whiskered was out of sight but Lamar could still sense his presence. Poking and prodding at the leg wound changed the throbbing to sharp pain; at once he knew where the whiskered man had gone. A flask was placed at his lips as bitter fluid flowed into his mouth. The Congregation forbade drinking alcohol but those members who scouted had enough plenty of exposure to other mountain survivors who didn’t share the same beliefs. Groups like the Creeks indulged in their own creation, and Lamar recognized the drink as moonshine. For a man with nearly zero tolerance the effect on his already cloudy mind was almost immediate.
Through the stupor he was still conscious enough to see a red hot iron raised from the campfire. Wonder what that’s for? Indescribable pain from the wound caused him to shriek. Even his dulled senses couldn’t save him from the scorching hot rod as it cauterized flesh and blood vessels. His mind surrendered, and he felt himself give in to the darkness.
Red Hawk Republic
Fortress Farm Shiloh
Three Weeks after New America Invasion
Hank Tripp watched a tan and green mottled bulldozer bellow black diesel smoke and inch steadily backward. A mangled gray camouflage Humvee slowly emerged out of the deep ditch where it landed after its mortally wounded driver lost control. The four human occupants had been removed days before, turned over to the American burial crew tasked with escorting their fallen comrades back to the Memorial cemetery in Lincoln City. That was officially Red Hawk territory now after the Gray invasion was repulsed, but the order had come from Republic command that all Americans be allowed to continue with whatever traditions they wished.
The Humvee rocked to a rest on level ground, and the old man driving the bulldozer lowered himself down from the driver’s seat. He went to unhook the tow chain from the front of the bulldozer while a younger assistant checked over the remains of the rescued wreck.
“Sheet metal’s all tore up,” the assistant shouted to Tripp and the old man. “But I reckon the engine and frame will be real good and useful, yup.” A big grin appeared from under the black ball cap with the white W on the front. The driver of the bulldozer wore the same cap, denoting both men as a Wizard. The Wizards scoured the now silent battlefield for any vehicles still able to be stripped for parts. Occasionally they came across one like this, damaged but fixable and able to someday return to action.
Tripp simply nodded to the men and watched as a diesel truck with a lowboy trailer pulled up alongside. A fork truck with large tractor tires strained to pick up the three-ton Humvee, finally wrestling the fifteen-foot long vehicle onto the trailer. From here, it would be trucked to the railroad loading yard in Tuscola and join several rail cars full of damaged vehicles on the trip to the Wizard’s repair yards sixty miles south.
Tripp was counting on the Wizards to provide his farm with replacement vehicles of his own soon. The recent battles cost him all but two of his armored vehicles, both of which still needed extensive repairs. His only comfort came in the reasonable assertions that the Grays would be in no shape to attack anyone for a long time. The Fortress Farms along the border had destroyed a still unknown amount of American equipment, and more important, had killed or wounded most of their well-trained Legionnaires. Besides, Lincoln City would be the first target if there was going to be another fight.
What concerned him most were his people. Seven dead and twenty wounded from his farm alone, including his wife’s nephew, who survived only one of the two planes shot down from under him. As a man who deeply loved the residents of his farm as more than just Tenants, he felt the loss of each person to the core of his soul. Meanwhile, the Land Lord side of him was nearly panicked trying to figure out how to get the spring crop in with so many talented and experienced people laid up in the hospital or worse.
Tripp felt a shadow creep over him and soon envelope the entire field where he stood. The young Wizard working on the Humvee waved and pointed up to something behind where he stood. He turned to see a giant cigar-shaped craft silently drift towards him. Calling up the memories of his youth, he remembered a similar craft used to advertise…a blimp. The skin of the craft was dark gray all over; only an A-shaped emblem with no crossbar appeared under the nose in a slightly darker gray color. Tripp marveled at the size; he was good at estimating length on the ground but had no experience judging the size of aircraft. After all, he hadn’t seen many except Raptors and Cubs since the Reset. But he guessed the length to be almost a football fie
ld. As the ship approached he could make out engine nacelles with propellers hanging from below.
Fear and adrenaline pumped through his veins as he thought to call for his men to return to Shiloh’s concrete citadel; he wasn’t expecting anyone but Martin Fredericks and a group of replacement soldiers to show up. The Fredericks he knew since his first tour in the Sandbox was a ground-pounder. Tripp couldn’t imagine him using a blimp for transport. He argued with himself briefly about the potential threat, frozen with fascination, until he noticed two armored trucks flying banners displaying a hawk emblem in burnt red headed up the blacktop road towards him. Relief washed over him, remembering the reason the catch apparatus was installed on the top of his tallest silo. There was one nation that had proposed using airship for transport amongst remote farms such as Shiloh. “ARK,” he said out loud to no one in particular.
The trucks accompanying the giant airship circled to the open field in front of where Tripp stood. These were the newest version of the Snapping Turtle, fresh from the factory floor. The ramp door of each vehicle popped open, and four men climbed out and grabbed what appeared to be large towlines. They secured one end to a hitch on the back of the Turtles, then struggled to drag the heavy cables out into the field, finally stopping and looking up. Tripp followed their gaze and spotted another set of cables hanging from the nose of the flying craft.
Engine nacelles attached on each side of the metal skin roared to life and the pointy nose suddenly pitched down, giving a nearly forty-five-degree angle as it approached the Turtles' location. The pilot leveled out slightly at about one hundred feet, then pitched forward again, aiming directly at the spot where the ground crew stood. The engines quieted, drifting for a moment, and then roared as the propellers reversed. The nose rose steadily, bringing the attached cables right to the ground crew now holding the lines extending from the trucks. A sort of grappling device secured the airship to the heavy vehicles, and the crew began to pull the craft to the ground.