by M. D. Massey
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-Grivante
THEM
M.D. Massey
Copyright © 2016 by M.D. Massey.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.
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THEM Book Zero: Invasion/ M.D. Massey. — 1st ed.
Dedicated to all the warriors who are still fighting
their own personal battles, day by day.
“While my wife at my side lies slumbering, and the wars are over long, And my head on the pillow rests at home, and the vacant midnight passes, And through the stillness, through the dark, I hear, just hear, the breath of my infant, There in the room, as I wake from sleep, this vision presses upon me: The engagement opens there and then, in fantasy unreal; The skirmishers begin—they crawl cautiously ahead— I hear the irregular snap! snap! I hear the sounds of the different missiles—the short t-h-t! t-h-t! of the rifle balls; I see the shells exploding, leaving small white clouds— I hear the great shells shrieking as they pass; The grape, like the hum and whirr of wind through the trees, (quick, tumultuous, now the contest rages!) All the scenes at the batteries themselves rise in detail before me again…”
from The Artilleryman’s Vision, by Walt Whitman
1
Wake
I was just pulling my old Toyota Hilux 4x4 into the Stop N’ Steal parking lot when I saw him standing there, kinda swaying back and forth, just generally waiting to get run over. Aw shit, I thought. Better help him before Randy comes along and locks him up. Randy was the local constable, and along with the sheriff’s deputies who patrolled this area, he was most of what passed for the law in these parts.
Folks who aren’t from Texas don’t realize it, but there are counties in West Texas bigger than most Yankee states. Most of them are sparsely populated, which means there’s a whole lot of land with not a lot of law to go around. Suits me just fine. I like to spend my time with as little government interference as possible.
Another thing most folks don’t realize is just how close most of the state is to Mexico. That means we get a lot of illegals coming up from south of us, looking for work and a better life. I don’t hold it against them, being as my ancestors pretty much came to Texas the same way, albeit before Texas was a state. Even though I’m mostly a fan of respecting the rule of law, I still try to help them any way I can.
Sadly, this character looked like he’d been sick for days. Nearest hospital was in Kerrville, and he likely had no way to get there, all on his own. Musta just got into town. Coyotes would smuggle illegals just far enough to evade border patrol, then they’d give them a jug of water and say, “Walk that way until you find a town.” A lot of them died each year, lost in the desert scrub—most often from dehydration, starvation, or exposure. A good part of them were kids. I had an uncle who’d worked as a cop on the border in South Texas for the better part of 50 years, and he’d tell stories about finding kids dead in the scrub. Haunted him for the rest of his days.
So when I see a guy like this one, I do my best to step in and help them get where they need to be. But this guy, he looked like he was really bad off. For one, he stuck out like a sore thumb, which was bound to get him picked up by La Migra quick. He was wearing a pair of snakeskin boots that looked like the soles were worn right through, a pair of acid-washed jeans that had seen better days way back in the eighties when they were probably made, and a dime store western shirt. An Astros hat topped it all off, which he’d probably bought thinking it would help him blend in, the poor guy. I pulled my truck up and yelled out the window to him.
“¡Oye! ¿Necesita un paseo?” Hey! Do you need a ride somewhere? Nothing. The guy just stood there, rocking back and forth. I could see his eyes were glazed over, and he looked like he was about to pass out. I grabbed a water bottle from the passenger seat, turned the truck off, and got out to help him.
“¿Señor, quieres agua?” I asked as I approached him from the front.
He was still zoning out as I walked up. It looked like he’d need medical assistance, for sure. I unscrewed the cap and walked up with the bottle held out to him; just as I did, his eyes rolled back and he collapsed.
“Shit!”
I dropped to the ground next to him and shifted into combat lifesaver mode. The guy looked like he was either vomiting or foaming at the mouth, so I rolled him over onto his side and checked to make sure his airway was clear. A few years in 3rd Batt and a couple of tours in Afghanistan, and you pick up a few things about first aid. He appeared to be breathing okay, so I looked around to find someone to call 9-1-1.
Thankfully by this time we’d started to gather a crowd, mostly tourists who were down here to see the leaves turn at Lost Maples State Park and maybe do a little tubing on the Frio, what with the Indian summer we were having. I tolerated them most days, but just barely. Bunch of yuppies and hipsters from Austin, with the occasional drunk-ass frat boy thrown in for good measure. I kept reminding myself they’d be gone in a few weeks, and good riddance. I also reminded myself that frat boys often brought sorority girls with them, which tended to make the summer and fall tourist seasons a bit more bearable. If only just.
Most of them had their cell phones out and appeared to be filming the action. Welcome to the age of social media, where idiots would rather shoot a viral video than help their fellow humans. Sign of the times, I suppose. I didn’t even own a cell phone, refused to carry one. Like I wanted the government to be able to track my every move. They had gotten enough out of me in the ’Stan; now I just wanted to be left alone.
I turned to a fat guy in a Hawaiian print shirt, flip flops, and cargo shorts. “You, Peter Griffin! Call 9-1-1, this guy obviously needs help.”
The guy gave me a hurt look and started dialing his phone. “I was going to call…no need to start insulting people,” he mumbled as he dialed.
I sneered and went back to helping my anonymous friend. In the time it had taken to tell the fat guy to call an ambulance, the guy had stopped breathing.
“Aw, hell!” I said to no one in particular. I jumped up and pushed through the crowd to my truck and pulled a med kit from behind the seat. It had a CPR pocket mask in it, because damned if I was going to give this guy mouth to mouth through all that foam and puke. I got it ready as I pushed my way back through the crowd, and of course no one else had started CPR yet. I dropped down next to the guy and cleared his airway again, giving him two quick breaths, then I started chest compressions. I could hear the crowd mumbling behind me as I worked.
“Oh man, this is going up on Facebook right now! The guys are going to flip!”
“Ew, he threw up in his mouth. Gross. I bet he stinks, too.”
“Shouldn’t someone call an ambulance? I think they did already, right?”
“Where’s the Border Patrol when you need ’em? If they were doing their cotton pickin’ jobs, this kind of thing’d never happen.”
And so on. I blocked them out and focused on keeping this guy’s heart bea
ting for him, a task that seemed to drag on into eternity. It was always like that when you were pumping on somebody’s chest, which I’d done more times than I would have liked in the ’Stan. As I looked down at my hands, willing the guy’s chest up and down, I could almost smell the gunpowder and feel the grit between my teeth. To my horror, before I’d made it through two cycles of compressions I started to feel like I was back there again.
Oh, bloody hell. Not again. My breathing started to quicken and I could feel a full-on panic attack about to hit. Not good, Sully. Not good at all.
I tried to slow my breathing, which was kind of difficult considering all the work that went into keeping the guy’s blood moving and keeping air going in and out of his lungs. So far no one had volunteered to do two-person CPR with me, and I was getting light-headed along with feeling like my own heart was beating out of my chest. Everything closed in. I couldn’t focus. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.
Just a few more minutes. Surely just a few more minutes. Ambulance should be here anytime now, I reassured myself. Only, it might not. Real County covered over 700 square miles, and the local EMS crews could be busy with a drowning, agricultural accident, or motor vehicle collision halfway across the county. Just thinking about that started making me flip out more.
“Balls!” I whispered loudly in frustration. I was starting to see spots, my breathing was coming fast and shallow, and I was about to lose my shit. That’s about the time the guy came back to life.
I was pumping away on the guy’s chest when his eyes popped open. They were rheumy and covered in a white haze, not unlike someone who had suffered flash burns to the eyes. His eyeballs sort of rolled around a bit, then he took in a deep, shuddering breath, starting to moan and paw at the air and ground.
I placed a hand on his shoulder to calm him. “Cálmate hombre, todo está bien. La ayuda ya viene en camino.” Calm down, everything is fine and help is on the way.
His eyes rolled around again and centered on me. He paused, and I thought I’d finally gotten through to him. Then, he lunged up at me with lightning speed, bowling me over and landing on top of me. Out of habit, I pulled him in between my legs into the jiu-jitsu guard position and got a forearm under his chin.
Unfortunately, he had already grabbed me by the neck with both hands. He pulled my face toward his with such force I thought he might snap my neck.
In a split second his face was just inches from mine. He snapped his teeth at me in a pecking manner, bobbing his head forward and apparently trying to take a bite out of my face. The scary thing was, despite having years of Modern Army Combatives training, I couldn’t move his hands off my neck. He was that strong. I’m not a small man, but in all my years in the military sparring with guys my size and bigger, I’d never grappled with someone who had this much raw strength.
He’s on drugs, I thought. Great. I was already freaking out from the panic attack that had come on just moments earlier, and the spots in my vision were getting larger. I knew it would only be seconds before I blacked out, and none of the bystanders were moving to help. I looked around frantically for assistance, unable to even speak, only to see a bunch of dumbfounded looks among the sheep standing by watching the scene unfold. No help there. In seconds, I was going to be a snack on Señor Bath Salts’ menu, and I’d end up another fatality in a viral “News of the Weird” story.
I was about to pass out when finally, I snapped. I went into full-on batshit mode and let my survival instincts take over. I reached down and drew the Kahr CW45 that I always carry on my right hip, placing it under the dude’s left ear and firing. The bullet exited his skull at an angle that saved me from accidentally shooting an innocent bystander, but brains and blood sprayed out all over the people who were standing on that side of the crowd.
As I rolled the guy’s now limp body off me, people scattered everywhere, their screams and shouts erupting all around me. A quick glance around revealed that a few people were still recording the scene on their phones, but from several yards away. I looked over at the guy I’d just been trying to save, saw the exit wound, then promptly turned my head and barfed. It wasn’t like I hadn’t seen wounds like that before, but I’d nearly been choked to death, I was still having the panic attack from hell, and frankly the idea that I’d just killed the guy wasn’t sitting well with me at all.
I could hear people starting to react to what had just happened. More murmurs, some outraged voices, others shouting and arguing. I heard tones of disbelief, angry voices—still others were speaking in dickheadese.
“Did you see what happened? That guy with the scarred up face just killed that poor homeless person!”
“Man, this is going to get, like, a million hits! O-freaking-M-G dude, this is going to blow up my followers!”
“I would have done the exact same thing, absolutely. He did the only thing he could have done. Yep, the only thing.”
Again, I tuned them out and my training kicked in as I began assessing myself for injuries and scanning the scene for further threats. I heard sirens, but they weren’t from an ambulance pulling up. It was Constable Randy Taylor, the local law dog. I holstered my weapon and stood up with my hands away from my body and in clear sight. Randy got out of his cruiser, weapon drawn, then he saw me and the guy on the ground and quickly holstered it. He reached up to click his radio mike, rattled off something to his dispatcher, and quickly shuffled over to me.
“Randy, it was self-defense. Honest. I was doing CPR on the guy, and then he just jumped up and started choking the shit out of me. Couldn’t get him off me, and I was going out. Had to do it.” I had my hands on my knees at this point. I was starting to hyperventilate again.
Randy strode up and grabbed me by the arm, dragging me over to the front of the building, whispering in my ear. “Aidan buddy, I’m going to pretend that what you just said was, ‘It was self-defense and I need to speak to my attorney before giving a statement.’ Sound good?”
I nodded. He’d just reminded me that anything I said could be used against me in a court of law. For the most part, our county was fairly conservative, and would likely look favorably on a justified self-defense shooting. However, you never knew when you’d get an assistant DA who might be itching to make a name for herself, and that could lead to charges, even if the cops on scene reported that it appeared to be self-defense.
Despite the fact that I have a Mick name, I hardly look like a poster child for the Aryan race. Take one overzealous prosecutor and add an all-white jury who could be convinced that this was just one drunk Mexican killing another drunk Mexican, and I’d be sent up for twenty and change. No thanks. So, I took Randy’s cue and zipped it.
Randy sorted of hunkered down in front of me and looked me in the eye. “You know SOP says I have to take you in on a shooting fatality. That means in cuffs. You okay with that?”
I nodded, and allowed him to take my sidearm and cuff me before leading me back to his cruiser. The windows were tinted, the motor and AC were running, and it was cool and quiet inside. I noticed that Randy had left the cuffs loose, and I realized he was actually doing me a favor by putting me in the patrol car.
I sat there for about 30 minutes while Randy and several sheriff’s deputies took statements and kept the crowd from tampering with evidence. It took about ten more minutes for an EMS crew to arrive, but they were really only there to transport the body to the morgue. One of them stopped by the patrol car to check me for injuries, but I waved him off and signed an AMA form. Soon after, Randy strolled over and hopped into the front seat of the vehicle.
He remained silent until we’d pulled away from the scene and got down the road a bit. “Witnesses all pretty much said the same thing. You stopped to help the guy, he collapsed, you did CPR, and then he attacked you. We grabbed a couple of cell phones that recorded the events. A couple of folks weren’t too happy about it, but they said they wanted to help. Told ’em they can come by the station and get them back after we’ve copied the videos over.�
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He paused and looked back over his shoulder. “Looks like it was a justifiable shooting. Not a jury in the county that would put a good Samaritan war hero in jail, no how.”
I barked a short laugh, and Randy chuckled in response. “Well, maybe if the DA played it just right. But the thing is, I’m pretty sure I can make this go away before it even gets that far. With the video, we should be able to show that you acted in self-defense. The fact that you were providing aid before the attack will likely clinch it. Case closed.”
Randy attempted to make small talk after that, but I just wasn’t in the mood. Soon he got the picture and we rode in silence until we pulled up to the Sheriff’s office about 20 minutes later. Randy opened the back door and helped me out, and I followed him inside. Despite Randy’s assurances, I decided to have a local attorney show up at the station. He sat with me as I gave my statement to the investigator who worked homicide for the county. Three hours after that, I was released without charges filed. Before being released I was told not to leave the area, just in case they needed me for further questioning. The lawyer told me he thought no charges would be filed. I had my doubts, but there was nothing I could do.
One thing was for sure, though; I was still freaking out. It was all I could do to hold things together while I sat through questioning. All the deep breathing exercises and other mental tricks I’d learned weren’t working, and I knew the only thing that would cure this and settle me back down was either a shit-load of Xanax, or heading out into the woods to be by myself for a good long while.
I decided to do both, but not necessarily in that order. So after Randy took me to get my truck, I headed straight home to pack my gear for a long trip to the boonies.