by W. J. Lundy
“Does it really matter how I have it, Sheriff? Your cities have all been lost, and your town, like many others, will suffer the same fate,” Samir said, pain showing in his voice.
“I don’t think so,” Bill said. “There is a big difference between the cities and here.”
Samir laughed and winced with pain again. “Your man, Nohrs, he is a good man. He has already called for it. Your city will be under full control very soon. He told us this afternoon that he will be requesting enough Homeland to lock the entire county down.”
“He can’t do that, he’s only a city manager,” Bill said.
Samir sighed. “The county manager resigned this morning. Manager Fred Nohrs is now over the entire county, and he assures us he would get it all under control.”
Bill turned away and looked back at the woods. He didn’t know this man; he could be lying. If he was telling the truth, it would be hard to stop Nohrs if he put in a request for occupation. There would be little that could stop it. He’d seen it done a dozen times before, but not this far out, not this far from a major city. He turned to look back at Samir and saw the man was on his back, his face covered with his hands holding the bandage.
As the man stopped talking, Bill sat with his knees up and his arms across them. He put his head down and listened to the distant noises. He tried to focus and pick up sounds from the ridge. Maybe something from the base camp. Maybe someone moving in to cut his throat in his sleep. He tried to stay awake, not wanting to give in to the temptation. Then he heard a rumble. It was his own snore, and he jerked awake.
The sun was rising in the eastern sky, and fog was hanging on the grass. He had lived to see the morning. He heard the wisp of grass, the subtle clops of boots on wet ground. He turned and strained to see David, who had been up the slope, watching the ridgeline. Bill spotted his outline, his silhouette frozen then rising and standing, his form enveloped in heavy fog.
There was a clack, and the man’s silhouette shuttered then fell back like a plank. There were more clacks and flashes of gunfire. Bill stood and raised his hands. “Don’t shoot. I’m not one of them.”
“Coward,” he heard from the ground.
Samir pulled a pistol from his vest and raised it at him. Bill took a step back and watched the man’s head explode.
Bill stammered, his hands still in the air. “Don’t shoot, please, I’m not one of them.”
“I’m not going to shoot you, Sheriff,” he heard a familiar voice call out. “But keep your damn hands up and don’t move, or Bobby just might.”
There was an unsuppressed gunshot followed by another series of clacks. Then he heard Robert Newsome call out, “Clear, I got three down.”
“Two down up here,” John Warren said from somewhere behind him. “All clear, and I found our sheriff.”
“You going to shoot him?” Bobby said from the front, still concealed in the fog.
“Nah, not yet.”
John moved up beside Bill and knelt over the body of Samir. He cleared the man’s rifle and threw it into the weeds. Next, he pulled magazines from the dead man’s vest and put them in his own then did the same with the man’s handgun. After pulling the man’s wallet, John flipped it open. “Another Syrian.”
“He was Steel Corp,” Bill said.
John looked back at him. “I know that, dumbass. He’s not the first one I’ve killed recently, but I haven’t killed any Sherman cops yet, so you might want to keep your mouth shut.”
Bill nodded and put his hands behind his head, interlocking his fingers. John rose and walked behind him, frisking his pockets. John found his sidearm, dropped the magazine, and threw both into the weeds. He then took the sheriff’s hands and cuffed them behind his back with the sheriff’s own cuffs.
He spun Bill around and pushed him to the ground, where he landed on his arms with a grunt. Scrambling to his knees, the sheriff leaned forward, arms behind his back. He looked up into the tired eyes of John Warren just as he felt a barrel on the back of his head.
Bobby’s voice said, “Now, Sheriff, I just want to let you know in full disclosure, I’ve only slept a few hours. And when I did sleep, I was cold and miserable, and I did it with your Homeland people all around. I’m a bit on edge right now. So please tell me why I shouldn’t kill you right here and go find myself a nice sleeping bag up on that mountain.”
Chapter Eighteen
John and Bobby had worked their way back up the trail and found the site of the gunfight between the Steelies and the men on the ridge. From there, it didn’t take much effort to locate them at the bottom of the hill, and it took even less effort to put bullets in their heads. The sheriff was the only one with any intelligence. He stood and surrendered, but he still wasn’t off the hook.
Bobby asked him, “So please tell me why I shouldn’t kill you right here.”
John looked the sheriff in the eyes, and in the moment, he didn’t care if Bobby killed him. This man allowed the illegal search of his home. He broke his oath to the people and let outsiders knock on the man’s door and kill his father. The sheriff went to speak, and Bobby kicked him in the center of the back, launching him forward, face first into the muddy grass.
Bobby took a step forward and aimed his rifle. He looked at John.
John shook his head. “It was your daddy; this is your call.”
Bobby took another step forward, and the sheriff rolled to his back, blubbering. “No! Don’t! I can help you.”
“You can’t help us, Sheriff. You told us so when you told us to run, remember?” John said.
“I was wrong, I can help.”
Bobby knelt and placed the tip of his barrel against the sheriff’s temple. “How?”
“My pocket, left breast pocket,” he said.
Bobby backed off, keeping his rifle on the prisoner. John stepped closer and pulled back the Velcro on his body armor then reached inside and ripped off the man’s badge. He showed it to the sheriff.
Bill shook his head. “Not that, inside my pocket.”
John reached back in and pulled back the flap, popping the button. He fished around inside and felt a plastic bag. He pulled it out and held it up to the light. Inside was a tiny memory card. He looked at the sheriff and said, “What is it?”
“Footage from my body camera. They think it was destroyed,” Bill gasped. “I kept it and reviewed it. It’ll show you’re innocent.”
John looked around at the dead and then back at Bill. “It’s a little late for that. You had your chance to help us.”
“John, you don’t understand. If I had arrested you and turned that card over, they would have destroyed it, and then killed us both. The corporations don’t want justice; they want results. They don’t care about the dead in Newsome’s yard. They just want you dead now.”
“Then how does this help me?” John said, pushing the bag into the man’s face.
“Manger Nohrs is going to request the occupation of Sherman and Stone County. He’s going to use this incident as justification, and if he shows the violence here, the other counties will follow. And the governor, no matter how much he is against it, will comply and request suspension of the state Constitution. This will become an Occupied State, John.”
Bill breathed heavily and looked up at John. “If you can expose that video, it might be enough to turn it the other way, enough to get the people to pay attention, if even just for a minute. The governor could declare a Free State and kick Homeland out.”
“You think it’s that simple?” John said.
Bill shook his head. “No, but you have to try. If you can get that out to the right people, they’ll have to take notice. Nohrs is the one that ordered the searches be moved up. He wanted this to happen.”
Bobby put the barrel back in Bill’s face. “I’m still undecided on killing you, Sheriff, but I think you should tell me how we can expose this video.”
“Make Nohrs do it,” Bill said. “Go to his house. He has a secure network connection there. Upload the vi
deo and make him send the message. Make him admit to inciting the violence.”
“He’ll just say he did it under duress,” John said. “He’ll deny it.”
Bill sighed. “He has the documents ordering it, and you have the video. Attach them to the messages then make the asshole disappear.”
“So, make the message a suicide note?” John said.
Bill pushed himself back to a seated position. “Whatever works. Just don’t let him get away with this. If Stone County becomes occupied, the state will fall, and then we’ll never get it back.”
Bobby pulled the rifle back and slung it over his shoulder. “He’s right, John. We’ve got to do this. It might not stop anything, but people need to know.”
John looked back toward the base camp. The fires were out, and he could hear voices again. They were regrouping, and they would be bringing in more people. The fighting wouldn’t end here until they were all dead or arrested. He considered Bill’s plan. Even if it failed to make a difference, it at least cleared his name in some small way. He put the bag in his pocket then removed the pistol he’d taken from the dead man and pointed it at the sheriff’s head. “And then that leaves us with you.”
Bill closed his eyes. “Kill me if you want, but it you let me live, I’ll tell them you returned up the hill. They’ll focus the hunt on the Gap while you go after Nohrs.”
John thought for a second. He looked at Bobby, who dipped his chin in agreement. “Tell me about Nohrs’s home.”
Chapter Nineteen
They took off at a jog, running directly to the east before cutting back north toward Sherman. Bill had been right; there was nobody looking for them. Everyone was looking up at the mountain. Once they cleared the outer bands of the national forest, they didn’t hear a sound. The woods were silent except for the crunching of their boots through the dry leaves. Bobby ahead of him slowed and then dropped back beside him. His eyes were constantly scanning the way ahead. John noticed the man was limping, and he wondered about his hip.
“Are you feeling okay?” John asked.
Bobby looked at him and said, “Why? Do you need a break?”
John laughed. “I mean, you’ve been going pretty hard after being shot. You got enough gas in the tank to see this through?”
“Plenty,” Bobby said. “We will see it through.”
“Are you feeling bad about leaving them behind?” John asked. “Gregory and Paul?”
Bobby grimaced. “No, this is the mission they’ll understand.”
“How is this the mission? We just found out about the damn memory card.”
“The mission was keeping Sherman free. If this works, then that’s the mission. Besides, once we get out of here, I’ll send a message, and it’ll get back to Gregory. He would approve of this.”
John nodded his okay, and they continued moving.
They didn’t stop until they exited the trees, into a large field. At the eastern edge was a two-lane highway with houses along it. Bobby took a knee at the edge of the field and pointed one out. “That’s Gary Gentry’s place. Do you know him?”
“Name doesn’t even sound familiar. Should it?” John said.
Bobby shrugged. “No, but it would help if you did. I think we are going to take his truck. He might be more inclined to loan it to a friend,” he said then took off into the field, running at a crouch.
John ran alongside him. “What if this Gary guy doesn’t want us taking his truck?”
Bobby laughed. “Well, it’s not like he can shoot us. They took all the guns from the good guys, remember? And if I know anything about Gary, he’s a good guy.”
The big man led the way, keeping a large wooden barn between them and the farmhouse as they crossed the open area of the field. After leaving the field, they traveled onto a narrow stretch of cut grass. Bobby ran to the edge of the barn and took a knee, gasping. John fell in beside him. There was a window on this side of the barn, and John stood to look inside. Tractors covered with tarps filled the center while old hand tools hung on the walls. “What kind of farmer is this Gary?” John asked.
Bobby bit his lower lip. “The bank took his farm and sold it to the corporations, five maybe six years ago. He doesn’t have more than a garden anymore and the buildings. Gary and his wife are retired now. If I had to guess, he’s in the kitchen making breakfast.”
“You said this Gary is a good guy?” John looked at him. “You know, a farm cooked breakfast sounds good.”
Cracking a smile Bobby said, “It does sound good, don’t it?”
Bobby slung his rifle and left the cover of the barn. John stood and did the same, slinging his rifle across his back. They walked around the barn and onto a gravel lane, following it up to a covered back porch. Bobby walked up and stopped at the door then knocked on it. There was the sound of footfalls from inside then a curtain pulled back, and the door opened.
A narrow-faced old man, bald except for gray hair combed over to the side looked out at them. He was wearing a well-worn red-and-black flannel shirt with denim work pants two sizes too big. “What in tarnation, boy? You look like hell warmed over,” the old man said, flinging the door open and looking out. He eyed John coldly then looked at the rifle on Bobby’s shoulder and shook his head. “You know, I heard about your pops. Aaron Newsome was a good man.”
“Thank you, sir,” Bobby said. “I appreciate you saying that.”
The old man eyed him longer then stepped back inside, holding the door. “I know you wouldn’t come knocking on my door if it wasn’t important. Get your tails inside before someone sees you. And take those damn muddy boots off.”
John stepped into the warmth of the home, the smells of old wood and bacon instantly filling his senses. His back muscles relaxed as he sat on a wooden bench and pulled his laces free. Gary left the room and came back with a pair of towels and two bars of soap. “I wasn’t kidding about you boys looking like hell, and I got to say, you also stink.”
John went to speak, but the man put a hand in his face. “No, you all stink. You’re gonna take these towels and soap and get in that shower and get cleaned up. Then Ellen will feed you. After that, you can tell me why you’re here, and how I can help.”
John looked at Bobby, who was stripping off his muddy boots and grime-crusted trousers. Then he looked back at the old man, who was shooting him a cross expression. Nodding, he removed his rifle and leaned it against the wall then set the body armor and chest rig next to it.
As John began to shrug out of this shirt, Bobby was already running down the hall with nothing on but the bandage on his hip. John took the bag with the memory card and pushed it into the waistband of his shorts.
Stripping off the rest of the clothes, he saw that Bobby had left all his weapons. The old man caught his stare. “It’s okay, son,” the man said, pulling back the front of his flannel shirt, showing the grip of a revolver. “You go on and get cleaned up. I’ll stand the watch for a bit.”
John hesitated then stood and grabbed the towel and soap. If he was going to die, it might not be bad doing it clean with the smell of bacon in the air. He followed the path down the hall and entered a large washroom. Hooks were on the wall next to a pair of bathroom stalls with two showers. He saw lockers and quickly realized this was a room that had been used by farmhands at one time. He moved into the shower and let the hot water hit his body.
When he stepped out, he saw a small-framed woman with pulled-back, silver hair in the room, holding a stack of clothing. She set it on a long wooden bench and walked back out without speaking to him.
Then Gary was back, grinning. “Don’t mind, Ellen. She’s seen it all a dozen times. Put these clothes on and try these boots. They are the same size as them muddy and wet ones out there. I don’t know who you are running from or who you might be hiding from, but it’s damn stupid to be running around these roads in a bunch of camo gear. You all stick out like a sore thumb.”
Bobby came back into the room from around the corner, wearing a towe
l. He pulled it back to show John a fresh new bandage on his hip and said, “Other one got wet. Mrs. Gentry offered to change it for me.”
John shook his head and pulled on a pair of canvas work pants and a tight t-shirt and black sweater. Bobby opened a locker and removed a pair of slacks and a work shirt then a pair of boots.
John looked at him. “Wait, is that your locker?”
Bobby turned back, pulling on the pants. “Well, yeah, I’ve been working here on weekends ever since I could remember.”
“Then why in the hell did you act like you didn’t know them?” John asked.
Moving into the room, Gary leaned against the wall. “Because you can never be too careful these days. Never let on to anything, if you don’t have to,” the old man said. “Now finish up and come get you some chow. Then you can tell me why you’re here.”
Bobby looked at John. “If Gary hadn’t been home, or someone grabbed us, I couldn’t let on to you that I knew him. Hell, even if Gary turned us away, that would have been his right.”
The big man stood and straightened his shirt. He looked at himself in the mirror and waited for John to follow him out. “I still would have taken his old truck, but it was his choice if he was in on it or not.”
When they exited the room, John saw his gear and uniforms were gone. The weapons and rifle magazines were stacked neatly on the bench while their soaked and muddy boots sat on a tray near the door. John followed the younger man down a hallway and into a small dining room. Plates and a basket of toast had already been set out. Gary was pouring large cups of coffee when Ellen came in, holding a cast iron frying pan.
“Go on now, sit,” the old woman said.
The men did as they were told, taking seats behind the plates. Ellen shoveled on double helpings of bacon, eggs, and fried potatoes. John watched as Gary filled a cup then walked to a corner of the room and leaned against a window frame, where he looked out and watched the road. Bobby didn’t wait and was eating like he hadn’t in weeks. John was more casual about it, taking a sip of the hot coffee and shoveling eggs onto his toast.