by Joe Nobody
He lifted the rail gun and studied the scene below, noting clusters of armed men here and there. They all appeared to be hurrying – in a rush toward the south. It dawned on Dusty that they were trying for the bridges. He noted the still-smoldering booths of the border patrol, the pillars of smoke thin and anemic compared to other, larger infernos raging across the skyline.
Sighing, he realized there wasn’t anything he could do about the destruction to the city itself, the carnage of its citizens, and pillaging of its assets that had befallen the innocent south Texas town. There wasn’t any doubt her populace had been devastated by events that he felt were somehow related to his presence. He cringed when he noticed two bullet-ridden police cars, the bodies of the officers still lying where they had fallen. Those men probably had families, wives and children who will be shattered by the loss, he observed.
His remorse was cut short by a rumbling roar overhead. Dusty looked up to see two fighter jets screaming down the river, small American flags discernable on their tails. “Those look like the same ones that shot at me,” he mumbled. “This is madness… pure insanity.”
With bright fire trailing from their engines, the two fighters passed low over the bridges and then executed a gradual turn to the north. Dusty watched in horror as a ball of flame appeared at the base of one of the spans, the eruption soon followed by the smoke plume of a missile arching toward the sky and chasing the planes.
White-hot puffs of flares began spitting from the jets as the pilots hit the afterburners and launched decoys. Dusty held his breath as he watched the pilots bank hard in an attempt to distract, avoid, or outrun the incoming projectile. He exhaled in relief as he watched the warhead miss the two planes, its exhaust spiraling out of control into an empty sky.
Returning his attention to the ground below, he detected what clearly were officers trying to organize the panicked invaders. Men were pointing, shouting, and hustling everywhere. The flurry of activity appeared to be absolute bedlam.
“Why aren’t you going across the bridges?” Dusty whispered. “Why aren’t you running back home?”
A quick scan of the nearest crossing answered the question, two large military helicopters visible on the Mexican side of the bridge. “They don’t want you back home,” he mused. The trespassers on the U.S. side were pinned between a rock and a hard place.
“I’d choose the hard place if I were you,” Dusty smirked. “One hell of a rock is about to fall on your head.”
No sooner had the Texan made that observation, than a deep rumble sounded from the north. Dusty could perceive several small, black shapes as they appeared on the horizon, their number increasing with every passing second.
Evil looking attack helicopters darted over Laredo, their wasp-like bodies bristling with rockets and guns… nothing short of delivering gory revenge in a hail of firepower on their agendas.
They swooped over the city low and fast, over a dozen of the heavily armed war birds acting as if they were daring anyone to shoot at them. They got their wish.
Three trails of white smoke whooshed up from the city streets, each shoulder-fired anti-air missile arching toward one of the gunships. But the helicopters didn’t try to outrun the incoming warheads; instead they maneuvered in a manner opposite that of the fighters. Going low and barely skimming above the urban landscape, the darting craft sought to confuse the incoming seekers.
Two of the three shots missed their targets, but a third found its mark before the pilot could react. Shaking his head in sorrow, Dusty watched as the burning hulk of machinery impacted the ground and exploded in a huge fireball.
The surviving birds didn’t retreat. Before their dead comrades had even made contact with the Texas earth, they turned and began to unleash a relentless and unforgiving hailstorm of rockets and chain-gun fire.
A wall of soil, blacktop, and debris erupted from the ground, the entire area housing the anti-air teams avalanched with incoming fire. There was no way anyone could have survived the counterattack.
More noise from the north drew Dusty’s gaze away from the battle below. He sat in awe of what appeared on the horizon.
The sky grew dark with incoming helicopters. There was no way to count them all; Dusty was absolutely convinced that the entire U.S. Army was on its way to Laredo.
He watched, fascinated as a formation of four Blackhawks landed in a low, grassy knoll in a schoolyard, their open bay doors disgorging a steady stream of infantry. More and more of the copters appeared, their wheels barely touching the ground before discharging their heavily armed cargo and then lifting off to make room for the next wave.
Again, gunfire drew his attention away from the spectacle of the assault, the distant drifts of shouting and shooting men adding to the orchestra of helicopter turbines.
Dusty focused his optic, quickly realizing that the invaders were now shooting at their own countrymen across the open expanse of one of the bridges. They were trying to fight their way back into Mexico and escape the full anger and might of the United States military.
Colonel Zeta stared across the bridge at the stubborn, pig-headed captain in charge of the small blocking force that was preventing the cartel’s mercenaries from returning to Mexico. Already his rearguard had reported that advancing elements of the 1st Cavalry were approaching the outskirts of town. He had trained with the troopers based in Fort Hood and had no intention of facing them in battle. He needed to get across that river… and needed to do so right now.
He’d tried to negotiate with the man across the river, but there was no chance. The scared officers controlling the Mexican side of the border had obviously been threatened. They refused to allow his men to cross, regardless of any bribe, inducement or plea he offered. Evidently, Washington had pressured Mexico City to block their retreat – an unexpected turn of events. And that is how Zeta suddenly became a man without a country.
Turning to his second in command, Zeta barked, “I want everybody forming up on this one bridge. We’re going home, either in a box or on our own two legs.”
It took 15 minutes for his men to arrive, only a few of their original over-the-road trucks having survived the battle of Laredo. It was one of these behemoths that Zeta positioned at the front of his formation.
On both sides of the oversized vehicle, he placed a number of men equipped with rocket propelled grenades. He was going to blast and shove his way through.
“Everyone’s accounted for,” someone reported. “The rearguard is falling back to our position now.”
“Good,” Zeta whispered. “We may pull this off just yet.”
He verified one last time that all of the drivers and men on foot knew their orders, and then turned to the RPG shooters. “On my command,” he ordered. “Fire!”
Dusty was keeping a close eye on the U.S. troops from his perch. He had selected the overlook because it struck a balance between his need to be as far away from the area as he could to avoid capture without compromising his vantage of the battle before him. He was torn between cheering for his countrymen as they kicked the invaders’ asses and his own safety… Now, I have reached a new low; I am just like those danged rubberneckers gawking at the roadside wreckage, he mused.
Finally believing his intervention was no longer warranted, the gunsmith began to rise when complete chaos erupted on the Mexican side of the bridge closest to him. Several balls of red and white flame appeared, soon followed by the reverberations of explosions rolling across the river.
Dusty’s first instinct was that the U.S. Air Force had dropped bombs on the wrong side of the border, but no sooner had the racket died down he recognized the racing of several engines and then a volume of gunfire.
A quick look through his optic explained what was going on. Whoever was leading the invaders was smart, grouping all of his men at one bridge and attacking the authorities on the other side. Evidently, they preferred to face the Mexican government rather than the infantry that was advancing closer by the minute.
And it appeared as though the retreating Mexicans were going to succeed.
Dusty watched the line of vehicles slowing crossing the span, both sides of the bridge filled with riflemen firing bursts of automatic fire into the defenders’ now-burning roadblock on the south side of the river.
“Nooooo!” Dusty yelled over the ruckus. “No. No. No. You are not going to get away.”
His head pivoted back and forth between the retreating army that he loathed so deeply and the U.S. Army that was still a fair distance away. “They’re not going to catch those bastards,” Dusty said. “I can’t let that happen.”
The green LED glowed brightly in the late evening light. Dusty dropped the ball bearing into the chamber and flipped on the aiming laser. He shouldered the rail gun and centered the red dot directly in front of a large semi that was leading the charge across the bridge.
He pulled the trigger.
The Texan’s aim was true, a 20-foot wide expanse of the bridge evaporating into thin air as the pipeline to an alternative reality expanded at the speed of light. A few thousandths of a second later, it closed, leaving a pure vacuum in the space and time it had previously occupied… a blankness that demanded to be filled for the law of this universe’s physics to remain true.
A fountain of concrete, rebar and blacktop shot into the air, the concussion crushing bone, metal and sinew for the unfortunate men and machines on the bridge. The blast wave expanded outward in all directions, pulverizing everything in its path.
The lead semi-tractor was obliterated almost instantly, its trailer flung over 200 feet through the air.
The row of buildings closest to the river was blown flat, appearing as though a tornado had magically formed and swept the structures away. For miles in every direction, windows on both sides of the Rio Grande were shattered by the resulting shock wave.
Dusty watched from his elevated vantage, his eyes maintaining a tight focus on the bridge. It was like watching a children’s cartoon as the few surviving sections wobbled, shook, and then began collapsing into the river below. Displaced water shot high into the air as huge chunks of the span were consumed by its depths, others peeking from the water’s surface. It was all over in a few seconds, nothing but open air where a mammoth 8-lane structure had serviced traffic just a few moments before.
“That road to Mexico is closed,” Dusty whispered, bending to return the rail gun to his duffle. He rearranged the contents and then stood, casting one last glance at the town below. He turned to make for the ladder and found himself staring directly into the barrel of a rifle.
Zeta pushed a small portion of rubble away, the effort providing some relief from his crushed chest. He wiped the blood from his eyes, trying to raise high enough to get a glimpse of the bridge beyond. It was a wasted effort, his body completely unresponsive.
Letting his neck relax, only the sky appeared in his view. He knew it was over; his time had come.
An aroma fought its way through the waves of pain and fear that consumed the colonel’s mind. A sweet smell that reminded him of lilac. Consuela. The homemade shampoo she used on her hair.
The light grew brighter and music filled his ears. The sounds of guitars in perfect pitch. Consuela dancing to the music, a smile of joy painted on her beautiful face.
Then the rhythm changed, the melody switching to a hymn he sang at mass so long ago.
The light became dim around the edges of the sky, fuzzy clouds closing in on the dark blue of the late evening. And then it went dark as the music faded away.
Dusty raised his hands high into the air. There weren’t any theatrics in the look of fear that encompassed his face.
“Who are you?” barked a gruff voice.
“My name’s Dusty,” he stuttered, trying desperately to recover from the shock of the soldier’s appearance.
“Where are you from?”
“West Texas,” he answered honestly.
The older soldier continued the interrogation. “What are you doing up here?”
“Hiding from the Mexicans,” was all Dusty could think to say.
That must have been the right answer because the next words carried an almost friendly tone. “Go hide someplace else. We’re setting up here, and you don’t want to be around.”
Before Dusty could respond, the two men were moving past him, hustling to set up a large bore rifle with the biggest scope the gunsmith had ever seen. He realized he’d bumbled into a two-man sniper team seeking a good position to cover their unit as it advanced through town.
Dusty didn’t waste any time, quickly climbing down the ladder and scurrying off. His first instinct was to head away from the city center, but a line of advancing U.S. military quickly reversed his course.
“Shit,” he mumbled as he jogged through an alley. “I fucked around for too long, and now I’m pinned.”
He ventured onto a street, scanning all directions for some place to lay low. He judged most of the buildings were occupied by frightened, confused citizens huddling in the safety of their homes. If he tried to break in, he most likely would be met with a shotgun blast. Not an option.
Down the street, less than a block away, he spied two shot-up police SUVs. Both units were punctured with bullet holes and surrounded by piles of spent cartridges and glass. There were three dead men still lying in the street.
He walked over to the wreckage and bent to check the body of a man lying nearby. There was no pulse or respiration.
Dusty inhaled, and with a scowl of distaste, scooped up a handful of bloody mud pooled next to the body. He rubbed the copper-smelling goo on his face and neck. He then rolled the body over and quickly removed the man’s jacket.
Noting the “ATF” initials on the back and breast, Dusty put the windbreaker on and then removed the neck-chain containing the deceased man’s badge and ID. It soon joined his disguise. The corpse’s baseball hat and broken sunglasses soon rounded out his costume.
Checking his appearance in the closest SUV’s mirror, Dusty inhaled sharply at his image. The side of his head appeared burned and bloody, the red stains on the jacket adding to the charade.
He ambled over to another destroyed cruiser and sat down, leaning his back against the wheel. “Time to watch the show,” he whispered.
And what a show it was.
He sat and observed the Apache gunships circling in advance of the ground soldiers. Flinching as they roared overhead, Dusty watched as the apocalyptic war birds patrolled, each bristling with missiles, rockets and cannons. Coming from two different directions, the nose-down attitude and crisscrossing pattern seemed as if the pilots were flirting with the enemy, hoping some foe was stupid enough to rise up and take a shot at them. Dusty smirked, knowing any such action would be met with a hailstorm of lead and explosives.
As the airborne predators circled the area, the sounds of grunted orders and rushing bodies soon filled the air. He spied soldiers in full body armor, scanning right and left with weapons shoulder high. They were looking for work.
Dusty watched as they progressed toward his position, impressed at their coordinated movements. Teams of troopers swept up the street, clearing every opening and potential enemy position as they advanced.
He heard the impact of combat boots nearby and immediately focused his eyes on an empty point in space.
He sensed more than saw the soldier nearby. Without warning, a hand reached for his neck, quickly finding his pulse. “I’ve got an injured man over here,” a voice shouted as streams of troopers flashed by.
A heavy bag marked with the red cross of a medic landed on the ground next to Dusty’s leg, and then a kind, concerned face was in his vision. “Hey! Hey, buddy! You okay? You hit?”
Hands felt up and down Dusty’s torso, the medic searching for wounds.
“I’m… I’m... I’m okay,” the gunsmith managed weakly, not wanting the soldier to find the rail gun or cut away his duffle. “There are some guys on up that street that are hurt worse. Go help them,” he wea
kly protested.
Another soldier appeared, an older man wearing an officer’s rank. “He’s in shock,” the medic reported. “Other than that and the burns on his face, I think he’s okay.”
Pretending to have trouble focusing, Dusty blinked several times and finally found the officer’s face. “I’m okay,” he whispered. “Go kill those sons-ah-bitches.”
“Get him to the triage area and then rejoin the squad,” the captain ordered. He then reached over and touched Dusty’s shoulder. “We’ll take care of them,” he promised.
A short time later, two men appeared with a stretcher. When they bent down to load Dusty, he weakly pushed one of them away. “I can walk, damnit! I can walk. Please, let me walk away from this. I have to walk away… I won’t be carried.”
The two troopers looked at each other, impressed by the old cop’s determination and honor. “Let us help you. Okay?”
A short time later, Dusty was being lead to another spot, a young Army private under each arm.
As they moved through the battlefield, Dusty spied a solid line of blue and red lights coming up the road. Dozens of fire trucks, police cars, and ambulances were converging on Laredo, following the military forces as they swept through the city.
Dusty eventually found himself riding in an ambulance and keeping up his act of confusion and shock. It seemed like they rode for hours, the EMTs busy with the two other more seriously injured patients that shared the tiny space inside. He was taken to a hospital, the facility in an absolute state of bedlam.
A compassionate aide showed Dusty into a waiting area, the large room filled with badly hurt people from both Laredo and the battle at Tri-Materials. He waited patiently, sitting quietly in a corner and trying not to attract attention.
Nurses, doctors, and orderlies rushed back and forth, moving the wounded and treating some right in the middle of the waiting area. When the mayhem began to subside somewhat, Dusty rose and blended with the remaining crowd, finding a restroom away from the emergency area.