by Joe Nobody
While he and Kevin could’ve walked, Nick wanted to save the boy’s strength to climb to a good altitude for the hunt. If they did harvest an animal, the golf cart would come in handy to bring the meat back into town. Meat was in short supply as well, so the semi-personal usage of the cart had been a no-brainer.
Less than a block away from the courthouse, movement along the row of basement windows caught Nick’s attention. It was just a flicker of a shadow, a hint of light. “Kevin, did you see that?”
“What?”
“I saw something along the windows over there.”
“What?”
“I don’t know what—something moved. Can’t you say anything but ‘What?’”
If nothing else, Nick now had his son awake. “I don’t see anything, Dad.”
Again, one of the basement windows flashed bright for just a moment, and then the illumination was gone. Nick looked at his son, who nodded—he’d seen it too. “What would anyone be doing in the basement of the courthouse this time of night?”
Nick didn’t have the answer for that. “That’s a very good question. It might be another one of the leftover prisoners. Let’s go check it out.”
Since the congregation of the church had taken over the town, they still encountered the occasional stray convict now and then. When the prisoner army had scattered, some fled to the desert, a few had surrendered, and many had died from wounds suffered during the battle. A handful of others had fled to the outskirts of town and gone underground. The church people still encountered the occasional vagabond—normally hungry and ready to surrender. A few decided to shoot it out rather than return to captivity.
Nick and his son moved up the courthouse steps with caution, approaching the doublewide glass doors. Sure enough, the chain securing the entrance had been cut. Nick glanced at Kevin who nodded his agreement—they had to go see who it was.
Before the collapse, Kevin had been the stereotypical army brat. Girls, basketball, video games, and cars had consumed the lad’s interest, often to the chagrin of his father. Nick found himself constantly pressuring for better academic results—pushing desperately for his son to prepare for college.
Being in Special Forces meant a lot of time away from home, a career choice Nick could have never accepted if not for his own father’s help. Kevin often lived with his grandpa, and the two became close during the long periods when Nick was gallivanting around the globe and combatting terrorism.
The last few years of his distinguished military career allowed Nick to accept domestic training assignments at various US bases, and he utilized his free time to reestablish a strong bond with his son. The master sergeant’s retirement papers had been submitted just a few months before the crash. Fate was with him once again when the world fell apart. Finishing out his tenure in the military by taking months of accumulated leave, Nick and his father had been on a fishing trip when everything fell apart.
Since then, Nick had utilized his skills more than ever, life being a constant struggle merely to survive. Kevin had been right there with him . . . video game controller replaced with a rifle, hard fought basketball games replaced with tense gun battles.
Nick’s father had been killed by the Rovers just a few months after anarchy broke out, something both son and grandson thought about every day. There hadn’t even been time to give the retired Marine a proper burial.
There were also positive aspects to this new life. When lives are on the line, the bonds of friendship and personal relationships grow strong. Bishop and his wife, Terri, had entered Nick’s world by accident, and the couple had fought side-by-side with his family. Nick’s relationship with his son was stronger than before—the distractions of civilization no longer between them.
Nick had met Deacon Diana Brown via random circumstance. Now he was in love with the de facto mayor of the small town. Life was looking up, and for the first time in years, Nick felt like he had a future right here in Alpha, Texas.
The light in the courthouse basement was possibly an intruder, intent on harming Nick’s new home. He and Kevin moved into the building with caution, each man naturally falling into his role. Nick led, sweeping the hallways and doors with his weapon, with Kevin behind, covering his father’s back.
They encountered nothing unusual en route to the basement steps. The lower floor of the courthouse contained records storage, a fact announced by the sign hanging on the wall next to the door leading down into the darkness below.
As far as Nick knew, there was one way in and one way out of the basement – the doorway he and Kevin now flanked. Nick racked his brain, trying to remember the contents below. As far as he could recall, there wasn’t anything down there but boxes of old documents and archives stacked on the top of rows of file cabinets. Why would anyone be down here at this early hour? It’s not as if the office is open to apply for a deer-hunting license, he thought.
Nick’s thought was interrupted by another flash of light illuminating the staircase. He glanced at Kevin, a look of puzzlement on both their faces. “I’m going to check it out. You stay up here in case he gets behind me.”
Kevin nodded.
Nick started down the stairs, staying close to the edge to minimize any creaking from the old wooden steps. The smell of old paper, floor wax, and stale air drifted up from below. Absolute darkness at the bottom of his descent gave him pause, making him unsure of his bearings. From a far corner, the light flashed again.
The brief spot of brightness etched in his mind, Nick began moving, his rifle up and ready. Reaching the long row of storage containers, he paused again—waiting for the intruders to show themselves.
Despite being ready this time, he was still shocked when the temporary beam of a flashlight illuminated two men standing in the aisle. He could clearly observe the outline of rifles slung on their shoulders.
“Can I help you gentlemen?”
Out of habit, Nick moved back two steps after his challenge. It was a fortunate move. Two shots roared through the pre-dawn calm of the musty smelling basement, the flash of the weapons like a strobe on a dance floor. Nick felt the bullets slam into the wall right where he’d been standing.
Undaunted, he flipped off the safety of his M4 and returned a couple of shots himself—still sure it was nothing more than two escaped criminals loose in the basement. He fully expected their surrender after being fired upon.
“I’ve got men at the top of the stairs,” he warned. “Give it up, and no one will get hurt.”
There wasn’t any response. Brief whispers of sound came floating across the basement. Odd little scrapes, brushes, and movement of cloth. They’re moving, he thought. They’re trying to get out.
Nick turned to intercept his quarry at the bottom of the stairs, but was too slow. A violent storm of gunfire erupted as he detected shadows skirting toward the opening. Before he could shoulder and fire, the movement was past, and then the basement was calm again.
Rushing in pursuit, Nick yelled, “Kevin, I’m coming up!”
Taking the stairs two at a time, Nick burst out onto the main floor of the courthouse, his weapon swinging back and forth, searching out the threat. The hallway was empty.
He sensed, more than saw, Kevin leaning against the wall. “Did you see them, son? Which way did they go?”
“Dad, I . . . I . . . I don’t feel so good.”
Something in his son’s voice struck that dreaded cord embedded in all parents—a tone recognized from an early age—the sound of a child who is really hurt. Taking his eyes from the hall, Nick glanced over and realized a parent’s worst nightmare. His son was propped against the wall, staring at his hand, which was covered in blood. Kevin flashed his father the most hopeless look the veteran warrior had ever seen, and then slowly slid to the industrial tile floor, his son’s body coming to rest sitting upright. Kevin’s arm flopped lifelessly to his side, revealing the bullet hole.
“Nooooooo!”
Nick quickly moved to his son and laid him gently
on the floor. Tearing open the boy’s shirt, he measured the wound with experienced eyes. Nick had seen more than his share of human flesh damaged by piercing lead. He knew immediately his son was in trouble—serious trouble.
The bullet had entered Kevin’s chest two inches right and one inch above his sternum. There was no exit wound. Reaching for his blow out bag, he was momentarily surprised by its absence, quickly recalling they had prepared this morning for a hunting trip, not a combat mission. The medical kit was back at the church, hanging uselessly on his load vest.
The bullet’s entry had left a small blackish-colored hole, about the size of a pencil eraser. A steady stream of blood drained from the wound, but that wasn’t what sent a chill through Nick’s soul. Small pinkish bubbles appeared every time his son took a breath. The lung had been pierced and would soon collapse if Kevin didn’t get some medical care quickly. The other lung would follow shortly after, and his son would basically drown in his own blood.
Nick used the palm of his hand to apply pressure, an automatic reaction drilled into every soldier’s head over and over again to stop the bleeding. As a Special Forcers operator, Nick had received more medical training than the average trooper. He desperately tried to remember the lessons taught so long ago in the humid forests of Fort Bragg and reinforced too many times on the battlefield.
Instead of the cool, business-like demeanor typical of such an elite warrior, Nick struggled to think clearly. The fact that it was his own flesh and blood lying on the floor unhinged him. Instead of a meticulous sorting of medical procedures stored in his mental inventory, a whirling carousel of visions invaded his mind. Images of Kevin’s first steps, a wobbly bicycle ride, and that first jump shot quickly led to remorse. I missed so much more, he thought. I wasn’t there.
Squinting hard from the effort to force the images of fatherhood out and allowing the trained professional back in, it all came flooding back into his conscious. Seal the wound.
Without his medical kit, he didn’t have the right tools for the job. Nick stood, head pivoting desperately, trying to recall the courthouse’s layout. He couldn’t remember seeing any first aid kits or other medical supplies anywhere. His instructor’s voice echoed in his head, “Use a rubber glove, plastic wrap, a condom – anything that will cover the wound with an airtight seal.”
Nick rushed to the closest doorway leading off the hall. It was an office, but a quick search produced nothing useful. As he returned to check on Kevin, something caught his eye. Inside the doorway, leading downstairs, was a roll of packing tape hanging on a nail. Fifteen seconds later, Nick wiped the blood clear, pinched the opening closed as best he could, and applied a long strip of the tape across the opening. He watched anxiously, sighing with relief when no more bubbles appeared. He’d bought his child some time.
Scooping up the unconscious young man, Nick turned and made for the front door. He glided down three steps, looking up to see several people approaching, concern displayed in their expressions.
The first woman to arrive gushed, “I heard the gunshots, how bad is he?”
“I’ll get a cart,” yelled another man.
“I’ll run ahead and warn Deacon Brown you’re coming,” offered another.
Nick didn’t hear any of it. He paced quickly toward the church, his entire focus on getting help for his son. The desperate father was only a block closer to the sanctuary, when a man pulled up in the golf cart. Somehow, Nick acknowledged the motorized vehicle was faster than walking, and sat on the back of the small transport, holding Kevin like a baby in his massive arms.
By the time they arrived at the compound, word had already spread. Diana met the electric ambulance at the front steps, several of the church’s women standing by to assist. The congregation had been at war with the criminal gang for months, and several of the members had seen their share of gunshot wounds as well. All of them were eager to help the quiet, polite young man.
Nick carried his son into the main building, guided by Diana through a few twists and turns, eventually arriving at the makeshift infirmary. Someone had spread a clean, white sheet over what was probably a cafeteria table, and Nick gently laid his son’s motionless body on the surface.
The still air meant that the advantage of electrical power had dissipated with the quiet evening. Bright flashlights turned on, all focusing their white beams of light on the wound. Several pairs of experienced eyes scanned the damaged flesh while other hands checked the patient’s pulse, took a blood pressure reading and laid a damp towel on Kevin’s forehead.
One of the older ladies looked up at Nick and remarked, “Chest wounds are bad, young man. No one here has the skill to remove the bullet that’s still lodged in there. I hate to say it, but we didn’t save very many who were shot in the chest.”
Two of the helpers looked down at the floor, slightly nodding their heads in agreement.
Nick wasn’t ready to accept the death sentence. “Surely there’s something we can do. My training is limited, but enough to keep someone alive until they can be treated by a doctor.”
Diana rested her hand on Nick’s shoulder. “This is the same dilemma we’ve faced so many times. We don’t have any doctors in Alpha.”
I’m going to save my son, thought Nick.
Suddenly Nick’s face brightened, a decision having been made. He turned and looked at Diana, hope in his eyes. “I’m taking him to Meraton. I don’t care if I have to carry him there. Is there any gasoline?”
Diana nodded, “Yes.” She then turned to the caregivers. “Do you think he can survive the trip?”
One of the ladies looked at Kevin, “He’s young and strong. He’s not bleeding much externally. He might survive the trip if you hurry.”
Nick said, “Let’s do it. I can’t let him just lay there and die without trying.”
Diana nodded, asking one of the women rushing out to make preparations. Taking Nick by the arm, Diana led him aside. “What happened?”
Nick relayed the story of seeing the light in the courthouse basement and all that followed. After he had finished, the town’s leader frowned. “There’s nothing down in that basement but old annals. It’s full of property deeds, tax records and notes of town council meetings – that sort of thing. Why would anyone shoot a child over that?”
Nick couldn’t answer the question. “Whatever it was they were after, it was worth killing over. They knew what they were doing—it wasn’t just a couple of bumbling thieves. They blew past Kevin and me like we weren’t even there.”
Diana’s gaze drifted off, thinking of the recent loss of her own son. She placed a hand on each of Nick’s shoulders, embraced him warmly, and peered into his eyes. “We’ll do everything we can for Kevin. After we get back, we can worry about what those men were after.”
Five minutes later, Diana was driving a pickup truck, speeding through the deserted streets of Alpha. In the bed of the truck, Nick was keeping a watchful eye on his son, lying comfortably on a soft mattress of hastily gathered quilts and blankets.
Bishop’s Ranch
January 1, 2016
Early New Year’s morning, Bishop set about policing up his decorations from the canyon. While he was sure most of the candles had burned themselves out on Christmas Eve, he wanted to gather up any remaining scraps of wax. Such things still held value at the market.
Halfway through the task, he rounded a large rock formation on the western rim, and stopped cold. Disturbing a loose swath of sand, the clear outline of a boot print stood out like a neon sign on a dark night. Bishop immediately swung the M4 around from his back and moved to the nearest cover. He was positive he hadn’t walked that way—at least not in recent memory. The wind and rain would cover a print like that in a matter of days; it had to be fresh.
Peering from behind his cover, Bishop meticulously scanned the surrounding rocks and desert. There were a million places someone could be hiding, and he’d never find them. His next step was to mentally retrace his last few movements. Gl
ancing back over his shoulder, Bishop admitted he’d been exposed for more than long enough for someone to have taken a shot and picked him off. Either they’re gone, or they don’t want to shoot me just this minute, he thought.
Uneasy with coming out of his hiding place, Bishop’s thoughts were troubling. He knew he wouldn’t hear the gunshot if a sniper was waiting for him. Any rifle used for such activity would fire a supersonic bullet—lead that would slam into his body before the sound waves caught up with the flying death. On the other hand, he couldn’t stay up here until it became dark. He had to expose himself . . . he had to take the chance.
Cursing his lackadaisical attitude and short-sided holiday spirit, Bishop regretted not donning his body armor that morning. He needed to check the canyon perimeter, but didn’t want to do so unprotected. As he debated the merits of wandering around exposed, one overriding thought caused his head to spin back toward the ranch—Terri.
His wife was asleep down in the camper. He needed to get down there, wake her up, gather up some gear, and then go scout the area. Holding his breath, Bishop moved from behind the rock. Despite his determination to hurry back to Terri, he couldn’t help himself and avoided the direct route, stalking in non-linear lines, and taking advantage of as much cover as he could. It was silly, really. Even a novice-level sniper could pick him off with ease.
After making some progress toward the camper without a bullet tearing into his body, his attitude began to improve. Perhaps the footprint belonged to a wandering passerby. Still, how did any drifter get around his multiple layers of tripwires? Maybe it was from his boot, and he just didn’t remember walking through that area. But he just couldn’t shake the idea that this wasn’t going to be such a Happy New Year, after all.
Verifying the sun’s position wouldn’t reflect off his binoculars, Deke raised the glass to his eye and focused in on Bishop. “He’s found something. He’s hiding behind some rocks, peeking out like a school kid hiding from the neighborhood bully.”