by J. L. Salter
His gang possibly could have been gone by then, except for these fourteen neighborhood folks — at least ten of whom were obviously in their eighties — behind their makeshift blockade. Those old-timers were determined to protect their property, belongings, and themselves. What nerve!
Although he knew somebody else was launching groceries and exploding things over in the field up the hill, Foss guessed it was a single operator. He was not aware of the versatile and mobile task force on his left. Fortunately for his composure, Foss also did not yet realize two octogenarians anchored the extreme ends of the stubborn barricade line.
****
Task Force Wade
At the Warriors’ temporarily idle mortar, Roger and Wade had both flinched at the sound of the fourth bomb explosion. Up in the unfinished observation post, Joe had nearly tumbled down.
“That wasn’t no ten minutes!” Wade looked over his shoulder at the bomb site. “Somebody messed with my fuses!”
“Shouldn’t make any difference. No harm, no foul.” Roger looked back at Joe in the distant, unfinished second story. Their spotter was as close to prone as anyone could be on exposed rafters.
“Guess I need to redo all them fuses next time I need some bombs.”
“Wade, I hope there is no next time.”
“You never know when a real loud boom and lots of smoke might come in handy.” He nodded wisely. Wade wanted his Warriors to be better prepared in the future.
“Roger, you heard all that gunfire down there.” Wade pointed, though it was unnecessary.
“Yeah, Pete said if there was any shooting after his warning, it would likely be plenty.” Roger stepped up on the knoll hoping he could see better. “And that’s plenty.” The extra elevation of the mound didn’t help.
From his observation post, Joe could hear all the gunfire. With the binoculars, he could see defenders squeezing into the smallest possible targets. Every now and then one would move to firing position, squeeze off a round, and then resume something as close to fetal as they could get.
Down with Vegge-zilla, Wade leaned way over and satisfied himself the barrel had not moved significantly. “Now we got the range finally, let’s send in some tomaters.”
“Bet they don’t fly the same. I’m thinking oranges have more weight and density than tomatoes.”
Wade shrugged. “Guess we’re about to find out. Tomaters.”
Roger reached toward the box and signaled Joe to spot the upcoming hits.
Joe readied the binoculars.
The fourth Vegge-zilla barrage was about to begin.
****
Task Force Mitchell
As Mitch was crossing the mouth of Placid Lane, the fourth bomb had exploded way up in the vacant field by the hay bales. He’d ducked even though he knew it was only noise and smoke.
Mitch came up while Gary and Steve watched for movement from the three downed haulers. “We need to be sure all these guys are completely out of the fight.” It sounded like something a patrol leader might say.
Gary had already used all six of the spark plug cables on the first two thugs. He waved over Ralph and Elmer, who had made their way from the trailer to the duplex where their three fellow Marauders were waiting. “Rip out those cords and tie him up.” Gary pointed first to the appliances with cords and then to D12, newly neutralized by Steve. “Hands and feet in back, then tied together.”
Elmer and Ralph looked at the cords on the TV, DVD player, and other items. It clicked.
“Sure,” said Ralph, and reached in a pocket for his folding knife. Or maybe that was Elmer.
Mitch looked up Placid toward the second truck; no gangsters were near it. “Can’t leave them out here on the driveway because some of their friends might come back and spot them. Or they might get shot from stray gunfire.”
Steve looked disgusted. It wasn’t clear which of Mitch’s comments had triggered it.
Gary spotted a large bush planted between the two units of that duplex. “Drag them over yonder.”
Elmer and Ralph understood they were to stay behind and drag the trussed-up gangsters out of the street.
Mitch moved toward the sound of gunfire in an awkward low crouch. His hip hurt like crazy. Gary and Steve followed their erstwhile squad leader.
Shortly, Mitch stopped at the duplex fronting Placid’s south curb. Gary and Steve also paused right beside him. From there, the three Marauders could see a cluster of enemy around the largest van, up the hill and around the bow — a bit more than half way to the barricade from where they stood.
From his new position, Mitch could see the criminals firing, though their target, the barricade itself, was not visible. He was pretty sure none of the gangsters had yet seen any Marauder activity behind them. None of his task force really knew how the defenders were doing — just that the battle had escalated quite a lot in a short time.
They all realized that any shots fired from the barricade might well reach back to the Marauders’ current positions.
Mitch hoped and prayed Kelly was all right.
Since Wade’s fourth bomb had already exploded, Mitch was braced for the fourth mortar barrage he was sure was about to begin.
****
Barricade
Whump. The fourth Vegge-zilla barrage had begun.
Ellie called out, “Everybody down!”
When a firm but juicy tomato sailed overhead from an unseen position to their south, nobody on the barricade did anything besides flinch from the launch sound.
It hit right beside one of the gang’s haulers and he jumped like a grenade had landed by his feet.
Pete was pleased to note Wade’s fourth barrage still had the enemy pinned down.
With the range of the first missile appearing correct, Kelly did not bother to phone any trajectory instructions.
After a long pause, there was another whump. Then a short pause and the third whump. Each caused the enemy camp more fear than damage.
A few moments later, there was a loud nearby boom, causing every barricader to duck and look around. Bernie had fired another shotgun round from the Long Tom and then nearly fell back from his wheeled walker again. The defenders could see that all the hoodlums had ducked, a few firing back as they dropped to the pavement.
Many shots were exchanged and most hit the vehicles. One bullet pierced the wheelchair logo on the handicapped parking card hanging from the mirror of Leo’s huge sedan. Another went through the garbage container Diane had positioned. She edged farther to the side and hugged Ashley. “Good thing I didn’t stay there for cover.” Her fingertips hovered over the warm smoking hole in the thick plastic. The barrel’s exit wound was two inches across. Diane and Ashley moved closer to Kelly, behind Chet’s rusty pickup. Leo’s large Ford also protected them.
“Put the wheel between you and them, so they can’t shoot your feet off.” Kelly pointed.
Diane huddled next to the grimy tire and realized the end of her foot stuck out partway. She curled up her toes without even thinking about it.
Kelly suddenly pointed Wade’s air horn upward and released a long blast. The shooting stopped almost immediately and she yelled, “I saw a little kid earlier. He can’t be ten years old. Send him back out of here. This is no place for children, since you guys all want to get shot today.”
The little kid, D10 on the Foss list, jumped from the rear of the second truck and yelled back. “I ain’t scared of no old folks.”
Chet rose slightly and fired, deliberately high, a blank from his Garand. The distant kid yelped, turned, and ran all the way past the stake-bed and trailer, around the corner of Placid and North Pleasant. When last seen by Elmer or Ralph, he was about to make the turn down toward the exit to Great Vista Boulevard. The child didn’t seem to even notice the two eldest Marauders trying to drag three trussed-up, unconscious haulers out of the street.
Chet smiled. Maybe that was one youngster who’d have a second chance to consider a different lifestyle. Maybe that was one dog who cou
ld eventually learn what a fence means.
Ellie shouted, “He’s the only one with brains in yer whole Bless George bunch. Unless you all turn around right now and clear out of here.”
“We ain’t going nowhere, witch! Not ‘til we get what we came in here for.” Baldy fired again, sideways, sending shattered glass from Earl’s large yellow vehicle in the breastworks. Earl had not gotten the memo about lowering his windows.
More firing ensued, from both attackers and defenders. Some of the casualties were mailboxes, lamp posts, and flower beds. Many of those fired rounds were Chet’s blanks, good for keeping the enemies’ heads down.
On the barricade, another injury. “Ow!” Kelly gasped and plopped down, her butt on the pavement. “Crud!” She laid down the horn and the paint gun, but held the rake handle as though it partly supported her.
“What is it?” Diane crouched and dropped her hoe. “Are you hit?”
Ashley leaned closely with tears forming.
From the other side of Pete and Irene, Ellie noticed Kelly crumble. She hurried over and leaned down.
When Henley saw that Ellie was tending to the situation, he focused again on the enemy. Do your job and let the medics do theirs.
Kelly stared at the blood on her fingertips — her right hand — and then looked toward her left breast.
“Let’s have a look.” Ellie saw some blood through the rust-colored fabric of Kelly’s cotton-blend sweater and lifted the V-neck’s picot edging to check the wound. “Just a ricochet. Probably a piece of glass or gravel.” She pulled a handkerchief from her waistband and pressed it gently just below Kelly’s left side collar bone.
Kelly winced and moaned briefly.
“Hold that against it for a minute. It’s just oozing. We’ll dress it later. Stay alert.” Ellie turned again to face the shooting and moved back into position.
Pete gave Nurse Ellie an admiring look as she moved around him. Irene saw the look in her husband’s face and, for a moment, wished she was Ellie.
****
Opposing Force
The defenders’ fourth produce barrage did little more than make everyone duck around the two largest trucks.
Despite any considerations about weight and density differences, the tomatoes reached the same general area as the oranges in the third barrage. Though firm, the tomatoes were a lot messier than the citrus and they had a much larger kill zone. The smallest of the three went the farthest, but the largest made the most spectacular splatter.
The arriving vegetables also elicited several rounds from one of the AK-47s. Foss wondered who was wasting all those 7.62 mm cartridges. Part of logistics was maintaining ammunition supplies.
Foss made a quick count of the defenders he’d noted. Then, in a lull between shots, he belatedly replied to Ellie’s previous broadcast. “I guess you’d better think this over, old lady. I count fourteen, mostly old folks, and four of you is women. Plus that teen-aged girl which I figure we’ll take with us for a little fun after the rest of you is bleeding to death on this blitzin’ street you got blocked.” It was his longest speech thus far. Foss still did not know about the guards posted on the far north and south ends and he knew nothing about either task force. “We got more men and more guns. Plus we ain’t old and wrinkled… we ain’t all washed up.”
Foss rubbed the bumpy top of his bald head and noticed a slight twitch in the hand holding his pistol. He transferred the 9 mm to his other hand and flexed those twitching fingers. Foss suddenly realized his count of defenders had left out whoever was setting off loud explosions and raining down produce upon them. If he’d overlooked that individual, presumably off to the southwest somewhere, who else might he have missed? He looked behind him for the first time in a long while and realized he had not been diligent in checking his six often enough. Though, at that point Foss still believed H3 and H8 — Herve’s lookouts in the pickup truck — remained on duty.
As Foss visually scanned his 180 degrees, he thought he saw the hood up on the stake-bed truck, parked down on Pleasant. But he didn’t have a good angle of view and it was much lower on the hill. Couldn’t be sure. But he wondered why. Checking the oil? That was a good logistical thing to do but he doubted Herve’s drivers or loaders would have thought of it.
Foss leaned out again and addressed the elderly group at the barricade. “If you don’t get the blitz out of our way, we’re gonna stick some bullet holes in all them wrinkles, and our big trucks will just ram through your pile of junk in the street.”
One defender cleared his throat loudly. That ragged noise caused all forward enemy to look his direction. “We got military marksmen up here, punk. We’ll cut ya ta ribbons before ya take three steps.”
Military marksmen. So, they’d played some more cards after all. Foss finally knew exactly who he was dealing with and what their probable resources were. However, just as he had erroneously over-estimated his own resources, Foss then under-estimated those of the defenders. “Okay, old-timer, that makes you my first kill.” He pointed his 9 mm toward the throat-clearing man and turned the pistol sideways like most gangsters shoot in contemporary movies.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Wednesday at 2:27 p.m.
Task Force Wade
Wade had used the same method for his fourth Vegge-zilla barrage: fire a round, get the report from his O.P. spotter, and then shoot the next two rounds. After he let loose the third tomato, Wade turned to Roger. “No more complaints from them artillery critics on the barricade?”
Roger pulled the phone from his pocket and squinted. “No missed calls.”
“Good. That’s enough of old ‘Zilla anyhow. We need to be closer to the action.”
Roger cringed noticeably.
“Help me put this bad boy in the buggy.”
After assisting, Roger turned and signaled Joe to come in.
Wade wiped more sweat from his eyes. “He’ll need some help coming back down.”
“Right.” Roger turned, but paused. “Don’t leave without us.”
Roger was already too far away to hear when his task force leader replied in a solemn, soft voice. “Wade don’t leave no Warriors behind.”
Roger hustled over to the unfinished condo. Joe nearly fell again, but they finally made their way back.
Wade noticed Joe was limping. “What happened to him?”
Joe winced and moaned.
“Ankle.” Roger pointed. “Probably just twisted it.”
Roger’s reply didn’t register with Wade, who was impatient to get moving. “Grab them spuds. Never know when a hard tater might come in handy.”
****
Task Force Mitchell
When Mitch’s Marauders heard the staggered whumps of Wade’s fourth Vegge-zilla barrage, each had ducked and looked around. Their flanking patrol was split; the look-alike elderly siblings had moved the three bound haulers and were then guarding them behind the third truck and trailer.
Mitch, Gary and Steve comprised the forward squad beside the first duplex on Placid’s south curb. From that position they could barely see the back of the second truck and could only hear the three missiles splat to the street in scattered places.
Gary scratched his head with a mixture of curiosity and admiration. “When we get done here, I want to see whatever that thing is and whoever’s shooting it.”
“Oh, I’m sure you’ll get to meet Wade and his Vegge-zilla,” Mitch said casually.
“Wonder where he got the powder for those bombs that’ve been going off?”
“He told Kelly it fell off the back of a truck.”
Steve smiled for the first time that afternoon.
Mitch grabbed Gary’s sleeve. It was their initial touch. “Don’t fire those pistols unless there’s no other option. The friendlies are behind a flimsy barricade across the street, just up the hill and around that curve.”
Gary nodded. “Somebody up there’s special to you. Don’t worry.” He looked back at Steve. “We both work better in close qu
arters anyhow. Why waste a bullet when you can whack somebody up close and personal?”
Mitch better understood why Pete had expressed such confidence in this duo. It was time to turn loose the Marauders’ secret weapons.
He turned to Gary and Steve. “You’re on your own, now.” Mitch started a motion with his hand, but it felt awkward and he stopped it. “My job was to get you here.” He sounded like a squad leader finally.
“Okay, Rot-Cee.” Gary nodded. “Steve and me got some hunting to do.”
****
Main Battlefront
By this point, the opposing force had advanced so close to the barricade, they were already across the no man’s land which formerly separated them. Now, the enemy and the defenders were practically intermingled on the main battlefront.
****
Behind the largest truck, Herve clutched Foss and they huddled briefly. “We bogged down, man, and they got enough guns to keep us here. We gotta get in back of ‘em.”
Dante listened but didn’t speak.
Foss was angry. Not at Herve for suggesting they attempt a flanking maneuver, but upset because he’d forgotten to do so earlier. But, swallowing both anger and pride, he gave instructions to his two lieutenants.
Dante picked two haulers: D13 and D15. Herve picked loaders H2 and H7. Their briefing was quick and simple.
Herve first spoke to D13 and D15, but his hand was on Dante’s shoulder. “Your haulers go around the south side. Run between those two double-plexes, man.” He pointed to the south, a bit over two hundred feet east of the dwelling from which all the geriatrics had appeared. “Go around the back side, man, and circle around ‘til you get a couple of houses behind that line. Then you come back down the street from the high side. But stay close to the front of them houses, man. Got it?” Herve didn’t wait for a reply and turned to his own men, H2 and H7. “My two loaders — same thing, but go around the north end.” He pointed out their route between the duplexes to his right.