On the sand swept sidewalk that led to the lighthouse stood a man about thirty yards from where Steele stood. From a distance, he appeared to be Steele’s beefier cousin with one distinction: he had curly hair. This man had the same darkish blond hair, brownish-blond beard, large frame, and a strong stance. He looked about the same age as Steele.
For a moment, Steele thought he recognized the man. Where do I know you? Not from home. Not from town. His mind zipped over how he might know people still in Michigan after he hadn’t lived there for years. High-school football? He vaguely remembered going toe to toe with a vicious offensive guard twelve years back in the state finals of the high-school football championship. The opposing team had been full of Dutch giants. Their names were too long for the backs of their jerseys, and they were tough as nails.
“I’m Steele,” he said loud enough for the man to hear.
“I’m Peter,” the man shouted. “We can meet in the middle. All the shouting gets on my nerves.”
Steele looked down at Thunder. The older man nodded. “Make sure none of our shooters hit me if things go south.”
Thunder snorted. “Why ask me to do the impossible?”
Steele hopped the hood of the pickup, sliding across and landing on his feet. He trekked downrange feeling that someone, anyone, was going to put a bullet in his front or back or both. It was as if he walked into a two-sided firing range and all sights were on him.
The two men closed in on one another like they were about to drawdown in a Old West gunfight at high noon. They stopped, giving each other a good five yards. Definitely could be my cousin. I’m going to feel bad if I have to kill him. If things get dicey, I’ll quick draw the Beretta and fire from the hip. Three rounds to the chest and I’ll rush him. Get in close and use his body as cover. I’ll take him to the ground and hope that nobody from his side can shoot worth a damn.
Peter wore dirty jeans, tan boots, and a heavy navy-colored fleece that was probably hiding even more size underneath. His eyes weighed Steele up and down. Steele hadn’t had time to throw on his vest and felt bare without his other gear. He let his M4 lay across his chest diagonally with his hand resting on the stock and his index finger laying flat above the trigger.
Peter’s features were calm or perhaps unimpressed by the man before him. He looked as if he had already known everything about Steele down to the scar on his head. Scoped rifles pointed in their direction from the beds of the pickups. Men knelt on the ground next to open doors, using them as concealment.
“You Mark Steele?” Peter kept his chin upright as if he held some sort of high rank. Taking the initiative in a negotiation had its advantages and disadvantages. Steele was learning what type of man Peter was as he spoke. Steele tilted his head, half-considering the people behind him.
“Some call me that.”
Peter’s brow creased a bit. “I came here to speak with this man. So if you aren’t him, I’d prefer not to waste my time,” Peter said, looking at the encampment over Steele’s shoulder.
“You can speak to me,” Steele said with a nod.
“So this is it? We’ve been looking for you, but now that we’ve found you, I’ll say I expected more.”
Steele was silent, not taking the bait for conflict.
Peter eyed him for a moment. “I come on the behalf of the pastor, the blessed leader of the Chosen people. He wishes to meet with you and discuss terms for our communities.” The pastor is the leader of the Chosen.
“This pastor guy, why didn’t he come himself? We could have made our terms here and now.”
Peter didn’t hesitate. “The pastor will have you meet him on his terms.” A command?
“Why should I?” Steele said. He knew why, but he wanted the man to spell it out.
“We have a man that belongs to your group. He goes by the name Pagan.” Peter’s face twisted with the word Pagan as if it soured in his mouth as he said it. “He’s our hostage to ensure you act in good faith.”
Steele adjusted his weight through his legs. The act of setting himself up nonchalantly for a strike gave him confidence. He knew Peter had the edge. It was time to chip away at it. “Show me good faith. Give me proof of life or he’s as good as dead to us.”
Peter, a man that was used to having his commands followed, grew agitated by Steele’s demand. He clenched a fist before he spoke. “He’s safe at our facility.”
“Let me see him. Take me to your facility.”
Peter shook his head. “I can’t do that.”
Steele cocked his head to the side curious. “Peter, you came here talking about good faith. Where’s yours? Bring Pagan back here and show him to me.”
Peter snorted. “So you can ambush us and take him back? I wouldn’t trust you as far as I could throw ya.”
Then you’re smarter than you look. “Why should I trust you?”
“Because you don’t have a choice if you want him back.” He nodded at Little Sable Point. “I can tell right now by the look of your camp, you won’t stand a chance against us,” Peter said, his face growing red in anger.
Steele knew they had the men to annihilate his group. The Chosen knew where Steele’s group resided. The Chosen could be down the road in less than an hour with God knows how many men. Steele’s ten and Thunder’s thirty-three, if Thunder decided to stick around, wouldn’t have a chance.
Steele squinted his eyes. “You know you look familiar,” he said, scratching his beard with his support hand.
“I didn’t come here to play games,” Peter said. “Will you meet our terms?”
“You play ball for Hudsonville Reformed?” Steele asked.
Confusion settled on Peter’s face. “Um.” He paused, uncomfortable with the situation. He looked back over his shoulder at his men. “Yeah. How’d you know that?”
“State Finals, 2003?” Steele inquired.
“Yeah, we lost in overtime. I played pulling guard.”
Steele smiled. “I was a middle linebacker on Bloomfield.”
A grin slowly crawled onto Peter’s face. He snorted a laugh. “Well, I’ll be damned. You played ball for Bloomfield?” He shook his head in disbelief. “You had that running back that ran all over us for four quarters, and we still took you to overtime.”
“You remember that goal-line stand?” Steele asked, letting himself smile.
“How could I forget? We ran a double trap to the right. I pulled along with our center, Danny Vanholden. He kicked the corner out. But when I hit the hole, this tough bastard was already there, and that bastard was you.”
“I think you gave me a concussion on the hit,” Steele laughed.
Peter grinned. “It was a trench war. We dug our feet through the turf, but it seemed that you kept getting more and more help, and by the time the whistle was blown, the pile was on the ground and we were short. One more inch.”
“I’ll never forget it,” Steele said.
“How could you? Overtime. Final seconds. An inch and the game was ours.”
“But the inch was ours,” Steele said with a sad smile.
“Yeah.” Peter’s eyes drooped downcast. Those days seemed like ages ago, where young men could battle on a football field and live instead of warring against one another on the battlefield to survive. No one would play that again. Not their kids. Not anyone.
Steele stuck out his hand. “I’ll meet with the pastor. If he has hard-nosed guys like you on his side, I’m sure we can work this thing out.”
Steele slung his carbine to his back and Peter grinned. Relief crossed his features. “I’m sure we can.” He took Steele’s hand in his. His palms were like steaks. Both groups let themselves relax.
One of Peter’s men stood up from behind cover and brought his shotgun upright against his shoulder, the muzzle pointed in the air and a smile on his lips.
A crack echoed through the air. It shattered the peaceful sound of the lake and trees. Everything stopped. Gunfire will freeze some men; it will cause others to take cover. If a man�
��s training is right, it will throw him into action. It took fractions of a second before anyone recognized what had happened. After a second, Peter’s eyes went wide and he tensed. Neurons fired in each man’s brain to the stimulus of danger. Steele’s reaction to the boom was a fraction of a second faster like he was hot off the line in the championship game.
Steele crushed Peter’s hand and yanked Peter’s arm past him. He offset himself at the same time. He chopped the side of his hand into the back of Peter’s neck as he brought the bigger man to the ground. The shock of the strike to Peter’s neck stunned him, making his body go limp. Steele landed on top of the motionless man.
Bullets whizzed overhead and Steele used his body to cover Peter’s. Peter’s head rolled to the side, unresponsive.
“What the fuck!” Steele screamed at the top his lungs. The ting of bullets entering and exiting the vehicles combined with the whistle of bullets sailing overhead. Everyone shot. He crawled in the middle, wrestling his M4 off his back while trying to stay low enough to not catch a round through his elbow as he reached.
A lone young Chosen man crouched behind a door. This barely mustached man struggled with his magazine, unable to reload his gun. Steele lined up his red dot on the man’s hip. He squeezed a round through his pelvic girdle. The man collapsed back on his side. He turned his head away and screamed in pain. It was high-pitched and an awful mix when combined with the gunshots. The Chosen leaned on a single elbow, crying in pain while trying to seat his magazine. Steele put three rounds into this torso. Tap. Tap. Tap. The man laid down as if he had grown tired and was ready for bed and stopped moving. Steele scanned their vehicles. Not one of the Chosen was upright, but the bullets kept flying.
“Cease fire,” he yelled behind him. After a minute, the firing slowed and stopped.
Thunder’s angry voice rose roughly above. “Cease fire,” he screamed repeatedly.
Should I even stand up? A woman broke from the barricaded entrance and sprinted for him.
Using his gun as a crutch, Steele stood up. “Mark, Jesus,” Gwen yelled at him. She wrapped her arms around his neck.
“What are you doing here?” he yelled.
Her hands searched his body for wounds.
“I’m fine,” he said gruffer than he wanted. “What the hell just happened?” he shouted over her head at the barricade.
“I don’t know. All of a sudden, everyone was shooting. I told them to stop, but no one could hear me over the gunfire,” Gwen said.
Steele surveyed the pastor’s men dying in bubbling puddles of their own blood. The Red Stripes and volunteers from Little Sable Point came out from their barricade. A quiet murmur leaked from their ranks. It was like a car accident they couldn’t take their eyes from, except they were the ones that had caused it. Larry looked sorry. Margie could only stare, an arm wrapped around Max. Max’s eyes were almost as wide as his head. Hank looked away and Gregor’s face lacked remorse. People covered their mouths and shook their heads in disgust.
Steele watched blood pump out of the nearest Chosen man’s body with the last beats of his heart. Anger welled up inside him.
“Little Sable, you shot first, so now we have to deal with the consequences. Roll those trucks inside. Gather their weapons and anything of value.” Steele walked over to one of the bodies and pulled out his tomahawk. He twirled it once in anger, looking down at the man.
The Chosen soldier lay on the ground broken and gasping for breath. His brown hair was stuck to his head with sweat and fresh blood. Blood flowed from the side of his mouth. His flesh had been jaggedly ripped apart by no fewer than three bullets. The fact that he hadn’t bled out yet was a miracle in itself. The man knew he was dead yet still fought it. Steele bent down. The man grabbed his hand, blood squishing in-between their fingers.
Steele waited a moment. The man gulped his own blood down his throat and rapidly blinked his eyes open as wide as he could manage. It was as if he were trying to see as much as possible before he expired. His existence ended a second later with a swing of Steele’s tomahawk into the side of his neck. The last bit of blood inside the mangled man sprayed onto the ground. Steele bent down and wiped his tomahawk blade on his long green sleeve and wedged his axe back into his belt.
The people of Sable Point stared at him blankly, equally amazed and shocked. They were afraid. They had finally seen violence up-close by their own hands and were shocked at what they had been a part of.
Steele pointed a finger at Peter’s body.
“Somebody pick him up,” he said then stormed back to Little Sable Point. On the way by, he shouted at Thunder. “Come with me.” Thunder adjusted his colors, a frown on his face. “We’re going to war.”
KINNICK
Golden Triangle, CO
The hangar was dark in the early morning. Boxes of ammunition and supplies had taken the place of the huge aircraft that normally resided there. He could make out the camouflaged, armed men inside. Guns rattled on magazines, grenades clanked on flashlights, and bullets clicked as they were prepped inside magazines. Soldiers in full combat kit or battle rattle milled about the tall and wide-entranced hangar. They checked each other’s gear, making small talk to calm their nerves. The soldiers hadn’t noticed their new commanding officer observing them from afar.
“They’re young,” Hunter said behind him. A C-130 growled as it lifted off in the distance, slowly rising in the air like a fat but determined pigeon.
“You were young once and went to war.”
“Not like this. We had the whole of America’s military might at our backs. These men have only a fraction of that and each other.”
“Then we’ll have to rely heavily on the senior non-coms to keep them on the right track,” Kinnick said in response, turning his back to the man. He felt every year of his age and then some. I am literally getting too old for this.
“Yes, we will,” Hunter said. He ran a hand through his beard. “Be wary of old men in a profession where men die young.”
Kinnick laughed. “Sometimes I think it’s only luck that’s keeping me on this planet.”
Hunter looped his fingers through his vest. “Luck or a curse.”
“Hard to tell the difference, isn’t it.” Kinnick watched them.
A nearby group of young soldiers talked loud, covering up their nervousness with male bravado. Another cluster laughed together. One man danced in the middle of the group like he was on a dance floor at a club. Even after all this, there is still some life left in the youth. Perhaps we can survive. They’re young but all are veterans now.
The senior soldiers looked on, checking gear. A few smiled as they listened to the stories the younger men bragged about. The veterans were his go-to soldiers. This mission would crutch on them. If any of them hadn’t been in the fight yet, soon they would have their baptism by tooth and nail.
“I wonder what they’ve been told about this mission?” Kinnick said to his senior NCO. He hesitated to call Hunter his friend, but if surviving together made men friends then they were best buddies.
“What does it matter? They still have to embrace the suck because that’s their job,” Hunter said. He spit chew from a ball in the side of his mouth. The brown liquid splatted on the ground. Kinnick knew the man had stocked up on little brown tins of chewing tobacco from the post exchange on the base.
“It matters,” Kinnick said. Men fight better if they know what’s at stake.
Turmelle and Hawkins joined them. They had huge packs filled with every known piece of gear, and they looked like they were going into the field forever.
“This is it?” Turmelle said. The curly haired soldier ran his finger along the hilt of his kukri as if it soothed his nerves.
“This is it, Sergeant,” Kinnick said. This is it. All that stands between us and nuclear holocaust.
“This is not enough men. This is not even an entire company,” Hawkins said. His voice was methodical. His ever analyzing mind had done the math, and they had come up on the le
ss-than-winning side of the equation.
Kinnick eyed the man from the corner of his eyes. He’s right and you know it. “It will be enough. Come on.” He gave a terse wave of his hand to be followed.
Kinnick approached the reorganized company of soldiers followed by the remaining ODA 51 “Skins.” He had 102 men in his command given to him by General Monroe. The other soldiers and Marines from his search and rescue team had been reappropriated by their parent services. Their administrative skills would keep them out of the field.
One hundred and two plus three Special Forces Green Berets. The only superior who had any faith in the mission they were about to undertake was Monroe, yet he didn’t have enough faith to give him a battalion of men, let alone a full company or any air support. Am I the blind one here?
His four platoon leaders met him, all men in their twenties. They stood by a folding table sitting near the entrance of the hangar.
“Gentlemen, I am Colonel Kinnick. Captain Wilkes has been reassigned. I’m your CO for this operation. I understand all of you men are from the same brigade but have been reorganized into a new company.” The men nodded the affirmative. “That will be sufficient. I’m going to need men who work well together. I also understand that your platoons have been cut down by two squads apiece in your reorganization. Unfortunate, but we will make do.” Kinnick eyed them fiercely. We have determination on our side. “Now, who are you?” He pointed to a short man on the left.
“Lieutenant Wyman, sir.” Wyman was short with the build of a wrestler and had scrunched misshapen cauliflower ears to match. He continued, “1st Platoon, the “Minute Men”, C Company, 2nd Battalion, 21st Infantry. We are the Bunker Hill Brigade. Always Steadfast is our motto.”
“Let’s hope that remains true,” Kinnick said to the man.
Next to him stood a man with the build of a linebacker. Kinnick gave him a nod. “Second Platoon Leader Lieutenant Stark. The 2nd Platoon are the Regulators, sir.” His eyes were fierce as if he were already in the fight.
The Rising (The End Time Saga Book 3) Page 24