by B. D. Lutz
“Hey, Long John, if you’d like to avoid an old man beating you into submission, stop moving.” Otto’s threat seemed to register. Long John went still, but he continued to glare up at Otto.
A crowd gathered around the men, but no one moved to separate the combatants. Actually, they began egging Otto on.
Winded, Otto said, “I’m going to stand now. If you move, even twitch your finger, I’ll poke your other eye out. Clear?”
The man nodded. But everyone knew what would happen. And it did. The moment his arms were free, he swung at Otto. Expecting the move, Otto easily deflected the feeble attack, shifted his full weight to the man’s chest, and pummeled Long John with a bone-crushing right cross.
“Now see, that was a bad idea, friend. I was trying to be nice. To let you salvage the small amount of dignity you had left. But nooo, you still want to fight.”
Now on his feet and standing next to Stone, Randy sensed it before Stone verbalized it—Otto was losing control. It wouldn’t end well for Long John. As deserving as he was of being beaten unconscious, they couldn’t allow Otto to do something he’d regret.
Otto confirmed their fears as they moved through the crowd to retrieve him. He launched into a tirade as he pounded Long John’s face. “You people have ruined this country. You’ve destroyed people’s lives, tried to silence us, erase us from history. America is splitting in two because of you and your ilk. And you ruined my favorite flannel!”
Otto raised his right fist high above his head, readying another devastating blow when Stone grabbed it. Otto spun, thinking another PC member was attacking him. The fury left his body when he locked eyes with his brother.
“It’s time to go, Otto. That punk won’t be bothering anyone for a long time. You made sure of that.”
Otto understood the message. He was on his way to getting arrested, or worse, killing a man. It wasn’t worth it. He got to his feet, using Long John’s chest as leverage. He nodded and followed his brother through the parting crowd to Randy’s truck. Some half-hearted cheers followed him.
Randy stood at the passenger door, blocking Otto from entering. He found Otto’s eyes and said, “I could have taken that punk.”
With a sideways grin, Otto replied, “You could’ve, but I needed to release some pent-up anger.”
Randy nodded and wrapped Otto in a bear hug. He didn’t speak, but he had just thanked his friend for saving his life.
A hard tug on Randy’s arm broke the moment.
***
“Randy, what’s wrong. What are you staring at?” The voice belonged to Nila. Her eyes searched his for an answer.
“We need you back in the fight, Randy.”
Shocked back to the present, Randy met Nila’s stare and said, “He can’t be dead, Nila. He just can’t be.”
Chapter 11 – Dull Edge
I’ve been told that a sharp knife slicing through skin doesn’t hurt as much as a dull knife. So, Long John’s knife must have been a dull-edged butter knife, or maybe a plastic knife he got with his last Happy Meal. Whatever the style, it hurt. It hurt like a son-of-a-bitch. So bad, in fact, that my mind tried to freeze up, tried to lock my body to keep it from sustaining more damage.
I realized I couldn’t allow that to happen. I’d die if I did.
The single reason I wasn’t already dead was that I had a split-second to react to Long John’s attack. I pivoted to the right, my move causing the dagger to go wide of its intended target: my gut. Instead, I endured a no less painful glancing slice. The dagger easily penetrated my tee-shirt before lacing open the flesh on my left side, just above my belt, then continued forward and opened a gash on my flailing left forearm.
It was going to take dozens of stitches to seal the wounds, but I was alive and still in the fight. Bleeding like a stuck pig, screaming like a madman, but in the fight.
Long John howled in frustration when I latched onto his arm with my left hand and used his momentum to slam him to the ground, jarring the dagger from his grip as I landed on top of him.
Our bodies tangled together, each of us wrestling for control, struggling to live. Suddenly, my blood-slicked hand slid from his wrist. He seized on the opportunity and wedged his now-free hand between us, flipping me onto my back and climbing on top of me, where he straddled my chest.
But I got lucky. He didn’t immobilize my arms; instead, he lurched forward, attempting to grab his dagger, which remained just out of reach.
His move placed his left arm hovering over my right arm. He strained to reach the weapon while simultaneously keeping me pinned to the ground.
“You made this too easy, Long John,” I said as I launched my fist at his strain-filled face. Not able to generate enough power to inflict the amount of damage I intended, my blow only stunned him. But it was enough for me to seize control of his arms and lock him in place.
As Long John struggled to free himself, I realized that I was faltering. My strength sapped from exertion and blood loss, I needed to catch my breath, to give my body a minute to regroup.
“Hey, seems we’re caught in a Mexican standoff. So, while we wait for one of us to make a move, I need some questions answered.”
Long John didn’t reply, so I plowed on with my one-sided conversation, “Who is Herbert? And why won’t he help you? I mean, I’m assuming he’s your friend, but he doesn’t seem to care all that much about you.”
My questions froze Long John. He locked me in a bulging-eyed glare. His heavily damaged face twisted with rage as I admired my handiwork. I had him where I wanted him and pressed forward, “Do you know you’re crazy? I mean, you were literally talking to yourself in two different voices. Creepy, right? Nobody does that. Well, crazy people do. That takes me back to my first question. Do you know that you’re crazy?”
Long John remained silent. Time for my next question, “You look as bad as you did the first time I smacked you around. Do you remember?”
No response.
“Well, I’m surprised. I’m not easily forgotten. Let me remind you.”
***
Bobby’s mind filled with static. The old man’s vice-like grip locked his arms in place, preventing him from escaping or attacking. He wanted the man, no, needed the man to stop talking. To stop prattling so Bobby could think. But he just wouldn’t shut up.
The story he told about the first time they’d crossed paths crushed Bobby. The day this old man had humiliated him, beaten him to within an inch of his life. He’d left Bobby battered and bleeding on the pavement in front of Knots Diner. After a week in the hospital, recovering from the thrashing, he’d faced relentless ridicule from his other Protection Club members.
And it was happening again!
Suddenly, his mind cleared enough for him to speak, the words muddled and weak, “Herbert was my half-brother.” The memory of his brother sent shards of jagged glass tumbling through his mind. Bobby’s world began collapsing around him. His body shuddered. His breath came heavy through a bloody mouth as shattered ribs screamed at him to quit. But quitting meant failure, and failure meant death. Not prepared to die, Bobby prepared to claim his pound of flesh.
Chapter 12 – Entitled
Willis stood motionless after the neon-green-nailed woman helped him to his feet. Her words still rang in his ears. The world is depending on me. The thought promised to crush him.
He spun, attempting to get his directional bearings. His anger peaked when he found the sign pointing him to the VIP housing. The young woman was right. He shouldn’t be at Fort Riley—he should be leading his men, making a difference.
Willis stormed towards the address printed on his orders, intending to make his feelings known to the people responsible for taking him out of the fight.
A man clad in black, insignia-free ACUs stood guard at the door as he approached. In no mood for military formalities, Willis simply held the papers up for inspection.
The guard nodded and seemed to share Willis’ frustration with the events that led them to be
standing face-to-face when he said, “Her majesty awaits.”
Willis returned his nod and pushed through the door to find his assignment clad in tight-fitting workout gear shadow boxing to an instructional video. She stopped mid-jab at the intrusion, striking a pose meant to impress those around her.
“Sergeant Willis, it’s good to see you again. I’m ready to begin my real training,”
“It looks to me like you’re already training. Tell me, how many soldiers risked their lives for that ridiculous DVD?” Willis tilted his head towards the video still playing on the large television before continuing, “Do you understand what’s happening outside your safe little world?” Willis paused, waiting for an answer. When none came, he continued, “People are dying. People I should be helping fight against the dead instead of catering to an elitist snot.”
Unaccustomed to being spoken to in this manner, Debbie, the VP’s daughter, went red with anger. Her posture stiffened as she glared at Willis. “What’s your problem, Sergeant? I want to train with the best this country has to offer. To learn to fight and lead like a warrior.”
Willis cut her off, “And do what? Join the soldiers on the front line?” He searched the woman’s eyes, waiting for an answer.
Debbie offered no response, just a hard stare.
“That’s what I thought. You want to be the person giving orders. You planned to wear my training like some sort of badge. Use it to gain access to the talking heads running this war from the same equally safe distance as you enjoy today. Just like you’ve done your entire life. You may have changed your name, proclaimed your disgust with your father’s politics, and positioned yourself as a champion of the oppressed. But you know damn well that you rode Daddy’s coattails your entire life.”
Debbie remained silent. She wanted to correct him, to prove his statement wrong and embarrass him. But he was right. She was exactly the person he’d accused her of being. Her visions of sitting at the command table shattered as his words sank deep into her psyche. Her shoulders slumped in resignation, her mouth opening to apologize.
But Willis, chest heaving, his anger balanced on the edge of violence, cut her off. Maintaining his withering stare, he said, “My home is being attacked as we speak. If one of my men, or my family, or friends gets killed, I will hold you personally responsible. Good day, miss.”
Willis turned abruptly and exited. The man in black displayed a wide grin, then saluted Willis. He returned the salute and headed towards McMaster’s office, determined to make his time away from his home mean something. He felt like he was on fire, his brain sending a million signals to his tightly coiled body.
Willis stormed up the Command Building’s walkway and flung open the door. The young lady that had helped him to his feet less than thirty minutes earlier was seated at a desk filling out a Form DD/4. She glanced up and met Willis’ questioning stare.
“You keep filling that out and you’ll be saluting me soon,” he said as he walked past her.
With a determined set to her jaw, she stood and saluted Willis. “I just finished.”
Willis stopped, turned to face her, and nailed a perfect salute. He grinned and said, “You need to work on that salute, soldier.”
McMaster interrupted them as he exited his office. Taking in the scene, he regarded Willis and asked, “What can I do for you, Sergeant? If you’re here about your transfer back to Hopkins, you’re a tad early. It’s going to take several days to get word back on the request.” He then glanced at the former anarchist and, in a booming voice, said, “Why are you still standing here, soldier? Report to the In-Processing building. NOW.”
Recovering from the flinch-inducing order, she asked, “Sir, where is the In-Processing building located?”
Willis knew what was coming and tried to stifle his laugh.
A flash later, McMaster stood an inch from her terrified face. “Your first task is to locate the In-Processing building. We are not here to hold your hand, soldier. Our job is to turn you into the perfect killing machine. You have exactly two minutes to report to that building. If you arrive half-a-second late, I will have you cleaning latrines for your entire enlistment.”
Her response was swift and exactly as it should have been. She spun on her heels and shot through the door, searching for the building that would signify the start of her new life.
McMaster turned to face Willis, ear-to-ear grin on full display. “Again. What can I do for you, Sergeant?”
Willis’ anger flared, but he stuffed it. This situation wasn’t McMaster’s fault. “Sergeant Major. I’ve recently had a change in my availability. I’m reporting for duty.”
“Your timing is impeccable, Willis. You can join me for a meeting at the TOC.”
Chapter 13 – Lisa
Determined to save the woman he loved, Dillan dragged Lisa over the pavement to an abandoned security vehicle. He intended to take her directly to the clinic himself. Waiting for the pickup truck acting as their ambulance was out of the question.
“Dillan, what the hell are you doing?”
“I’m trying to save your life, Lisa.”
“STOP! First: You’re giving my ass road-rash. Second: Not a chance I’m done fighting.”
Her words stopped Dillan in his tracks. His anger at Lisa’s bullheadedness flared. “We don’t have time, Lisa. You’re bleeding like an open spigot, for God’s sake. You’ve been shot. Do you understand what that means? A bullet went into your body! You’re going to the damn clinic.”
Unfazed, Lisa countered, “Honestly, if it wasn’t for the pain, I wouldn’t even know someone shot me.”
Sliding a hand down his face, Dillan asked, “Do you hear yourself? Seriously, do you?”
Lisa, not happy with her obvious verbal blunder, ran out of patience. “I’m staying here until we get this under control. Have I BEEN CLEAR!”
Dillan knew he’d lost; Lisa seemed determined to kill herself!
“Okay, Slim. Now that I have your attention. Listen up. Go into my left vest pocket. Find the Quick Clot gauze packet. Place the gauze on the wound. You’ll find an emergency roll of duct-tape in that same pocket. Use it to cover the holes.”
“Are you kidding me? You want me to duct-tape a bullet wound?”
Eye’s full of fury, Lisa said, “No, ya dipshit! I want you to duct-tape the gauze to it. Do you understand that my right hand is uninjured? Don’t make me use it on your handsome face.”
Dillan stopped talking. Lisa was just growing more agitated every time he opened his mouth. A smile creased his features as he thought, This is why I love her.
He got her into a seated position and unzipped her vest. The heavy round had easily penetrated its Kevlar lining. He held his breath as he pulled the vest away from her back. If he didn’t find an exit wound, he would have to drag her kicking and screaming to the clinic.
His head dropped in relief when he found the bullet wedged in the Kevlar lining. But Dillan’s relief quickly faded when he cut her Tru-Spec combat shirt away from her skin. The area around the entry wound appeared badly swollen and heavily bruised as blood flowed freely down her body. But it was the exit wound that caused Dillan’s breath to hitch. The jagged hole was easily twice the size of the entry wound and bled profusely.
He again attempted to object, but Lisa cut him off. “Slim, now’s not the time to be checking out my sexy body.” Her delivery was softer as fear found its way into her voice. She realized that her choice to stay and fight could be her last.
With more dread than he’d ever seen in her eyes, she said, “Stop perving on my boobs and wrap me up.”
With trembling hands, Dillan had her patched up in under two minutes. He had tried to inflict as much pain as possible, hoping she’d pass out. But his attempts only served to steel her determination to rejoin the fight. When the stream of blood slowed to a trickle, he re-secured her vest and pulled her to her feet.
Wobbly and pallid, she took a moment to adjust to being vertical. When Randy’s screams rang i
n her ears, her body stiffened. It was a call to action. Still pasty, but able to stand on her own, Lisa flapped the fingers of her right hand into its palm in a “hand it over” motion.
“What are you asking for?”
“I’ve got to secure my hand to my gun. Give me the tape.”
Incredulous, Dillan fished the miniature roll from his pocket and slapped it into her outstretched hand. He thought about offering to help, but he already knew what response that would elicit. He watched as she struggled with the maneuver, fighting both her pain and the tape until she was finally able to wrap her hand several times.
She glanced up at Dillan, meeting his stare and said, “When I reach the fence, I’ll need your help sticking the barrel through the links. Then find a gun and start shooting!”
A moment later, Dillan stood next to the woman he loved, unleashing hell on the dead.
Chapter 14 – Darline
“Natalia, I need ammo at the North Barrier. It’s getting hairy over here.”
“Darline, this is Natalia. What caliber?”
“5.56 or 223 Rem. Otto’s Ruger can accept both. Bring some 9mm as well.”
After a long pause, Natalia responded, “Have you been able to contact him?”
Darline hadn’t. She needed to remain focused and on task. Thinking about her bullheaded husband would only cloud her thoughts. She was exhausted and sore from the relentless battering to her shoulder from Otto’s AR. Her wrists were cramping, her ears rang like church bells, and she was drenched in sweat. If she allowed images to enter her mind of the last time she’d seen her husband, running headlong into certain death, she’d surely crumble.
She thumbed the talk button. “No. He got himself into this mess. He’ll need to get himself out of it. Do you have the ammo?”