Free State Of Dodge

by Javan Bonds

“It’s weak, but he does have a pulse,” Jeff said as he felt the sergeant’s blood-slick neck. “He might be able to make it if we were doctors or if there was a functional hospital across the road.”

  Old Ben was in a similar position to Jeff, on one knee at Alvarez’s side. “We can recover Hollis. I’ll exfiltrate using the military vehicle and possibly save the young man if we can get him to headquarters.”

  Jeff doubted the former federal agent had any chance, and though he would have been happy to get everyone to safety, he was not ready to leave, wanting to explore this military outpost as soon as possible for fear that this location would be bombed into oblivion when the powers that be figured out Sherman had been eliminated. He understood that the sergeant’s life depended on split-second decisions and quickly voiced his choice to the elder man, who replied, as he did what little he could for the young man with the materials in his field kit, “You can remain. I’ll drive the wounded back.”

  Before the old Jedi could ask, Jeff answered, with a wave of his hand, “Hollis and I will be OK here. They’re all gone.” He pointed to the sole surviving guardsman, who was lying on the ground and bleeding while poorly attempting to apply bandages to his wound. “Besides that one, but I don’t think he’ll be a problem for anybody.”

  The senior man grunted in understanding as he stood, satisfied that he had done all he could do with the present tools. He turned to greet the young rebels who were slowly approaching, Redstone overly exaggerating his injuries while Jackson was walking with one leg and using Redstone as a support.

  Old Ben rushed to the pair and explained to them what had transpired on the after-action battlefield. He assisted Jackson from the other side, and the three hurried to Alvarez’s side, with Redstone forgetting his noninjury and picking up the pace. Jackson propped on his rifle while Old Ben and Redstone discussed how they should move the grievously injured sergeant. Jeff volunteered to assist, so they hefted him to the back of the Humvee, with the walking wounded, Jackson, slowly following.

  After Alvarez was secured, Redstone once again realized he was supposedly wounded and grimaced in pain, swearing he was unable to drive. Jackson had reached the front passenger door by now, and they all knew he wouldn’t be their chauffeur either. There weren’t any other drivers on the roster.

  Before the fire in Jeff’s eyes could spew out at Redstone for being Redstone, Old Ben stopped his tirade. “That’s understandable, young man, but there will need to be at least two of us to carry the sergeant into the house—that is, if you think you can fight through the pain to do so.”

  In a less volatile situation, Jackson would have pointed and laughed at his friend. The old Jedi almost never used sarcasm, and when he did, it was a memorable event. Redstone, realizing he was the butt of the joke, stared at the ground, remained silent and merely nodded as the three entered the vehicle. Jeff walked with his senior to the driver’s door, discussing near-future plans.

  Jackson probably had a concussion, and as they pulled out of the parking lot he realized he had never seen Old Ben drive. Hell, he probably didn’t even have a license. If Jackson’s head had not been hurting so much, he would have protested a man who had most likely never been behind the wheel of a vehicle driving a Humvee at unsafe speeds down treacherous roads and carrying a dying occupant. Redstone moaned, breathed raggedly and heavily over his miniscule boo-boo, and squirmed on the bench seat directly behind Jackson, all the while complaining to himself that it was “going to leave a bone bruise.”

  ◆◆◆

  The Humvee fell out of sight and became nothing more than a background hum as Jeff turned to drag the pitiful private Freeman to the bullet-hole-riddled Humvee that shaded the two shot soldiers and used a borrowed zip tie to secure the wailing kid to the bumper. He began to ascend the bloody steps, which he now realized had been lightly damaged by the grenade explosion. He could more closely survey the human damage now, and he noticed the blood, entrails, and various body parts that had been scattered all over the porch and for at least two yards around it. He was surprised the grenade was so powerful. Most could not leave that sort of destruction. He realized it would be almost impossible to sort the pieces of Sherman from the other soldier. As he reached the hanging door, he found it darkly comical and almost poetic that an American flag patch from a National Guard uniform was plastered with blood to the doorframe. The flag was upside down.

  CHAPTER 32

  July 26

  JEFF CAUTIOUSLY SEARCHED every corner in each room just to be sure there were no more hostiles. After he was satisfied that the building was empty, he began walking to the back door leading to the MCU where he would find and free his surprised nephew from the one of the jail cells that Alvarez had told him about. As he passed Bobbie Joe’s office, he noticed a key plaque on the wall. Each key was graciously labeled with its corresponding lock— including the MCU, the jail cells, and several lockboxes throughout town hall. It went without saying that Jeff knew they might be useful and pocketed all of them.

  In the silence he mulled over his developing opinion on Sergeant Alvarez’s character. He had initially been mistrusting that the turncoat had actually betrayed Sherman and the federal government to help strangers who had been thrust into a situation beyond belief. The fact that the former DHS agent was willing to die to save an innocent boy proved he was more of a true public servant than his bureaucrat bosses or his murdering coworkers. Jeff hoped the recent ally of Dodge survived, so he could shake the hand of a patriot and friend.

  “Come on, man,” Hollis cried in protest, covering his eyes when a figure opened the door and flipped the switch, turning the pitch-black trailer into a searing nova.

  “I’m glad to see they ain’t killed you yet. That would mean I just wasted a bunch of time.”

  Holy crap, this wasn’t one of the soldiers. It was his uncle! The teenager had heard some gunshots and explosions but had no idea what was going on and could not have done anything about it anyway. “How did you get here? What happened to the soldiers? What are we going to do now?” were just a few of the questions he wanted to ask, but he decided it could wait. He thought he could be assuming too much.

  The explosions were something else entirely. Had Sherman called Jeff to identify his nephew before execution? He started to panic before realizing the sergeant first class and his uncle shared too much mutual hate to be civil even long enough for that brief conversation. “Are you here to rescue me?” the boy sincerely asked.

  Jeff’s blank stare and cocked eyebrow let Hollis know it was a dumb question.

  Jeff drew closer, and Hollis’s eyes grew clearer. He could see the sweat on his uncle’s forehead, the fresh blood that had been wiped off his hands, the grass stains on his knees, and finally the rifle over his shoulder. A questioning look was enough of a question.

  “Yeah. We had a shootout with Sherman…” Jeff stopped speaking as Hollis pointed down at his uncle’s hands, and Jeff added, while raising and turning them over, “Oh, it’s not mine. Your cousin got slightly wounded, and Sergeant Alvarez got shot pretty good, and all the soldiers were terminated—well, at least neutralized.” Jeff lifted all of the keys from his pocket and quickly searched through them to find the one marked with this cell number.

  Unsurprised to hear clicks, Hollis saw that his cage was now unlocked. Stepping out of his prison, he looked at his uncle as they exited the MCU and pleaded, “Can we go home?”

  Jeff smiled when he realized Denise would feel a sense of pride that after only a short time of living with the Pikes, her nephew considered it home. Jeff turned as he continued making his way to the door. “We’ll go there soon. I want to at least grab the things that looked important, and then we can get a Humvee.”

  Hollis figured his uncle was worried that if the government caught wind of what had happened to Sherman, they would level town hall with all of its sensitive information. As they walked by Bobbie Joe’s office, his uncle made sure to grab the briefcase laptop. “I don’t have time
to go over every computer terminal in that trailer, but I hope there is confidential stuff on this thing.”

  Happy with the little information he could salvage, Jeff exited the building for what could be the last time and approached the pathetic and weeping agent who still lay crumpled against the bumper. Jeff was surprised Freeman had somehow successfully stopped the bleeding, though most of the bandages had been rendered useless, soaked in blood. “You ought to be good until we get back. I sure hope your bosses don’t bomb this place while you’re still lying here.” Jeff grinned and winked at the pitiful little man as he turned and walked toward the other Humvee.

  The only thing Freeman could do was look up at him and whimper.

  Jeff and his nephew opened the doors of the Humvee and began to climb in. “You know I lost my phone.” Hollis was confident his uncle would be unbelievably angry that he had lost the only proof of the greatest conspiracy in history and hoped this casual mention of the loss would defuse the legendary Pike rage. But he winced upon realizing that broaching this subject at all could cause his uncle to explode anyway, which would make this the longest and most painful three-mile road trip ever.

  Jeff shrugged and maniacally grinned. “I knew you’d be worried about that.”

  The teenager was prepared for an excruciatingly painful death. Since his uncle didn’t open fire, the tension in his shoulders eased as Jeff continued. “I made several copies of it right after you showed up, just in case something like that happened. You wouldn’t have to worry about Sherman finding it anyway. He’s over there on the porch.” Jeff motioned toward the front door, and Hollis paused his climbing into the cab as he inwardly shuddered. He had intentionally not paid attention to the layer of goo as they exited the building but was now forced to be aware of its ingredients.

  The older man had already firmly positioned himself and was pointing over the steering wheel and looking directly ahead, his nephew hauling himself up into the adjacent seat, when he noticed a flash and bang, instantly recognizing it as a gunshot from the rear of town hall.

  CHAPTER 33

  July 26

  EVEN THE CONSCIOUS occupants of the Humvee remained silent and stoic for the majority of the high-speed trip home, the reverie interrupted occasionally by Redstone’s complaints of what he referred to as his “possibly fatal war wound.”

  Finally annoyed sufficiently and able to see the Pike property in the distance, Jackson threw back, “Quit your bitching. You ain’t even bleeding!”

  Redstone seemed hurt that his friend would accuse him of exaggerating his injuries. “It can leave a bone bruise. That hurts like hell. There might even be nerve damage that would seriously hinder my shooting skills!”

  The man in the passenger seat chuckled deeply. “That ain’t gonna make a damn bit of difference. You couldn’t hit a barn if you was sitting in it.”

  The two friends continued to playfully curse one another as they bounced down the road. The older driver came to a stop and exited the vehicle to unlock the gate before an argument started about who would be tasked with the duty.

  Old Ben tried to remain straight faced as he opened the door but allowed a small smile to creep onto his face as he heard the violent battle from within the vehicle continue.

  “I got wood and shit in my leg, and you got a damn rock pressed up against your arm!”

  “Oh yeah? Well, now who’s bitching?”

  When the Jedi Master returned after closing the gate behind them, he mentioned to all present as he thumped the walkie-talkie in his front pocket, “I already filled in Mrs. Pike, and she’s preparing for surgery on the young man in the rear compartment.”

  The other two grunted and nodded in response but remained silent until they stopped near the big house, and old Ben caught Redstone’s eye in the rearview mirror. “Do you think you’ll be able to assist in carrying the sergeant?”

  As before, Redstone completely forgot about what he claimed to be a mortal wound and responded as he opened the door, “I’ll get his legs!”

  Jackson remained inside the Humvee until the other two had carried Alvarez up the steps and into the house. Then, using his rifle as a crutch, he made his way to the door.

  Jackson Pike walked into his parents’ home through the propped-open door and immediately saw Alvarez’s body lying on the kitchen table. Old Ben and his mother hovered over the sergeant with gloved hands and several surgical tools on a towel by her side. In the past few years, his mother had taken some first-aid classes and read books on how to perform “wartime surgery.” This would be her chance to see if any of her studies had paid off.

  She lifted the sergeant’s dog tags and discovered that his blood type was A+, matching that of Redstone. She ordered the redhead—who had already started complaining about his noninjury again—to sit in one of the chairs and prepare for a “big stick”; she would run some of his blood into a bag, and it would be intravenously transfused into his injured comrade.

  Jackson sat on a stool and leaned his elbows back on the bar as he watched his mother and the old man, who seemed to know how to do everything required to work on a bullet wound. The process of the blood transfusion, removing any bone fragments or other foreign objects, sewing up the wound, and everything else they did didn’t take nearly as long as Jackson would have supposed. He was surprised but thankful to see that Alvarez was still alive, and the surgeons were pretty confident he would recover with time.

  He glanced at the digital clock over the stove and saw that maybe more time had passed than he had realized; he was pretty sure it had something to do with the concussion Old Ben had diagnosed him with earlier. He remembered getting a couple of concussions in high-school football. Though he remembered he could not go to sleep, he was unsure if there was anything else he could do about it and immediately realized there was a wound on his leg. Where had that come from? He remembered something about a gunfight and explosions; that must have been where it had come from.

  Mama will fix it. I’ll just take my boots and pants off. Why is there blood on the table? He began to drop his jeans with his friend sitting across the room, whining about his arm.

  Redstone became still and raised his eyebrows when he saw his best friend drop his drawers. “Ain’t you supposed to take me to dinner first?”

  Jackson seemed confused and instinctively answered with an almost question. “Yeah?”

  Denise came back into the room with the older man on her heels and gasped when she saw her son’s injury. It was nothing compared to a gunshot to the chest, but he was her baby. She moved to slide one of the chairs from against the wall to prop Jackson’s foot on. “Now, stay right there. Let me grab some tweezers and alcohol.”

  “There’s some bleeding guy on the table,” Jackson studiously observed with an outstretched finger, and Old Ben whispered to Denise something about “brain trauma.”

  “I know, honey. Just hang on.” She remained calm as she did something to his leg. He wasn’t sure whether it was supposed to hurt or just feel heavy.

  She carefully removed the offending shrapnel from her son’s upper leg. He heard the clinks of a few small rocks, other objects, a set of tweezers, and finally a threaded needle drop into a metal bowl. Now he was being led into the living room and to the comforting embrace of the couch.

  ◆◆◆

  “We discovered the sergeant with a bullet wound above his right lung,” the wizened sage said, continuing the story as he and Denise washed blood from their hands and forearms. He was catching her up on the successful gunfight, the explosion that had injured her son, the near surrender of Sherman, the high-explosive grenade tossed by the already seriously wounded young man that ended the despicable Sherman, and finally how Jeff had opted to remain at town hall to retrieve her nephew while everyone else departed. He didn’t see a need to describe the deadly shots on the enemy or the grotesque remains of the final holdouts in front of the fairer sex and determined that “high-explosive grenade” would be sufficient. She would get a goo
d enough picture of the carnage.

  “Well, how much longer do you think they’ll be over there?” Denise asked.

  “I need to mention the young man acquired a possible concussion.”

  “Where are they? If they needed help, wouldn’t they call?” As she and Mr. Kennard walked Jackson to a cushioned seat, the radio sounded as they passed the entrance to the office, almost on cue.

  ◆◆◆

  Hollis threw himself into the passenger seat and slammed the door behind him, a spider webbed indention directly in front of him on the windshield where a rifle bullet with his name on it had lodged. He slammed the door and ducked behind the dashboard, barely peeking over.

  Jeff instinctively dropped down behind the steering wheel; Sherman was standing at the back of town hall with a rifle pointed at the vehicle. Rather than spending the time to correctly exit a parking spot by reversing, Jeff simply threw it into forward, mounting the curb and turning toward the red light while Sherman continued walking with his rifle aimed at them, obviously saving ammo that would be useless against a moving and armored Humvee.

  The vehicle kicked up dirt and grass before bouncing onto the highway. Jeff planned to turn and speed home when they were under the red light. He heard a faint click and realized just before the explosion that it was a propelled grenade—a forty-millimeter projectile launched from Sherman’s rifle struck the ground almost perpendicular to the right rear tire. Jeff was able to stay on the highway and glanced at the destruction through his rearview—the explosion had severely damaged the rear compartment. Both back tires were shredded, but instead of turning around, he was hoping his crippled vehicle could survive the journey home down a few back roads. After passing the post office, though, it was easy to see the suffering vehicle could not overcome its injuries and would need to be abandoned shortly.

  As he realized this, some type of ATV came zipping toward them from behind. The scary machine had roll bars and was decked out in desert camo.