Siege Fall (Siege of New Hampshire Book 2)

by Mic Roland

  “Real rennet is not going to be easy to come by anymore,” Margaret continued. “Heck, it was hard to come by before all this. Now? Well, that’s why I kinda jumped on it. Truth is, I’m not sure what I might have brought up to trade with the Carlyles that they would have wanted. Mrs. Carlyle was saying how they were pretty well set for carbs and canned veggies. With cows, of course, they weren’t short for proteins, either. They wouldn’t have wanted any jam.” She waited for him to respond, but he continued to glower out the window: watching his quarter.

  She touched his arm, as if to console him. “I know you’re still angry right now, but you’ll see, Martin. It will be for the best. Making cheese — I think I remember what we used to do, anyhow — that’ll be a big help for getting us through the winter. You’ll see.”

  He was not angry at her. He fancied he was angry at Eric, but perhaps more with himself. Martin knew she was right about the gun and the cheese. Being able to preserve any excess milk would extend their protein supply. How much, was in question, but it had to help. He would have told her all that, but his mind was clouded with other thoughts while he watched his quarter of the bleak landscape roll by.

  Why had he gotten so angry at Eric’s behavior? Susan is an attractive woman. Did he expect that a young man would not notice? What business was it of his if someone did? Martin was not her brother, or any other form of family member to have any grounds to object about some other man’s attentions. He was just a bank customer. She was just a teller. She needed a place to live after her house burned down. He happened to have a spare room. That was all. He had no right to object to anything, and yet, he was objecting. That bothered him.

  He looked over at Margaret, dutifully watching her quarter with his pistol at a casual low-ready. He wanted to tell her everything. He missed their long chats over almost anything: Plato, politics, who was the best James Bond. That was before the kids got to the age of soccer tournaments and music lessons, which meant booster clubs, fundraisers and PTA meetings. That led to youth group outings at the church, which grew into Ladies’ Aid projects which absorbed a good deal of Margaret’s time. Whenever he and Margaret were alone together — which was rare — it seemed like all they ever talked about was the kids’ activities.

  The back seat of the Hendricks’ truck was not a good place to start a heart-to-heart conversation. He also realized that he was not sure exactly what he wanted to say. He wanted to tell her about Trish’s stupid flirt. Margaret would probably think it was hilarious — a young blonde flirting with him. It was quite absurd. Margaret had said the Dunans were just young and foolish, that they would wise up quickly. Perhaps Trish’s flirts were just her flavor of young and foolish. Adam’s could be sleeping on watch. Perhaps they would grow up quickly as the new reality dawned upon them. Maybe Martin was making too much out of both of them.

  He could probably talk to Margaret about the Dunans’ silly behaviors and even get a shared laugh out of it all. The Dunans, however, were not what had him in a dark mood, however. It was Eric’s behavior back at Winton’s farm. If he brought up Eric’s behavior, he could just about hear Margaret telling him that it was none of his business. Susan was a grown woman who could sort out her own social life. In fact, Margaret would probably see Eric’s attentions as a good thing: that Susan needed a social life.

  Yet, what kind of social life does libidinous opportunism make? Martin spiraled back into disliking how Eric went about his attentions. What Martin saw was not the proper respect a man should show a woman. Susan did not need a new jerk to replace her old jerk boyfriend. A decent man would not leer at a woman’s backside and say obsequious things to curry favor. That was just not right. Martin fancied that he was objecting to Eric’s disregard for proper gentlemanly behavior. Yet, that was not quite it either.

  “Check point C,” the radio crackled. “All you dumplings okay back there?”

  Each of the drivers checked in. The taller buildings of Concord were coming into view.

  “Look sharp, and remember everyone, switch to channel B once we make the turn at checkpoint D.”

  Martin shook off his darker thoughts so he could concentrate on watching his quarter more carefully. His quarter faced the city. There was no activity to be seen from 93. The city looked like it always did from 93, like a scale model. There were no cars on the highway. Nothing was moving on the crossroads either. Martin checked the rooftops as they rolled by, to see if there were scouts watching them pass. He saw none.

  “Check point D,” said Arthur.

  Charles tuned the radio to the new channel. Everyone checked in. The trucks all made slow turns with their heavy loads. No one wanted to topple one of their cows. Martin continued to watch for any activity, but saw none: no cars on the roads, no pedestrians.

  The feeder road that led to Route 3A did not feel as claustrophobic as Route 132 had, though it had its moments. Small businesses rolled by. Curls of smoke from chimneys of tidy houses testified to someone being home, though no one was visible. Route 3A, itself, was a mix of thick woods, isolated 19th century farm houses, and open tracts. Some of the open spaces were abandoned hay fields waiting for the doom of the progress: bulldozers. Some of the open spaces had already suffered the bulldozers and become staging yards or storage areas for construction firms.

  Martin tried to keep his attention focused on watching his quarter. Being the last set of eyes to see that side of the road meant it was unlikely he would see something the other right-side watchers had missed. Nonetheless, there was always the possibility of someone, concealed from the others, peeking out too soon as they passed. That was what happened to Margaret when they saw the man in blue and gray in the median of 93 on the way up. He tried to use vigilance as a wall against his cluttered thoughts, with mixed results.

  The forest and open commercial lots were giving way to tighter-spaced houses. He reasoned that they must be getting close to the little town of Hooksett. Side walks were a clear sign of suburbia.

  “Checkpoint E, people,” radioed Arthur. “Gentle left here. Keep it tight, everyone.”

  Martin noticed how the utilitarian houses from the middle 1800s — plain boxy things — had been gussied up with gingerbread trim in the Victorian era. It reminded him of the old neighborhood in Somerville where Susan’s apartment had been. Getting kicked out by her old boyfriend then losing her apartment to a fire was quite a blow. She had been through a lot of turmoil already. The last thing she needed was some slathering jerk scheming to make a score. That was totally not fair to her…

  “Alert, people. Hold up. Slow up. Something’s not right up ahead.”

  All ears were turned to the radio. Tyler and Charles tried to peer around the horse trailer ahead of them, to little avail.

  “Not liking this,” radioed Arthur. “New plan. Follow me. Keep it tight, people, bear left. Follow me. Keep it tight.”

  The trailer ahead of them started to pull away quickly. Tyler had to accelerate as quickly as a heavy load would allow — and so as to not topple his cargo. The convoy turned left just before going onto the Hooksett bridge. As they went down the sloping road, Martin caught just a glimpse of a barricade across the far end of the bridge. Two abandoned vehicles sat along the railings near the middle of the bridge.

  Arthur turned a harder right. The other trucks followed in close order. After passing under the Hooksett bridge, Arthur accelerated. Tyler sped up and closed the gap. Everyone wanted to know why the change of route, but engaging in radio chatter was not the thing to do at the time. Arthur was trying to get them all clear of the bridge area.

  “Okay, dumplings. Wide spot, on left. Pull in, two-by-two. Drivers. Meet in the middle. The rest of you, take corners and watch for anything.”

  Tyler turned into the paved wide spot to the left of the highway. He turned faster than he should have. Martin had to hang on to Charles’ seat back. He wondered if the cows were knocked over by such things. He felt no loud thumps. Perhaps cows in trailers go into a wide-stance-mod
e so they are more stable. Cows probably do not like tipping over. Tyler pulled up to the right of the truck with Landers in it. The four drivers hurried to meet in the middle of the four trucks.

  Martin and Charles hopped out. Charles climbed behind the Silverado’s bed, eyes on the wooded embankment across the road. Martin jogged behind the trailer to take cover and watch the road behind them. Margaret joined him. He motioned for her to take cover at the corner of the adjacent trailer and keep an eye on the wooded riverbank. The look on her face was only partially fear at the prospect of trouble. The rest of her expression was all business. If there were spiders, she was going to squash them. She peeked with minimum exposure, the 9mm racked and at low-extended-ready. Martin sighted over the top of his carbine while looking for any sign of movement between the scrubby pines down the road.

  “Martin, come here!” Arthur boomed. Martin ran to join the meeting.

  “I didn’t like what I saw, back there, so we’ve got to change our route. I didn’t want to go back onto 93, but it’s either that or go into Manchester — which I like even less. We could be headed into trouble, and can’t afford to have any blind spots. You and Charles, ride in Tyler’s trailer. You’ll be our rear guard — our tail gunners.”

  “Okay! Back in, everyone!” boomed Arthur.

  Martin grabbed his ready-bag from the back seat as he told Charles about their new assignment. Margaret gave him a worried look. He squeezed her hand. “You take care of Tyler, okay? He’s a worry-wort.” He smiled.

  “You’re a goof.” She mustered a slight smile.

  Before Martin and Charles had the trailer doors closed, Tyler was pulling away to catch up with Landers’ truck.

  “What the heck was all that about?” Charles asked.

  “I guess Edith spotted something on the bridge with her binoculars, just as we came over that last rise. I got just a quick look at it too. There was a barricade of junk across the road on the far side of the bridge. The two cars still out on the bridge looked suspicious to Arthur, so he decided to change our route.”

  “But that was the only other bridge across the river,” Charles said. “…without going into Manchester, that is. He’s not taking us into Manchester is he?”

  “No. 3A goes under 93. He figures to get onto 93 at Exit 10. That’ll get us over the river. Then get off at Exit 8. He didn’t like going back on 93, but it was better than whatever might have been waiting on that bridge.” Martin pulled his stocking cap down tighter and zipped up his coat. The cold wind whistled through the open-slat trailer.

  “Wasn’t it around Exit 9 that you saw that guy on the rocks?” Charles asked.

  “Yes it was.” Martin held his walkie-talkie close. “Hey, um..Big Apple, this is Tail-gunner One. New route takes us by previous sighting. Keep sharp eye out in the Balboas.”

  “Balboas?” Charles asked.

  “Rocky Balboa. The guy was in the rocks. Get it?”

  “I didn’t. Sure hope Arthur does.”

  “Well, we can’t just say things outright,” Martin complained.

  “Yeah and if he didn’t get it, then what good was it? Huh?”

  “Roger on the Balboas, Tail Gunner One. Nice call.”

  Martin smiled at Charles, who could only shrug. Sometimes obtuse movie references worked. Sometimes it did not.

  Martin had to smile at movie references as code. Arthur looked like a Rocky fan. When Martin had tried a reference to an old Bogart movie, Susan did not get it. Susan. He wondered how she was doing. She was in the lead vehicle. Was all this freaking her out? Was that stupid Eric doing anything to calm her, or was he just trying to look down her shirt like the guys on the buses did to the pretty women beside them? Martin could feel his jaw clinching.

  “This is it, Dumplings. Follow me. Keep tight and when we get topside, stay in center.”

  The X

  The convoy made wide and hasty turns up the on-ramp. Arthur slowed his pace a little, to allow the stragglers to form up then he picked up the pace. Martin’s side of 93 was the backside of an old Manchester suburb. Fences and the backs of houses could be seen through the line of trees, but no men on the rocky bluff.

  “Brake, brake, brake!” Arthur shouted into the radio. “Brake, brake, brake! Spike strip! Form line abreast. All stop. Ready to fire.”

  Martin barely had time to grab the corner post before the sudden S-curve and stop maneuver. Both cows were thrown against their stall partitions, but neither fell. Tyler pulled his truck up on the far left of the others. The rocky bluff on the Manchester side was obscured by the trailer next to them. He heard a couple shots. Were they fired by someone in the trucks, or someone outside at the trucks?

  The median was a tangle of small bare trees, brush and tall grass that grew up around a ridge of ledge rock. In places, the old bedrock still stood ten feet tall. In other places, it had crumbled, leaving gaps and rubble. Through one of those gaps strode two young men in blue hoodies. Both had pistols held high, like banditos in an old western. Martin swatted at Charles on the shoulder to get his attention. The lead hoodie walked with a sort of skipping, stiff-legged gait: a swaggering victory strut.

  “Now we gonna pop ‘em and get us some nice big wheels, eh bro?” said Hoodie One. Hoodie Two muttered something inarticulate.

  “I’ll take right,” whispered Charles. “You take left.”

  “Up on the cliff,” blurted Martin’s walkie-talkie. “Two of ‘em behind that lone boulder.”

  The two hoodies heard Martin’s radio. They leveled their pistols at the trailer doors. Martin took aim at Hoodie Two. Charles fired, clipping the Hoodie One in the side. The loud report inside the trailer spooked the cow behind Martin, it reared and kicked. Its hoof only grazed Martin’s leg, but it sent him down. His carbine clattered onto the floor beside him. Three shots rang out, punching holes in the metal door, not far from where Martin had been standing.

  Martin pulled his carbine close. In a prone position, he propped it up to aim between the lower vent slats of the door. His aim at center mass was hindered by the nervous cow rocking the trailer. While Hoodie Two was momentarily distracted by his cohort doubling over, Martin squeezed off a shot. It hit Hoodie Two high in the shoulder. It spun him half way around. Hoodie Two tried to re-acquire aim on Martin’s muzzle flash with his off hand, but Martin had a second shot off before that. Martin’s second shot hit Hoodie Two in the hip. He went down like a broken chair.

  Hoodie One had staggered back into the brush to lean against the median rocks. Charles had a bead on him, but was holding his fire.

  “Two bandits in back,” Martin radioed. “Both down, not out…yet.”

  “Two more ahead in median,” said Arthur. “Can’t get out. Need to clear those strips!”

  “Two up behind boulder on cliff,” said one of the other drivers.

  “We’ll keep the front two down,” said Arthur. “Little Dumplings, you keep the high pair down.”

  “We need to take these two out of the fight,” Charles said. “I’m gonna throw open the doors. Cover me from the guys up high. Keep their heads down. I’m going out.”

  “Need cover fire on the boulder,” Martin radioed. Shots cracked and echoed off the bluff. Sprays of rock dust sparkled around the boulder. Martin saw no heads peeking up. “Okay. Clear!” Martin shouted to Charles.

  Charles ran out to kick Hoodie Two’s gun out of reach. Martin kept an eye on the bluff and his sights on Hoodie Two while Charles squat-ran over to Hoodie One. He was leaning against the rocks, bent over, holding his side. Two shots came from the boulder, but did not appear to hit anything nearby. More shots came from the trucks.

  Martin ran out to fallen Hoodie Two and dragged him, in jerks and tugs, behind the cover of the trailer. The man was hit in his shoulder joint. The hip shot must have hit a tendon. The young man was trembling. With the barrel of the carbine in the man’s diaphragm, Martin patted the man down. He found a fixed blade in one pocket. In his waistband, he had a small pistol. Martin pocketed b
oth.

  He and Charles needed to work their way forward to clear the spike strips, but Martin could not leave the wounded hoodlum unattended. What if the hoodlum was faking incapacitance? The hood strings of the man’s sweatshirt gave Martin an idea. He cut one knob off, pulled the drawstring out then rolled the man on his stomach. Martin’s knee in the man’s back caused significant pain, but there was no time for gentle manners. He tied the man’s wrists together, sending the cord through one of the man’s belt loops.