Surviving in America: Under Siege 2nd Edition

by Paul Andrulis

  Joe was wearing a pair of ghillies and his face was covered in a mixture of mud and dirt, with little chunks of leaves and grass sticking to it. He waited at the end of the belt until the guns had finally stopped. He started to edge into the ditch, the stopped again and watched in both amazement and amusement as the gunners changed barrels and then continued firing.

  “That commander is an idiot. He would never in a million years pass my class,” Zoe thought.

  The house made a horrid groaning sound and then tilted cockeyed towards the driveway.

  “They might actually have gotten that stupid mangy possum in the attic though,” he thought with a grin.

  Besides a rat, Joe found possums to be the most repugnantly ugly creature he had ever seen. Scratch that, the ugliest critter bar none.

  He quieted his mind and focused on the task at hand. The gunners quit firing and then the Captain childishly flipped the bird at the farm house. Joe’s ears were ringing badly from the gunfire even at this distance, and he missed the commanders first few orders the officer gave.

  The men in the hummers jumped down from the vehicles and then ran in two by two cover formation towards the house. Just then the commander gave another order, as Joe's hearing started to regain normalcy. Joe missed the command, but the tone, pitch and timber of the voice stopped him cold. That voice. The nameless voice he had heard but never seen to who it belonged.

  The voice!

  The Captain!

  The faces of his dead wife and children all floated through his mind, and his soul roared from within screaming at him to kill.

  Joe's blood turned cold as ice. He was already moving when the bows quietly made a silenced 'thunk' behind him. Six arrows whistled softly on their way to the target, and then six razor sharp broad-heads sliced through protective Kevlar deep into the chests behind. The two soldiers still standing fell before they could react.

  Zeb’s men dropped their bows and quickly shot the remaining two with the thirty caliber rifles.

  The Captain watched in perplexity as six of his men dropped to the ground with a rod sticking from their chests. The last two fell suddenly from gunfire, and he realized that the rods were in fact arrows.

  “What?” went through his stunned mind.

  Then a man was before him, an old, well-worn lock-back knife open in his otherwise empty hands. The man spoke just five words to him, which his numb brain refused at first to register.

  “Guess what…. You missed again,” Joe growled, slamming the blade into the side of the Captains temple clean to the hilt.

  The Captain started to crumple. The words finally made sense, and he knew that this man in front of him referred to a different time and place. The grenade in the truck had indeed missed him the first time, and then the air strike had missed him the second. The Captain had just missed again, for the last time. His sight started to dim as he opened his mouth to speak.

  “Don’t bother, I don’t want to hear anything you have to say,” Joe stated before the man could speak.

  Joe bent down and torqued the handle of the knife, snapping off the blade.

  “I have heard enough already, and I do not give a rats butt who you are.”

  21. (A New Home)

  Joe looked down at his bloody hands, not sure what he should be feeling.

  He felt absolute emptiness, as if he was a hollow shell. No emotions whatsoever were present in him, and it was completely different from what he had thought it would feel like. .He had expected relief, or maybe even pleasure at knowing his family had been served justice for their horrible murders. Yet, nothing like this was the case.

  His family was still dead, and the man responsible was now dead as well. If he felt anything at all, it was guilt, and couldn't reason why. It was not logical to him.

  Feeling something in his right hand, he opened it and saw the remains of his old Schrade lock-back in his hand. The torqueing had snapped the blade off next to the brass hilt, leaving only the handle in his tightly clenched hand. The remaining stub of blade that was still attached was smeared with blood.

  The sight of the blood brought a flood of emotion pouring into his empty soul. Sorrow ripped to his core, tearing at his very soul, and guilt burned like acid. He wasn't sorry that this man was gone. Joe was sorry that he had killed another human being, and was not finding any peace within himself, nor true justification.

  Where was this supposed sweetness that comes from revenge?

  It is a lie.

  Killing or harming another only kills or harms a part of the person who does it, and Joe was learning this very thing. There was no man he could kill which would bring either his family, nor his uncle back to him. What he wanted was his family back, not an obscure notion of justice or vengeance. He felt more alone than ever, as if he had somehow tarnished the memory of his wife and children.

  A hand upon Joe's shoulder broke him out of his reverie.

  “For a man who just got what he wanted, you look terrible. Feel better now?” Zeb asked.

  “No... I feel worse actually,” Joe honestly replied.

  “Good, cause if you ever get to like it....” Zeb hinted with a cold stare.

  “I've seen some men that did enjoy it. Killing that is. Pure psychopaths. Something happened to them, and they quit thinking of others as even human anymore. Rabid dogs... No difference.”

  “Don't let anyone fool you Joe. Killing men never feels good for any reason. I still remember every face of every man that I ever killed. Even the ones I didn’t see. Whether they were trying to kill me or not.... makes no difference,” Zeb continued, a look of old sorrow burned deeply into the lines on his face.

  “Sometimes really I hate this job,” he finished.

  Joe's face had aged considerably in the last several months, and was now starting to look a lot like Zebs. Most of them had visibly aged as stress, worry, and their situation had taken an inevitable toll. Some were reacting differently than others.

  Dave looked ready and capable, actually losing a few years from his appearance as the little padding he had acquired melted off, leaving nothing behind but hard muscle, sinew, and bone. Sue looked anything but helpless. One look into her hard green eyes would tell anyone that her small frame was not even an issue. Kyle turned seventeen just last week and looked like a grunt in his mid-twenties.

  Both he and his brother Jonas carried themselves with an assurance greater than any city boy fresh out of basic training.

  All of the Privates looked in their thirties, yet the oldest was only twenty five. Sergeant Hewitt had shown the most radical change, as only one having responsibility can understand. The extra added and constant worry concerning his men combined with the absolute desire not to disgrace the set of stripes he wore on his shoulder had taken their toll on the otherwise young man.

  At only twenty six, gray was creeping into his mustache, and lines were starting to form at the sides of his mouth. His bearing however was ramrod straight, and his countenance was simple no nonsense.

  Zeb looked at Hewitt showing no emotion on his face, but he felt a deep pride inside knowing even in boot camp that this boy had that undefinable something which a good commander needs. He knew then that Hewitt would eventually earn rank whether he wanted it or not.

  He had been harder on Hewitt than the others because of it, but had also known that Hewitt would live up to his expectations. He had felt an innate pleasure watching this boy transform and become a man, and now the man had metamorphosed into a leader of men. Zeb couldn't have been more pleased if Hewitt had been his own son.

  However, Joe confused Zeb. He had known him for only a short while and the man was not military. What confused him was that it felt like Joe was his own brother, like they had shared a lifetime of experiences. He felt a resonance of character within this man, a shade or shadow of himself. He could empathize with everything this man was going through, as Zeb had lost family after family in this or that jungle or desert.

  Zeb had no other fami
ly than the military, his mother and father both dead from a car accident with him the only survivor as a young child of ten. A hard life of boarding schools with no brothers or sisters or even an aunt or uncle who wanted to have anything to do with him contributed to his choice of joining the military to begin with.

  He had entered the military at eighteen and had been dedicated to it ever since. Finding a family when all else offered none, he was a lifer.

  …..................................

  Cleanup was a mess. The house was utterly destroyed, and its remains were dangerous as well. A month ago Zeb had come forth with the idea of storing essential necessities in the hidey-holes, and perishables in the basement of the house.

  The basement had become a fortified hidey-hole that Joe had modified with his usual touch of overkill. The basement was made of cinder block, so Joe had knocked out a small doorway, and using three quarter inch plywood half sheets had made a reinforced four foot by eight foot cache. He had then lagged down an ancient old refrigerator over the hole, then cut out the back of the fridge matching the hole.

  Looking at the refrigerator without opening it, you just saw a fridge sitting against the wall. Opening the door showed the fridges shelves stocked with normal stuff. A removable sheet of white painted sheet metal at the back completed the illusion. Even close inspection would not herald that the fridge was actually a doorway.

  Zeb, Dave, and Sue all looked in thoughtful despair at the ruined house concerned towards what the future held. The group had just lost their only winterized shelter. Joe however was nonplussed, seemingly not even concerned.

  “Well, that is it,” Zeb drawled sarcastically.

  “We are going to have to find a winter house. With the extra ventilation provided by our over enthusiastic friends, this house is a mite drafty I think.”

  “Why? This is perfect,” Joe asked, completely serious and straight faced.

  Everyone, including Zeb and the other soldiers, looked at Joe as if he had just lost his mind as all could tell he was being as serious as a heart attack.

  “No. Guys. Seriously. This is perfect!” Joe went on enthusiastically.

  “We couldn't ask for a better camouflage!”

  Zeb looked at the farm with a slow smile starting to crease his face.

  “Man you are sneaky. I like how you think. I would have never thought of it.”

  Now everyone wondered whether the insanity was contagious. Collectively they looked at both Joe and Zeb as if they had developed cooties of some sort. Dave caught on, and a huge smile spread across his face.

  “Oh give me a home, where the buffalo roam, and a deer can walk through my living room...” Dave sang horribly off key.

  “Precisely!” Joe exclaimed.

  “You three are nuts. Uggghhh!” Sue grunted with conviction, echoing the thoughts of literally everyone else present.

  “We need concrete, and lots of it... and a few other things,” Joe stated, turning to the Lieutenant.

  “Don't look at me Colonel, I ain't from these parts,” Zeb said in a thick southern drawl.

  “Great Bend, Hays, Salina, or Russell. Which is the best bet?” Dave asked thoughtfully, naming the only big towns even halfway close that might have what they needed.

  “When in doubt, let your fingers do the walking. I need a phone book. Strike that. A couple of area-wide phone books,” Joe replied, remembering that these cities covered a service circle over ninety miles across, at the farthest points.

  “Check Russell and Great Bend first, since they are closest.”

  “So men. Who volunteers to go inside to find the phone books?” Zeb asked.

  Everyone instantaneously took a step back except Joe, who merely had the look of readiness towards pulling rank if necessary.

  “Figures. Ya’ll are a bunch of pantywaists,” Zeb grumbled as everyone else grinned.

  Zeb smiled.

  “That’s fine. Hewitt, you just volunteered.”

  22. (The Smell of Death)

  Hewitt cursed profusely before he had entered the house. Getting back out proved harder than finding the phone books. Joe and Zeb had to brace up a few areas of the tilted house so that Hewitt could make it out safely.

  Looking through the phone books yielded a couple of different options. They could resort to bagged concrete and wheelbarrows if nothing else, but they really wanted a real concrete truck if possible.

  “Realistically, we are going to be lucky if we find one. I see three options for concrete companies. Two in Great bend, but only one in Russell,” Joe stated, wishing for more options than were listed in the yellow pages.

  “Cuts it then, Great Bend it is, especially considering that they have the bigger concrete outfits,” Dave replied.

  “I just hate the fact that Great Bend is twice the size of Russell. It probably means twice the potential for serious trouble,” Sue stated.

  “I agree Sue, but what do we do? We have a limited amount of diesel fuel which seriously limits our range. Think of it this way, either Hays or Salina would be much worse,” Joe lamented.

  “Only three jerry cans that are full, and only fifty gallons left in the five hundred gallon tank out by the shed. All thanks to some rather lousy shots with machine guns,” Zeb exclaimed in disgust.

  “Twenty holes in the shed. I mean come on! Twenty. And Twenty five in the diesel tank a whopping twenty feet away!”

  “They went through what, five belts of ammo?” Joe asked.

  “Six,” Zeb snorted.

  They had a grand total of four hummers. Two remained stashed in the pole barn. One of these two still had a quarter of a tank of fuel, the other with an eighth of a tank, as they had been siphoning from it. The other two recently acquired hummers had a little over a half tank each.

  Joe was heartbroken. The big truck he had been given had taken a couple of huge fifty caliber rounds through the block as it had been parked in the shed next to the diesel tank. It was now just a huge paper weight. He had hoped to use it as a tractor, but that was now out of the question.

  After a cursory inspection, everyone had been disheartened to find diesel fuel still pouring out of holes lower than midway down the side of the five hundred gallon tank. They had been saving the farm diesel for when the hummers ran dry.

  Foresight may have been lacking in this case or they would have moved the tank away from the outbuilding. They discovered the hard way that hindsight is always twenty-twenty. They scrambled to find gas cans to catch what they could of the remaining fuel.

  “Going to lose about half of it, I reckon,” Joe stated glumly.

  “That will leave us with only twenty-five gallons in the big tank.”

  They decided to take GPS units out of both of the new hummers. They had the boys strip the units from the vehicles while Joe outlined his plan to both Dave and Zeb. Walking to the back door of the house which had crumpled and shattered in its frame when the house had tilted, Joe gave a quick description of what he wanted.

  “We are going to make the basement into the living area. Right now, the hardwood floors will not keep out moisture with all the structural damage to the house. We brace the floors from underneath and use them as a form to pour a thick concrete pad on. The walls of the house will serve as the outsides of the form. We hump it in the center and water will drain to the outside,” Joe finished.

  “Won't the concrete be a dead give-away that someone is here?” Sue asked reasonably.

  “Actually no, it won’t. Nobody will even bother to enter the house to check for anything. We carpet all the lower windows, and fill the doorways with rubble and debris, but leave the rest of the house exactly as it is now.”

  “Any thoughts?” Joe asked.

  “Our biggest obstacle is camouflaging our heat source. We need a wood burner for heat even though the basement won't get below around forty five degrees at worst. Should stay around fifty if we do it right,” Zeb replied.

  “I am afraid the pot belly in the house, and much
of its double wall vent pipe is going to look like Swiss cheese,” Joe said, saddened at the loss.

  “For now, we can stay at my old house in the cellar, until we’re done here,” Dave interjected, a thoughtful look on his face.

  “That should work.”

  He was thinking of the renovation work they had already done a while back to his old cellar. They had built bunks in the large cellar and replaced the ruined shelving on the side where the concrete had been smashed. Next, they had reinforced the walls of the escape tunnel, making it into the entrance since the original entrance was irreparable.

  Dave had designed and built an interesting door for the cellar which looked like an old flower bed that swung up and back to expose the concealed entrance to the tunnel. He had counterweighted the unit so it moved easily and had designed an interior assist lever in case of a heavy snow load. Between John's small generator to run electric hand tools, the materials they had been able to scavenge, and a few salvageable parts from Joe's burnt outbuildings they had gotten everything to work.