by Reed, N. C.
“Me neither,” Nate seconded. “I don't mean that bad, it's just. . .she don't look the part. Abby does. I mean big, healthy farm girl who fights forest fires and drives bulldozers, she should do well in this setting.”
“You guys keep a secret?” Clay asked quietly.
“Of course!” both replied in unison.
“Me too,” Clay chuckled as he started to walk away. “Suffice it to say that you aren't the first to be surprised by how strong Lainie is. I'm sure I was first, followed pretty quick by Abby, who tried to crush her hand with a hand shake.”
“Who won?” Tandi called out.
“Lainie,” Clay said over his shoulder. “Hands down, no pun intended.”
“Damn,” Nate muttered.
“Yeah,” Tandi nodded.
-
“My legs are killing me,” Lainie gasped as she lay on the couch, waiting for Clay to fix her lunch. “It was all I could do to finish.”
“You hid it well,” Clay promised. “Impressed the hell outta Nate and Tandi both, by the way.”
“Oh, good,” she replied dryly. “That was so what I was hoping for.” She straightened up and accepted a plate with a ham sandwich along with a glass of cold water. Clay sat down beside her with his own.
“It will get harder,” he warned. “It will be especially hard tomorrow after going through that this morning. I'd recommend some stretches tonight to get the stiffness out of your legs and relieve some of the tension in your back.”
“Thank God for sports bras,” she nodded. “I'd be dying if not for that.”
-
“Thank God for sports bras,” Samantha complained as she and Abby sat down to eat.
“No kidding,” Abby nodded. “I didn't work that hard to fight fires.”
“And we're both used to working on a ranch,” Samantha reminded her. “And playing sports. Imagine what some of the others are going through. A lot of them are older than us, too. Though Lainie did well.”
“Don't let her fool you,” Abby said around a mouthful of leftover beef roast. “She is just as strong as I am or stronger. I don't know what kind of dances she did, but something put muscles on her in a big way.”
“She ran away from me,” Samantha nodded. “I had the worst trouble getting over the wall. I think Ellen hit it half-way up and just pulled herself over in a hop. The only way I kept up was I could run just a little faster.”
“She is incredible,” Abby nodded. “I don't think I've ever seen a woman any better put together and that includes Mattie Simmons.”
“Yeah,” Samantha sighed. Mattie Simmons had been a classmate who had taken a volleyball scholarship to the University of Memphis. Neither had any idea where she was now or what shape she was in, assuming she was alive. Mattie stood six-foot one inch tall, towering over the rest of them on the softball field, and could actually out lift some of the football players. Not someone like Gordy of course, but she was still a very strong woman.
“She's either okay or she's not,” Abby noted Samantha's look. “If she had some warning then maybe she got home before it happened. We wouldn't know that, either. Try not to think about it.”
“I do,” Samantha nodded. “But anything like that always makes me think about my parents.”
“I know,” Abby's voice softened and her hand fell on her friend's shoulder. “I'm so sorry, Sam. If I could find them and go get them I swear I would.”
“I know,” Samantha smiled sadly and put her hand over Abby's. “But I think we've all learned that can't be the way we do things. They're either okay or they're not, as you said. I can't do anything about it. All I can do is keep going forward and try to make them proud of me.” She didn't even cry this time, Abby noticed. She was definitely getting stronger.
“So, what about you and Gordy?” she asked, changing the subject and smiling inwardly as Samantha's face turned a deep red.
“You do that just to embarrass me, don't you!” Samantha demanded.
“Well, yeah,” Abby admitted slowly. “But also, because I can see that it's more now than just a little hero worship,” she continued, and Sam's face went darker still. “And I can see him too, you know,” she bumped her friend's shoulder. “He is eat up with you, girl.”
“I... you think so?” Samantha asked suddenly.
“I assure you he is,” Patricia's voice startled them both, making them jump. Patricia Sanders walked in on them and began to fix her own plate of cold leftovers.
“Ma'am?” Samantha managed to choke out.
“I assure you he is 'eat up' I think Abby said, with you,” Patricia chuckled as she sat down with them. “He hides it pretty well, but I am his mother, whereas Abby is just his sister,” she dug a little and Abby laughed at that.
“I don't. . .I mean I... I. . . .” Samantha couldn't find anything to say and finally trailed away, examining her food very carefully.
“Sam for God's sake!” Abby chided her. “You're an attractive, grown ass woman! Stop acting like an addled schoolgirl over this!”
“Shut up,” Sam muttered without looking up. “It has to be hard on him,” she continued, and then her face flooded red again as Abby laughed at her friend's latest faux pas.
“I’ll just bet it is,” Abby howled only to receive a towel in the face from her mother.
“Abigail Elizabeth Sanders!” Patricia scolded, though with a hint of mirth playing at her eyes and the corners of her mouth.
“Sorry, sorry,” Abby held up her hands in subjugation even as Samantha spluttered next to her. “I couldn't help it. Besides, I know what she meant,” she added more seriously. “She's talking about the fact that she had been interested in Uncle Clay back before the world ended.”
“You were the one who interested me in him,” Samantha said accusingly.
“That is true,” Abby sighed. “That was a mistake for both of you, but I can't take it back. Uncle Clay would never have truly appreciated you and you already admitted you would have had a hard time dealing with his. . .issues. In my defense, I wasn't aware of his problems back then,” she added. “That was on me. Just like a lot of other things.”
“Enough,” Patricia ordered her daughter. “You made mistakes. You've worked hard to make up for them. You've done your share and more around here, and you've matured a great deal since then. You've put your problems behind you, Abigail. Leave them there and move forward. I've been very proud of you these last months, watching you work to make things right between you and Clayton as well as the rest. Only an adult would work that hard to fix a problem.” Those were words Abby was thrilled to hear but she merely nodded in reply rather than speak.
“She's right,” Samantha said, face still red but slowly returning to normal. “And the others have seen it, too. If they hadn't, do you think Pancho would have geared you up the way he did?”
“No,” it was Abigail's turn to look a bit red-faced now. “It still doesn't change what I did, though. But. . .it is what it is,” she shrugged, looking and sounding a great deal like Jody Thompson.
“I can't help but notice you tend to spend a lot of time in the cupola these days,” Patricia decided to lighten the mood.
“Yes,” Abby's face grew redder to Sam's delight. “It took a long time to make up to Jody for what happened, but. . .after what he and Tandi did, we had a long talk about it. The day of the luau in fact. He said that was essentially the same thing that I did, and that mine just ended poorer. He also pointed out that it was John's idea to go and that none of them had to. They just wanted to.”
“That doesn't surprise me,” Patricia sighed just a bit. “All of them are adrenaline junkies, and I'm afraid your brother is right there with them, along with all of his friends.”
“Adrenaline junkies?” Samantha asked.
“For Clay and his men, I'm sure it came about from risking their lives on a daily basis for so long they've forgotten what it's like not to,” Patricia went on. “For Gordy and the others, I suspect they closely relate it to the s
ame feeling they got in a football game or from driving too fast racing on the Interstate.”
“You knew about that?” Abby blurted.
“You don't think that was something you kids invented, do you?” Patricia gave her daughter a faint smirk. “I’ll have you know that your father had a rather fast sixty-nine Camaro when we were dating. He won more than one twenty-dollar bill during late nights on that Interstate.”
“Twenty?” Abby looked shocked. “Is that all?”
“Twenty dollars was a great deal more money then, Abigail,” Patricia's look turned somewhat sour but stern. “And you are not helping yourself to continue along that line of inquiry.”
“Sorry, sorry,” Abby again made a sign of surrender. “Just never imagined my straight arrow father drag racing on the freeway.”
“Your straight arrow father as you call him didn't have two children back then,” Patricia pointed out. “You didn't really think I fell in love with him because he was a radio operator, did you?” she asked with an arched eyebrow.
“Ugh,” Abby covered her ears. “Please Mom, not while I'm eating!”
“Don't start something you can't finish, dear.”
-
“You've all had rudimentary training in basic tactics, but that training was a while back, and you're about to move into something far more complex,” Tandi Maseo spoke to the assembled class. “You will learn the basics of everything you need to know, and once you have that down you will move on to more intermediate training. Details if you will. You will learn radio operation, observation skills, how to report enemy sightings, what to report when you do call in, details that need to be in every call you make, and dozens of other little things that make a big difference on the battlefield.”
“The first thing we're going to discuss is this; you are not training here to be soldiers in the same sense that we are,” he motioned to himself and then to the others. “Nor in the same sense of Gordy, Corey or any of the others. You are training to defend this farm and the people who live here. The training you receive will not be nearly as rigorous as what we put them through, especially physically, but they have an entirely different job than any of you will have with possibly one or two exceptions at some point down the line.”
“The tactics you learn are for one reason only and that is to help you get where you need to be and then fight from a fixed and protected position. And before you think that's safe, let me remind you that Corey Raynard is walking around here with an arm in a sling and stitches in his face from fighting in one of those very spots.” He paused, looking at each person in turn.
“Some of you will almost certainly be hurt if things continue the way they have been,” he said finally. “It's entirely possible that some of you may die. I don't say that to frighten you, though if you aren't scared in combat you're doing it wrong. I say this to prepare you. To emphasize how dangerous this is. When the bullets start flying, they don't care who they hit. Remember that, and remember it when you pull the trigger as well.”
“All of you have been assigned rifles, handguns, field gear and protective vests. The vests are the equivalent of the Class Three armor worn by police officers and are rated to stop up to a three-oh-eight round, but, but...” he stressed, “…that does not mean that it will defeat every round that comes your way. There are certain munitions out there that will defeat any body armor, and even some rounds that armor should stop will get through when fired from close range. Distance is your friend in a firefight. Do not depend on your armor to protect you. If it does then it did its job, but if you stand up expecting to shrug off rounds while returning fire, you will die and deserve it. Armor is an extra level of protection and nothing more. Same for the helmets you will be issued. They also can deflect certain rounds as well as shrapnel, but they are not invulnerable, nor do they make you that way.”
“The best way to protect yourself is to maintain your situational awareness and use the cover of your position to protect yourself. The bunkers we've constructed are lined with logs, and that includes the top, and that doesn't include the dirt they're in or that has been packed on top of them. Dirt is the absolute best bullet stopper there is, short of killing the person shooting at you. Remember that and work to keep those fortifications between you and your attackers.”
“Do not lose sight of the battle around you,” Nate took over. “Do not lose sight of the battle around you regardless of what happens even to the person next to you. If the person next to you is hit, call it in, and resume fighting. If you are clear for a few seconds you may then apply emergency aid to stop bleeding or at least slow it down, but do not neglect the battle around you. When Corey was hit, Kade shot the man who had hit Corey and then turned long enough to slap a trauma bandage on the bleeding, then went back to his rifle, calling in for Doc. Doc arrived and rendered the necessary aid. Kade did exactly the right thing.”
“Too bad he wasn't in the hole with my brother, then,” John Webb muttered. Before anyone could say anything to that Mitchell Nolan appeared out of nowhere, grabbing John Webb's shirt and dragging him from the room, pausing twice to slap the struggling young man to make dragging him easier. Once the two were gone, Nate continued as if he'd never been interrupted.
“Aimed fire is the absolute best defense against an aggressive enemy that outnumbers you,” Nate told the class. “Full auto fire sounds sexy and is an attention getter, and is also a waste of ammunition in most cases. You may fire off a thirty-round magazine and not score a single hit. With precisely aimed fire, you may down up to thirty kills or stops with that same magazine. Odds are it will be less, but still more than you would get with spray and pray, meaning spraying bullets everywhere and praying you hit something.” That got a muted laugh from the students, as it was intended to.
“Nothing demoralizes an enemy more than to see one of their own drop every time their enemy fires,” he promised them. “A tank doesn't scare them as bad as seeing the man to either side fall, knowing they're probably next and can't do a damn thing about it. Remember that when you feel the urge to shoot up your ammo. Save your fire and make it count. There is a time to cut loose with a full auto burst, and we’ll teach you when that is. If it isn't one of those times, then don't do it.”
“Moving on. . ..”
-
“Get your damn hands off me!” John Webb screamed as Mitchell Nolan drug him outside. The only response was a fist to his jaw that sent him tumbling back onto the ground in a flip that left him face down on the ground.
“Get up,” the normally affable Nolan snarled, moving to where Webb lay on the ground. “I said get up!” he yelled when the younger man didn't move fast enough, grabbing him by the back of the neck and dragging him off the ground.
“You're out of here,” the commando snarled in Webb's face. “You've caused trouble one time too many and you were warned flat out what would happen if you did it again. My woman and her son live here you little shit! You are not going to get a chance to endanger them,” he ground out. “You've got five minutes to get whatever you can carry and say your goodbyes and then you're down the road. If you're still here in five minutes, I’ll kill you.”
“Wha. . .what?” the younger man was starting to lose his dazed look. “What?”
“You heard me,” Mitchell shook him like a rag doll. “You're a problem child and it's time you left. You can leave walking, or I can carry you to a deep hole and drop you in it.”
“I don. . .I don't want to leave!” John Webb wailed suddenly, tears in his eyes. “My mamma is here!”
“So?” Mitchell demanded. “You think that means anything to me next to the fact that you're endangering my woman and her child? You think any of us give a shit about you or your family over our own? You damn sure don't care about anyone but your family, now do you?”
“I do. . .do too!” Webb was on the verge of blubbering he was so scared.
“Then why are you still running your mouth about a kid who killed himself after he was put
in an impossible situation?” Mitchell demanded. “Why are you disrupting a class that's intended to help the people who live here learn to protect themselves? Which we wouldn't have to do if not for your father making a deal with Holman for your whiny ass!” He tossed the younger man casually down on the ground.
“You're untrustworthy,” he declared flatly. “And if we can't trust you, then there's no place here for you. Got that?”
“You can trust me!” Webb cried from the ground.
“Did you or did you not promise not to cause any more difficulty?” Mitchell asked.
“I... I didn't think. . ..”
“I doubt you're equipped for it,” Mitchell agreed and John Webb flushed beet red at that. “Now get on your feet!” he snapped. The boy got to his feet clumsily, both angry and afraid.
“You've got five minutes,” Mitchell repeated. “Use it to say goodbye to your mother and brothers. I doubt you’ll see them again. At least without you here maybe they’ll survive.”
“What does that mean?” John looked shocked at that more so than anything else so far.
“You think you're just making it hard on us?” Mitchell asked him. “If we fall, who do you think protects that infirmary they're in? You think just because they're injured that they’ll be spared? You think anyone else around here will try and keep your mamma alive for you?” he made it sound like a curse. “Dream on, you little punk ass kid. No one else around here anywhere gives a flying damn about you, your mamma, your brothers or anyone else on this ranch unless it's some of the women. If it was just your family you're putting at risk I wouldn't give a damn. But I will be damned if I let you threaten mine!”
“I didn't mean. . .I mean I wasn't trying to. . ..” Webb tried to defend himself but fell short.
“Clock is running,” Mitchell reminded him. “And my patience is gone. You're so tough? You shouldn't have a problem making on your own, right? Real tough guy like you, constantly running that mouth of yours? I'm sure you’ll do fine without us weighing you down, right? So, get going!” he screamed in Webb's face suddenly.