World War III

by Heath Jannusch

  With no enemy convoy to destroy, they fired the cannon and watched, as the shell exploded into the side of the mountain. Giant chunks of ice broke apart and came sliding down, covering the road below in a thick blanket of white, dotted with green pine trees and grey boulders.

  “Alright, mission accomplished,” said Lt. Sawyer, when the roar from the rumbling avalanche had subsided, “Let’s go home.”

  Driving down Kingsbury Grade, the Humvee hit a patch of ice and began to slide. Corporal Thatcher frantically tried to regain control, as the vehicle headed straight for the ledge and a two hundred foot drop.

  “Steer into it!” Shouted Lt. Sawyer, reaching for the wheel. He turned the steering wheel toward the edge of the mountain and the Humvee changed direction. Instead of sliding off the mountain, it veered across both lanes and smashed into the side of the mountain.

  “Is everyone alright?” Sgt. Morgan asked, rubbing his head.

  “I just about had a heart attack,” mumbled Sampson, kicking his door open and climbing out. “Haven’t you ever driven on ice before?”

  “I’m from Florida,” replied Corp. Thatcher, as he tried to open his door, before realizing it was pressed up against the side of the mountain. He shrugged and gave up, before crawling across the passenger seat and out the door.

  “Now what?” Asked Billy, examining the vehicles broken axel.

  “We walk,” stated Lt. Sawyer, looking down the mountainside. “Let’s get moving, before another storm blows in,” he added, glancing up at the sky.

  “What about the cannon?” Asked Sampson, his hand resting on the barrel, lovingly.

  “Leave it,” said Lt. Sawyer, “it’s obsolete.”

  “Obsolete,” Sampson hissed in disgust. Repeating the word, as though it tasted bitter in his mouth. “She may be old, but she just eliminated more of the enemy in one shot, than you and your men did with a hundred bullets!”

  “I think we should keep it,” agreed Sgt. Morgan. “Ya never know when we might need it again.”

  “Fine,” shrugged Lt. Sawyer, “bring it with.”

  “Obsolete,” Sampson mumbled, as the Marines unhooked the gun from the back of the Humvee.

  “I don’t think old man Sampson likes the Lieutenant very much,” whispered Billy, watching as the old man walked away, mumbling something inaudible.

  “Nah dude,” replied Cole, “he’s just old fashioned. I think he takes it personally when anyone implies something, or someone, is inferior just because of age.”

  “Sampson, you know these mountains better than anyone so you’re on point,” said Lt. Sawyer. “Sergeant, you bring up the rear and watch our six. The rest of you give me a hand with the cannon, and watch out for more patches of ice!”

  After an hour of walking, Lt. Sawyer stopped the group and took refuge under a large pine tree, covered in snow. One by one the men huddled together, shivering from the icy wind.

  When Sampson realized the group had stopped, he doubled back and joined them. “Why are you stopping?”

  “The men need a break and a chance to get warm,” replied Lt. Sawyer.

  “There ain’t no breaks on this trip,” stated Sampson. “You’ll get warmth and rest when we’re home, and not a moment sooner!”

  “Who died and left you in charge?” Asked the Lieutenant, his teeth chattering from the cold.

  “I’ve got more experience in these here mountains than all of you combined,” said Sampson. “Standing still like this is a good way to get frost bite. If ya wanna to stay warm, we need to keep moving.”

  “He’s right,” agreed Cole, rubbing his arms with his hands. “If we stop moving our sweat will freeze to our skin, making us even colder.”

  “Mr. Sampson has been hunting and trapping in these mountains since before I was born,” agreed Billy. “I think we should listen to him.”

  “Mm, Mm, maybe we should make a fire,” suggested Corporal Thatcher, his teeth chattering beyond control.

  “The enemy might see it or smell it,” replied Sampson. “No stopping and no fires. Here,” he added, reaching into his pack and handing them each a packet of hand warmers. “Stick these in your gloves and they’ll help keep your hands warm.”

  “Thanks,” said Billy, recognizing the hand warmers as one of the items for sale at Sampson’s Hardware.

  “What about my toes bro,” asked Cole, “they’re freezing too?”

  “Are ya gonna shoot your gun with your toes, or your fingers?” Sampson asked, sarcastically. “Exactly,” he added, when Cole made no response, “so worry about your fingers first. Now come on, let’s keep moving.” Sampson turned and took point, with the others following close behind.

  The group had spread out and was still a few miles from town, when they unwittingly stumbled into an ambush. The first shot caught Sampson in the shoulder and he fell to the ground, as a hail of gunfire erupted from the surrounding hillside.

  “Mr. Sampson, are you okay?” Billy shouted, amidst the barrage of gunfire.

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” replied Sampson, separated from the rest of the group by twenty yards. “Stay where you are!” He crawled to the nearest tree and leaned with his back against it. “Damn it,” he hissed, as he tried to bandage his wounded shoulder, with only one good arm.

  “Is anybody else hit?” Asked Lieutenant Sawyer, trying to get a bearing on the enemy’s position.

  “No!” Shouted Sgt. Morgan, examining the others in a glance.

  “Can you see where their located?”

  “I think they’re up ahead on the right,” replied the Sergeant, pointing to a cluster of boulders. “We need to do something before they flank us!”

  “How many do you count?”

  “There must be at least a dozen of them, judging by the gunfire,” said the Sergeant, peering around a tree trunk.

  “What are we gonna do?” Billy asked, shaking like a leaf. He couldn’t tell if it was from the cold, or due to fear.

  “Okay,” said Lt. Sawyer, “I have a plan. Billy, you and Cole get the cannon ready to fire. The target is going to be that cluster of boulders. Corporal, you stay here and cover them. Sergeant Morgan and I are gonna get the old man.”

  “I heard that!” Shouted Sampson. “I’m not that old,” he grumbled, softly.

  “Okay,” said Billy, turning to load the gun.

  Cole rotated the cannon so it was pointing directly at the boulders, while Corporal Thatcher unloaded a clip in the same direction.

  Lying flat on their bellies, Lt. Sawyer and Sgt. Morgan crawled toward Sampson. “Are you okay?” Asked the Lieutenant, when they reached the old man.

  “I’m fine,” hissed Sampson. “I don’t need a rescue party.”

  “Quit your grumbling old man,” said Lt. Sawyer. He looked at Sgt. Morgan. “On the count of three. One, two, three!”

  With their rifles in one hand, the two Marines grabbed hold of Sampson’s coat and began dragging him back to the cannon. They were halfway there, when a Chinese soldier leapt out from behind a bush and rushed straight at them. Holding a rifle fastened with a bayonet, the soldier let out a shrill scream. He was almost on top of them, when Sampson lifted his rifle with his good arm, and fired. The bullet struck the charging soldier square in the chest, knocking him backward and to the ground.

  “Nice shot,” mumbled Lt. Sawyer.

  “One down,” chuckled Sampson, as they dragged him to safety.

  “Okay,” said Lt. Sawyer, once the group was reunited, “here’s the plan. Billy, when I give you the word I want you to put three shells into that cluster of boulders. One in the center and another to the right and left.”

  “Okay,” said Billy.

  “Good. Sergeant Morgan, Corporal Thatcher and myself, are gonna fan out and target the soldiers, as they flee from behind the boulders.”

  “What about me bro?”

  “Cole, you stay close to Billy and the old man. Lay down a constant barrage of gunfire, so they don’t realize we’re spreading out. When the shel
ls start flying, take out as many as you can.”

  “Alright,” said Cole, chambering a round into his rifle.

  “Sampson, you keep an eye on our rear, in case they try to flank us.”

  “They’ll be sorry if they do,” grinned the old man, hoisting himself up, with his back against a tree.

  “Let’s go men!” Lt. Sawyer crawled forward, with Sgt. Morgan on his right and Corp. Thatcher on his left. When they were in position, he turned and signaled Billy, with a wave.

  Billy nodded and fired the cannon.

  The first shell landed in the center of the boulders, killing several of the enemy outright. The second shell hit their right flank, causing more casualties and confusion. When the third shell struck their left flank, the chaos was complete. Chinese soldiers sprang from their cover and ran straight into a hail of gunfire, as Lt. Sawyer and his men mowed them down.

  When the last shot was fired and the smoke settled, the Marines stood up and slowly advanced. They spread out and surveyed the battlefield, noticing most of the carnage was around the boulders. The artillery gun had decimated the enemy.

  “I wonder how many,” said Lt. Sawyer, observing the massacre around him.

  “Twenty-two,” hollered Corporal Thatcher, as he checked for survivors.

  “Hey guys,” called Sampson, “you’d better get over here!”

  Leaving the Sergeant and Corporal to inspect the dead and dying, Lt. Sawyer turned and ran to where the cannon was positioned. “What happened?” He asked, when he found Cole lying face down on top of Billy, in a pool of blood.

  “Grenade,” replied Sampson, pressing his hand against Cole’s throat, in an attempt to stop the bleeding. “One of those bastards threw one right near the end.”

  “Are you alright?”

  “I’m fine,” replied the old man, momentarily forgetting his wounded shoulder. “It missed me. The boys here took most of the impact.”

  “We need to get moving,” said Sgt. Morgan, “the shots might attract more of the enemy. What happened?” He added, when he saw the Higgins cousins.

  “Grenade,” repeated Sampson.

  “Corporal Thatcher! We need a medic,” shouted Lt. Sawyer.

  “I’ll make a stretcher,” replied the Sergeant, disappearing into the forest.

  Corp. Thatcher rolled Cole off of Billy and onto his back. “Billy’s fine,” he said, after a quick examination of both men. “Cole took most of the shrapnel.” He immediately went to work on the older cousin, stopping the bleeding and bandaging the wounds.

  “What happened?” Mumbled Billy, holding his head, as he tried to sit up.

  “Easy there fella,” cautioned Sampson. “You might have a concussion.”

  Billy looked around, dazed and confused. “What happened to Cole?”

  “There was a grenade,” explained Sampson. “Cole got hit with most of the shrapnel. You were lucky kid.”

  “Luck had nothing to do with it,” replied Billy. “He jumped on top of me, to protect me.”

  “He saved your life,” observed Lt. Sawyer.

  “Yeah, but at what cost?” Billy tried to stand up, but felt woozy and off balance. Using his gun as a cane, he tried to steady himself.

  “Sit down until I’ve had a chance to examine you better,” said Corp. Thatcher, noticing Billy’s pale complexion.

  “I’m fine,” Billy mumbled, leaning against a nearby tree. “Just take care of Cole.”

  “Here,” said Sgt. Morgan, appearing from out of nowhere. In his hands he held a stretcher made from two long branches, bound together with rope. He dropped the stretcher on the ground beside Cole.

  “Thanks,” said Billy.

  “What did ya use in the center?” Asked Sampson, as he inspected the fabric.

  “The shirts and pants off the dead,” replied Jesse, smiling when the old man dropped the fabric, as if it’d burned him. “How is he?”

  “He’s as good as he’s gonna be, until we can get him to the doc,” said Corp. Thatcher, standing up. “Let’s get him on the stretcher.” The Sergeant and Corporal bent down and lifted Cole’s body onto the stretcher. “Can you walk?” He asked, glancing at Sampson.

  “They got me in the shoulder, not the leg,” grumbled Sampson. “Of course I can walk.”

  “Good,” said Lt. Sawyer, “let’s get moving. Ya think you can help with the stretcher kid?”

  “Yeah,” said Billy, slinging his rifle over his shoulder.

  “Alright, then you and Corp. Thatcher carry your cousin. Sergeant, you and I will pull the cannon and Sampson, you’re on point.”

  Bush Gardens

  World War III – Day Twenty-One

  Mound House, Nevada

  The streets of Mound House were empty, as Shiloh drove down Highway 50, scanning both sides of the road. Located in Lyon County, between Carson City and Dayton, it was one of only eight counties with legalized prostitution and home to five bustling brothels. He was halfway through town, when he noticed a large number of vehicles parked outside Bush Gardens, the most elegant of the five.

  He’d never been inside a bordello and felt strange entering one now, but he’d come to town for fighting men and the brothel was where they’d be. Pulling into the dirt parking lot, he parked his truck near the front entrance. There were at least fifty cars in the parking lot, but not a soul in sight.

  A beautiful, lush garden full of rose bushes and shady trees filled the yard, with a white picket fence surrounding the outer perimeter. In the center of the garden was a large, three-story house, made of wood and stone. Double-doors marked the entrance, intricately designed and made of oak.

  It reminded him of a ski resort he and Sheila had visited in the Alpine Mountains, so very long ago. Thinking of his wife and children brought a tear to his eye, which he quickly wiped away. If anyone saw him cry, it would make recruiting men that much harder.

  Adjusting the gun, strapped to his hip, Shiloh took a deep breath, opened the gate and walked through the garden. The climate here was warmer than Clearview, allowing flowers to bloom earlier in the year. The sweet scent of roses filled his nostrils, bringing to mind memories of past summers. He thought of his children running through the sprinklers, while his wife watched lovingly, and felt another teardrop form in the corner of his eye.

  He dried his eyes again, trying to shake the feeling of nostalgia and push his family from his thoughts. He was about to enter a room full of dangerous men and the last thing he wanted was a clouded mind. He needed to stay focused on the task at hand.

  “Please help me Lord,” he whispered, softly. “Give me the strength to do what must be done and guide my words and actions. Thank you God. I pray, in the name of Jesus Christ. Amen.”

  Pushing open the heavy wooden doors, Shiloh stepped into the warm, dark interior. Sunlight cascaded through the doorway behind him, momentarily illuminating the room inside. He closed his eyes for a brief second, giving them a chance to adjust to the dim lit brothel, before opening them and scanning the room.

  The first thing he noticed was an ape of a man, standing not two feet away. The bouncer glanced at Shiloh and nodded his large, square-shaped head, before returning his attention to the magazine in hand.

  The interior-design of the brothel, was styled after an old western saloon, complete with a long, wooden bar. The floor was made of dark wood and pictures of scantily clad women hung from the walls. Behind the bar and spanning its entire length, was a beautiful mirror, encased in a golden frame. The bartender, a man with a bushy mustache and matching sideburns, was busy cleaning the bar.

  There were several tables, where games of poker, baccarat and blackjack were in play and in the corner of the room was a billiards table. Each table was surrounded by rowdy men, drinking and laughing, as dance girls made their way around the smoke filled room.

  Shiloh walked to the bar, while taking in the scene around him. He glanced up and was surprised to see a large, crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling, thirty feet in the air. At the
far end of the bar was a stairway, leading to the two floors above. He noticed a spiral walkway, winding around the inside of the brothel all the way to the top, with dozens of doors, opening to the saloon below.

  Several girls leaned against the wooden railings, advertising other services for sale. Based on the number of men climbing the staircase, the women served as quite effective billboards, as their bountiful cleavage could be seen from the ground floor.

  “What’ll it be stranger?” Asked the bartender, noticing Shiloh for the first time.

  “Coffee,” answered Shiloh, turning to face the man. He glanced in the mirror and noticed a double-barreled shotgun, hiding behind the bar.

  “We don’t get many customers who order coffee,” admitted the bartender, as he poured a steaming cup. “Where are ya from mister?”

  “Clearview,” answered Shiloh, wrapping his hands around the warm cup, before taking a sip. “Are you the owner of this establishment?”

  “Me,” laughed the bartender, “oh heavens no! I just work here. Mayor Blackwell is the owner and operator.”

  “The Mayor of Mound House owns this brothel?” Shiloh asked, in amazement.

  “Yup,” replied the bartender, “and not just this one, but all five. By the way,” he added, stretching his burly arm across the bar, “my name is Kurt Sandals.”

  “Shiloh Evans,” he replied, shaking the bartender’s hand.

  “Nice to meet ya,” smiled Kurt. “What brings you to town? Is it the ladies?” He grinned, glancing at the women above.

  “No,” answered Shiloh, returning the smile. “It’s the men I’ve come for.”

  “The men?” Repeated Kurt, confused by his meaning.

  Shiloh noticed his confusion and quickly explained. “I’m looking for men who are willing to help defend the mountain passes.”

  “Oh yeah,” replied Kurt, seeming to lose interest. “Defend against what?”

  “You are aware we’re at war, aren’t you?”

  “Of course,” admitted Kurt, “but we try not to get involved. We mind our own business and expect others to do the same.”