by W. J. Lundy
Brooks brazenly stood and fired. “Return fire. Push back!” he shouted to the men scrambling for cover in the muddy surface of the road all around him. He turned and grabbed Brad by the collar, shaking him. “We have to flank that gun or they’re all dead.” Brad clenched his jaw and dipped his chin. The SEAL replied with the tightening of his brow and darted into the darkness of the trees with Brad following close behind.
They moved perpendicular to the road. Once far enough away that Brooks was sure they hadn’t been spotted, he slowed his pace and then turned to again face the direction of the rattling machine gun. Brooks pointed into the darkness of the woods. They’d moved far enough into the trees so that they would now be on a rear approach to the machine guns, but the direction of travel would dangerously expose them to cross fire. Brad looked left and right; he could hear their own people in the convoy still firing, the mortar rounds exploding, the detonations getting closer together as the gunners homed in on their target.
The SEAL loaded a fresh magazine in his rifle then checked the slide on his pistol. “We don’t have time to pussyfoot around; we’ve got to take the fight to them in a hurry. I bet there are only a pair of shooters, a spotter, and a couple of damn machine guns. We can do this, Army. You ready?”
“Waiting on you, squid,” Brad spat back.
The SEAL smiled, showing his teeth through the matted hair of his beard. He pulled his rifle into the pocket of his shoulder and launched himself directly toward the sounds of the gunfire. Brad let him move ahead then, guiding right, took off on a path of his own. They were moving fast, yet staying low, knowing there was an enemy here that would not hesitate to kill. He allowed Brooks to move away, leaving only a few yards between the two men. They had to get on the attack; they’d allowed the ambushers to take the initiative and he could see by the intensity on Brooks’ face that he wanted it back.
Rounds zipped and snapped through the trees overhead, the echo of the M60s scattering the report of the weapon across the leafless trees. Brooks was already firing before Brad saw the machine gun. He followed the direction of the man’s rifle and watched the rounds impact with the berm of an improvised fighting position. As predicted, two men had dug into a V-shaped trench at the top of a crest overlooking the road. The mouth of the V faced the road and a machine gun on a tripod had been strategically placed at the end of each leg. Brad raised his rifle and began firing into the nearest machine gunner, his rounds hitting all around but none on the target. He prepared to bound to another tree when Brooks shouted for him to hold position.
The first machine gunner went down; the second was fighting with his weapon to try to turn it in Brad’s direction. Before the man managed to make the adjustment, Brad’s rounds finally found the gunner at the base of his neck. The man let out a gurgling scream as he fell back into the trench, pulling the weapon down with him. Foot falls in the forest alerted them to the spotter. They spun together and caught the flash of movement. The spotter was gone. Not another mortar round fell. But when Brad went to step after him, Brooks again called out.
“Don’t move!”
“What the hell? You want to let him go?” he protested.
“It’s not that; it’s the claymores sitting right in front of us,” Brooks said, pointing out a green object taped to the base of a nearby tree. “If these guys knew what they were doing, we would have already tripped it. Watch your feet, the wire’s gotta be close.”
Now fixated on the mine rigged for a tripwire at the base of the tree, Brad’s eyes dropped to the ground. A clear filament line, just barely visible in the low light, was woven around the base of the surrounding trees. Brad followed the string and saw where it crisscrossed just two paces in front of him. He sighed and took a step back. “There,” he said, pointing.
Brooks nodded and crept in, cutting the line with a pair of clippers stuck into the front of his vest. With the mine safe, he stepped forward and examined the setup before cutting the tape that secured it to the tree. “Good idea, poor execution. They put way too much confidence in this little booby trap.”
Brad looked at the location of the mine and let his eye travel to the site of the hastily constructed machine gun nests. “They put it a little close to their hole, didn’t they? That tree probably would have taken their heads off if it had exploded.”
“These were for Primals sneaking up on them; they were too arrogant to suspect we’d flank. And I doubt whoever the spotter was cared if this crew walked away.” The big man nodded and stepped closer to the trench. He dropped to the edge and looked down inside. “Come take a look.” Brooks leaned over and picked up the nearest machine gun. “This is ancient and rusty as hell. And look at these two. Not the pros I was expecting; they’re fat and wearing ragged camo.”
“Well, they weren’t dummies; they managed to mess us up,” Brad said, waving a hand toward the battered convoy. He moved closer and looked down at the crumpled man in the trench. A strand of uncoiled wire attached to a small car battery was in the bottom of the hole.
“Someone set this up for them. I figure the one we wanted is back there,” Brooks said, pointing in the direction the spotter fled.
Having heard the guns go silent, Brad glanced up at the road and saw his men approaching the nest. Sean was leading the group with the Ranger behind him. Others were staying away, tending to the wounded and setting up security.
“What did you find?” Sean barked as soon as he was within range.
“Two shooters—look like mountain types. I figure whoever set this shit show up bailed out. Probably was parked someplace in between here and the mortars,” Brooks said, turning away. “They set up a claymore here to cover the back trail. If I had to guess, there’s probably another mine over there.”
“Could you find him?”
Brooks shook his head and pointed down at the series of scuff marks and boot prints headed up into the mountain. “The spotter? Piece of cake. What are you thinking?”
Sean turned back to the burning convoy. “I thinking I’m tired of walking into traps. I’m ready to go hunting.”
Chapter 9
Henry Tucker Homestead
Free Virginia Territories
The old man stood in front of a wood-fired, kitchen stove, carving strips of meat from a carcass and dropping them onto a smoking skillet. Shane looked around the well-furnished farmhouse. On the first floor he could see that the windows were all covered by heavy planks. Lanterns burned, casting a soft, orange light and giving off the scent of kerosene. Looking around the kitchen, he could see mason jars filled with vegetables and a bin stacked with potatoes.
“I don’t understand. So, you know all about the Camp, but you still stay out here all alone?” Shane asked.
“Sit,” Henry grunted as he finished slicing the last bits of meat from the rabbit’s frame. “What do I need the camp for? What would it do for me?” he said, turning away to wash his hands in a basin. Shane walked to a small kitchen table and eased into a high-backed chair. He watched as the old man turned to a tall pantry cabinet in the corner and unlocked it with a skeleton key from his pocket. Inside were Shane’s weapons. “I didn’t find but the one magazine for the rifle and it’s near empty,” he said, dropping the M4 and M9 on the table in front of Shane.
The weapons were spotless and oiled, all of the mud and grime removed. “You cleaned them?” Shane reached for the rifle and dropped the magazine, counting out five rounds before reloading. He locked the magazine back into the receiver. “Do you have any more ammo for it?”
The old man shook his head. “No use for it. I’ll loan you my Winchester 30-30. I have a few boxes of cartridges to spare. I’ll take your toy rifle as a deposit,” he said with a smirk. “That’s an old gun there—antique by most standards—but she shoots true and has more knock down than that little thing you was carrying.”
Shane looked at the M4 and held it up. “It’s not mine. I took it off a dead man.”
“Hmm,” Henry grunted. Nodding his head,
he removed the meat from the skillet and placed it on a platter, along with thinly-sliced, fried potatoes. He dropped the platter to the center of the table and then took a seat opposite Shane. Henry looked down and closed his eyes, saying a silent prayer before snapping up to serve the meal. “So these people, the ones you called raiders, you never seen 'em before?”
Shane held his plate while Henry shoveled an even portion onto it. He looked toward a boarded window like he was solving complex arithmetic. “No, never.”
“Really, how’s that? They attacked without warning. They didn’t ask for nothin’?”
“No, they attacked in the night; they didn’t ask, but they sure took plenty,” Shane said, his voice rising.
Henry chewed then gulped water from a glass. “There were a lot of them you said?”
“It was dark, but there were more than I could count. And they—they were trained; like an Army. They had mortars and machine guns. They moved so fast—even before we spotted them, they were at the walls.” Shane dropped his fork and again turned to the boarded window. “I was with someone on the wall. We were talking when they attacked, we tried to fall back… back to get Ella. They were so fast.”
“You said that name while you were out. Ella, is she your daughter?”
Shane bit his lip. “Something like that.”
“Is she okay?” Henry asked, looking Shane in the eyes.
He shook his head. “I couldn’t get to her… honest, I tried. I made it to our building, but they were already inside… they were taking them.”
“Taking?”
“There was nothing I could do. I wanted to fight them, but I didn’t want to hit the girls, and there were so many… I watched them take the kids.”
Henry held up a hand. “Just the kids? What about the rest?”
Shane dipped his head and closed his eyes. “I don’t know. I hid under a building and watched them. They grouped everyone together, then separated them. I saw one group move this way with the children, so I broke away and followed.”
“And the rest, Shane? What did they do with them?”
Shane slowly shook his head side to side. “You said you knew where they were; when can we leave?”
Henry scooped the last of the food into his mouth. He chewed silently, watching Shane’s face. He swallowed and took another drink from the glass, then exhaled. “Those men, the ones you’re looking for, they’re over the hill in a small village. The locals used to call the place Crabtree. Not many lived there before all of this, and the place went empty after it. There are train tracks that run through it; sometimes I would walk the tracks and collect lumps of coal for my stove.”
Shane sat silently, allowing the man to continue.
“Never was much of a place, Crabtree. Corner store, a gas station, a couple, two, three houses. An old farm where an old man thought he’d try growing t’backer. The only thing the place ever had going for it was a railroad depot, but that sorta faded away with the coal mines.
“When the things happened and people started getting sick, the residents lit out of there—moved to high ground, I reckon; maybe to consolidate with friends or family farther up in the mountain. The Hill folks are like that, ya know.
“I visited a few months ago, t’was a ghost town. Doors locked, windows shuttered, every drop of fuel pulled from that gas station, shelves stripped from the store; the folks left nothing when they hightailed it. But that was then. It’s not empty now. There’s a lot of people there, and they’ve got a lot of stuff. Trucks, motorbikes, lots of guns. A raggedy fence surrounding the entire place. But mainly they got lots of people.”
“You know them?” Shane asked.
“Oh, no. I’ve watched them from afar, but I don’t know 'em. I suspect I know the type though,” the old man said. Pushing back in his chair, he pulled a pipe and leather pouch from his pocket. “Like I said, I keep to myself up here on this mountain. But I recently had cause to give Crabtree another visit, to get closer. And what I found did concern me.”
“Cause?”
Henry nodded as he stuffed tobacco into the pipe and packed it. He put the end into the corner of his mouth and looked back up at Shane. “The cause? Yup, three of ‘em, and they’re buried out behind my barn.”
Shane’s mouth fell open. “Buried?”
“Yup.” He paused and lit a match. Puffing the pipe as he drew the flame over the tobacco, once it was smoking and glowing red, he took in a full lung and blew it out. “Vera never let me smoke in the house.” He smiled and chuckled to himself. Placing the pipe back at the corner of his mouth, he continued. “They come by here a week or so ago, looking for the house. I had warning because they missed it the first two times. I was out in the back forty sitting in my tree, hunting boar. They done walked right below me. Walked right past, not knowing that I was up there. Something was off about the strangers, so I didn’t bother calling out.
“I didn’t know then that they was searching for my place in particular. They moved along and went back down the mountain, but they come back the next day. This time it looked like they were definitely after something; they had a map with my place on it. And when they found it, they done made camp about a quarter mile from here. I crept up in behind them and listened to ‘em giggling. Planning and scheming, calling dibs on whatever family might be in the house. Who’d get pick of my guns and my food. One of ‘em thought awful high of himself, he was the one giving the orders. The other two called him Boss, and he seemed to enjoy the title. He knew my name, knew my family.
“I held back and let them do their talking, have their fun. You know, give ‘em a chance to change their minds and what not.” Henry paused and leaned back. Reaching into the pantry cabinet, he removed a small bottle and two glasses. Shane waved him off. Henry nodded his understanding and returned one of the glasses. He pulled a cork and filled the glass with dark liquid. “You know, most folks don’t bother aging their whiskey. But I did, and that’s why I have barrels of it when most folks have jugs.” He held up the glass and made a silent toast before sipping.
“These folks, they was up to no good. Two of ‘em crept up to the house all quiet like, leaving the boss behind ‘em. Then they started shouting, yelling for whoever was inside to come out. Come out, or they would burn the place, they said. All the while, I was sitting out there the shadows, sitting right behind ‘em without them even knowing it.”
“You killed them?”
Henry took another sip, let out a long breath, and shook his head. “Not all of ‘em—not right off, anyhow. Now, you got to understand, boy, it give me no pleasure doing it, but some folks need to be kil’t. Some folks are better off that way. Like a dog that gone bad, they can’t be allowed to run free; you gotta put them down.”
Shane exhaled shakily. “I understand.”
The old man dipped his chin and took another sip. “Once the first two got close to the house, I crept up behind the boss. Popped him at the back of the neck with my camp axe. He went down easy as a rotting tree. Then I just sat there and waited. The other boys, they kept calling back to the boss. The way stupid young’ins do, asking what to do next. Not able to act on their own. I just sat there and waited.
“It was dark by then, so I put on the boss man’s hat and parka and stood by a tree. I let one of them fellers get in real close, then I stuck my knife up to the handle through his neck. It got real quiet then. That last boy, he seemed to wise up; he figured things weren’t going his way and decided to cut out.”
“I’m guessing he didn’t get away.”
Henry shook his head. “Stepped in a bear trap back behind the house.”
“Jesus, Henry—a bear trap? What the hell?”
The old man shrugged. “You try living out here all alone for two years; a man’s only got so many eyes. There’s a path back behind the house; it runs up toward my still, then curves around toward the downside of the mountain. I reckon he was just following the trail to get away—doubtful that he knew anything about the sti
ll. The trap was just coincidence, but I won’t complain, because it saved me from hunting after him all night.”
Shane shook his head. “I guess it worked out for you, then,” he said sarcastically.
Henry took another sip of the whiskey. “Yeah, I reckon it did,” he answered simply.
The old man curled his fingers and pulled at his beard. “He stepped on it in the worst way, both legs, thing near cut ‘em off at the knees. Not much I could do for him. I give him some whiskey and let him talk. Fella said his name was Ricky. Said he wasn’t from these parts, that he come from Ohio. Just here doing what he had to, trying to stay alive, keep his family fed. He had a good story, I’ll give ‘em that.”
“Ohio,” Shane said.
“Yeah, and the other one from Wisconsin. The boss man, he said, was from Pennsylvania.”
“What the hell are they doing down here?”
“Ol’ Ricky claimed not to know the big picture; said that he was just following orders. He said they came into his camp a bit over a month ago. Said he was from a community outside Columbus. These people moved in during the night, killed most of the men, then offered the others a single opportunity to join up. Any that refused or hesitated were shot on sight.”
“Sounds farfetched—did you believe him?”
“I’ve heard of armies in history doing worse. He claimed he had to join up or starve. Any man that joined, their family was left alone. Man claimed he had a wife and young boy back in Crabtree, and that if he messed up, they would pay the price for it. Said they was all headed to Texas and taking everything in-between. Said it was like Sherman’s march to the sea. They take what they want and burn the rest, allowing some to join as they moved on.” Henry paused and looked across the table. “What do you think of that? It sound like the ones that attacked your people?”