He tossed it back down into the truck bed and marched back to his squad’s Humvee. He yelled at his firing team as he passed.
“Find out where they went.”
“Yes sir,” said Bengston. He jumped into the Humvee and they headed north down the bumpy road.
Mauser hopped inside his Humvee. Specialist Brown sat in the driver’s seat. “Get me back to Jackson’s command,” Mauser ordered.
Ten minutes later, Mauser nodded to two soldiers in front of a red-brick two-story building with a white door in Montrose. It was about eleven miles from where Jackson’s command had crossed the Mississippi unimpeded by the dead or Steele’s group.
He ran up some wooden steps to the top floor apartment. He banged on a white metal door. “Come in,” came Jackson’s voice. Mauser swung open the door and walked in.
Jackson sat at a white card table. His coat was unbuttoned, and his bald head glinted on the side facing the window. Lieutenant Colonel Davis stood nearby, arms folded across his body, and Major Ludlow glanced up at Mauser with his bug eyes.
Jackson grinned when he saw Mauser. “The noose continues to tighten on our mutual acquaintance and his rabble of misfits.”
Mauser glanced away in irritation at the mention of Steele. “The men we shot on the road appear to be a part of his group. The back of their pickup was filled with explosives.”
Ludlow’s eyes grew even larger. “Vehicle-borne IEDs? It feels like Iraq out there.”
“It wasn’t rigged to anything, but they were planning something,” Mauser said. “If I was a betting man, I would say they were coming down here to blow the bridge over Keokuk.”
Jackson shook his head with a smile. “That boy’s clever but not quick enough. Tomorrow, I want our entire unit on the move straight north. That’s where they were coming from?”
“That’s correct. I sent Sergeant Bengston’s fire team north to see what they could find.”
“Can’t be far now.”
Davis spoke. “Based off where they were last seen, I’d say somewhere south of Burlington.” He pointed a long arm down at the map on the card table.
“They couldn’t have gotten far from where they evaded us on the river without transportation.”
Jackson smiled, a skeleton face grinning. “Which means our little renegade boy is near the end of his rope. Wonder if he’ll do the hangman’s jig like the rest of his friends? Maybe I’ll give him a choice. A firing squad?”
Ludlow smirked. “Waste of bullets if you ask me.”
Jackson tilted his head to the side considering Ludlow’s comment. His lips pursed in consideration. “We could line a bunch of them up and see how far a .50 caliber bullet goes through them?”
“An interesting experiment. Now I’m intrigued.”
Jackson nodded. “You and me both.”
Mauser looked at his boots then lifted his chin and stared back at Jackson. “Sir, if I may speak freely.”
Jackson turned his way, lifting his nonexistent eyebrows. “You may.”
Mauser moved closer to the table. “Steele’s not stupid. Wouldn’t we be better suited using some flanking maneuvers to gain an advantage? I don’t think charging up the road is the best idea.”
“Would you look at this guy?” Jackson chuckled, prompting the other two officers to laugh.
“They have no place to run. They’re tired, unorganized, and beaten. I’m done chasing that traitorous bastard. His continued living is boring me. Tomorrow it ends. Swiftly and decisively.”
Mauser gulped, He knew at least a few people in that camp. Like Kevin. One less now. He blinked the thought away. They made their choice and you’ve made yours.
Mauser’s radio kicked off. “Mauser. Bengston here.” Mauser ducked his head and walked to the edge of the room.
“Report?”
“Sir, we’ve come upon a substantial body of people.”
“Infected?”
“No, sir. Big farm. I’m thinking up over a thousand. Over.”
Mauser licked his lips. “It’s got to be him.” He clicked on his radio. “Good work, Sergeant. Come on back.”
“Copy that.”
The radio crackled and went dead.
Mauser walked back over to the table.
Jackson’s eyes were expectant.
“Bengston’s got eyes on a big farm with a ton of people on it.”
“Perfect. The entirety of command will be moving north for battle tomorrow early.”
“Sir?”
“What, Mauser?” Jackson’s irritation could quickly turn sour. “You’re not going soft on me, are you?”
“No, sir.”
“That’s my boy.” His eyes went back to the table.
“Our flanking maneuvers worked well against Steele’s force. May I suggest continuing those?”
Jackson hit the table with a fist, his maps jumping in response. “Jesus. You’re afraid of this guy, aren’t you? This piss-ant piece of shit pretender.”
“No, sir, but I know him. He’s not stupid. He knows you’re coming. I wouldn’t expect him to roll over.”
Jackson blew air through his nose, calming himself. “Neither do I. I expect him to bend over and take it like a man.”
The officers laughed at his crude joke.
Mauser cracked a weak smile.
Jackson shook his head at Mauser. “You used to have a lot better sense of humor, ya know that?”
“I do.”
“Do I have permission to flank Steele’s forces?”
Jackson shook his head in astonishment. “Yes. Since you are so worried about these bandits, you can lead a platoon around the flank when we engage. But if we tear them up with HE rounds and the mortars before you get in the fight, don’t blame me for you missing out on the action.”
Mauser nodded. “I will not. Thank you, sir.”
“You may take your leave,” Jackson said firmly. He shooed Mauser away.
Mauser turned and left. He jogged down the wooden steps. Dual sets of Humvees were blocking each street, forming a short cross intersection for Jackson’s command. Mauser’s squad had commandeered a two-story metal-sided green and white house across from Jackson’s.
Mauser opened the door. Four soldiers sat around a light brown wooden kitchen table playing cards. Another lounged on the couch with an old CD player. He nodded his head slowly to the beat.
Sergeant Yates slammed down his cards. “Full house, boys. Read ’em and weep.”
“Fuck,” cursed Vaughn. He tossed his cards onto the table. “I had tens and sevens. Two fucking pairs.” He picked up a beer and slugged the rest of the contents back.
“Sir, this is bullshit. What am I supposed to eat tonight?” Brown complained.
“Not my problem, soldier. You’re resourceful, go find something. I’m sure one of the survivors around here hoarded something.”
Brown shook his head. “This sucks.” Brown stood up and walked to the door.
“Find some booze,” called Low from the couch.
“And pussy,” Jarvis said at him.
“Like any chick is gonna want to get with you with all those little fucking fingers around your neck.”
Jarvis’s brow furrowed and his hand lifted up the necklace. “This shows my warrior prowess.”
“When they take one look at your little pecker, they’re gonna want one of those,” Campos said. The black-haired tan man with a round face grinned. “Jump in some of that thick Midwestern ass.”
Low removed one of his earpieces. “Like those farm girls outside of Houghton or Huffman or whatever that tiny shit town was called. Or how about Ash?”
Brown laughed and gave Low a look of disgust. “Dog, come on. You can’t be messing with Jackson’s piece.”
“I mean.” Low cut himself off.
Brown shook his head at him. “I’ll be back, you horndogs.”
“Don’t come back without any chicks,” Vaughn yelled at the man.
Brown snatched up his carbine and walked
out of the door.
“Yates, can I talk to you?” Mauser said.
Yates gave him a big smile and collected his winnings of food and batteries with wide forearms. “Well, I ain’t playing anymore. Don’t want to give these peckerheads a chance to win their shit back.” He stood up and walked closer to Mauser.
“Bengston’s crew chewed up a pickup of Steele’s men on the road. They had a buttload of explosives.”
“Jerkoffs don’t give up, do they?”
Mauser sighed. “No. The colonel wants everyone ready for tomorrow morning. They’re camped about nine miles north. He wants this done tomorrow.”
“Thank fucking god.”
“He wants to move right in for an attack. I don’t like it. Steele’s not stupid. He wouldn’t just wait out in the middle of nowhere to get chewed up by our machine guns.”
Yates snorted. “That’s about all he’s done so far.”
Yates wasn’t wrong. Jackson had pummeled Steele’s forces their entire way across Michigan, Indiana, and Illinois, even when his units had used deception and tried to spread out. Jackson rounded them up too. Jackson was a master tactician and always seemed a step ahead of Steele in this cat-and-mouse game. He always knew where Steele was running to, probably even before Steele did.
“A couple of squads are going to circle around and hit their flank. Maybe we can end it early,” Mauser said. He stared Yates in the eyes. There wasn’t much feeling inside his orbs, only a ferocity tempered by what he’d seen. The man had seen too much and survival wasn’t a huge priority.
“The boys will be ready.”
Mauser nodded. “They always are.”
Mauser went into a back bedroom he had claimed. He set his SCAR down in the corner next to the queen-sized bed. It had been left untouched by whoever had lived there before. He sat down on the edge of the bed.
He massaged his temples. The chatter of laughter and revelry resounded in the next room as the soldiers continued to drink. He stripped off his ACU jacket and threw it on a rocking chair.
He looked down at his tan boots. They were tainted with mud and grime, making them almost permanently brown. His heart pounded in his chest. He took his Beretta out. The bed bounced a bit as he set it next to him. What am I doing? How did we get here?
He glanced at the Beretta. The black handgun rested there, only as deadly as he would make it. He picked it up, feeling the weight in his hand. He held it open-palmed, staring at it as if it held all the answers. He gripped it and pointed at himself in the dresser mirror. He peered over the sights at the man pointing the gun at him. A gaunt, bearded man stared back and his eyes were held little life. Who are you?
He set the gun back down. It had been easy to ignore the things that had been done in the name of survival. It came first, driving all other ideas away. Then there were the things that were done. Things that went beyond that. Things that men did because they held the power and had nothing to check their base instincts. The two farm girls in Holton. Private Low couldn’t even get the name of the town correct. He wasn’t the only man to blame for what happened, but no man had taken a stand against it, so it happened, and nobody seemed to care. After all, there were so many worse things out there. Namely the dead.
Then there were the people they had killed as insurgents. Nobody had given it much of a thought. After all, they had the green light from Jackson. It was us or the other and the other never got picked over us.
The insurgent looked guilty and sounded guilty, but nobody even bothered to verify where he’d gotten the stash of military guns. More bodies in the ground and nobody even asked the question.
Mauser glanced back up at the man in the mirror. A dead man reflected back at him. I’m not me. He took both hands and held his head, rubbing his fingertips into his temples, trying to quiet the voices that screamed at him for the decisions he’d made.
His hand found his M9 Beretta and he gripped it tight. In a fluid motion, he pointed it at the side of his head. The muzzle touched the hair of his temple. Just do it, you pussy. One quick squeeze and you will be released from this hell. He watched himself in the mirror as if it were someone else. He felt so far away from that man sitting there. So distant and detached from this reality. The man had the same face as Mauser, but he didn’t know the imposter who sat in his place.
He dropped his hand and tossed the gun onto the bed. “Jesus.” He shook his head. “Not worth the bullet.” There are still things to fight for. He just didn’t know what they were anymore.
THE PASTOR
Sauk and Fox Hills, IA
The wall of tan sandbags was only about waist-high. The bag wall stretched for forty yards between two low-lying hills divided by a two-lane, gravel-based road. The heavy sandbags were stacked six deep. Red oak, white oak, and hickory dominated the landscape, preventing easy circumvention of the road over land. It would act as a funnel or a bottleneck for Jackson’s forces, or that was at least what Steele had told them.
The pastor stood tall behind his Chosen people, watching the road ahead. His followers sat with their backs against the sandbags, cradling guns between their legs. Others rested their guns on top of the wall.
The pastor turned and looked behind him. His eyes ran along the field that stretched on either side of the road and disappeared into the trees and another hill. The hill was taller than the two flanking the pastor’s line. Steele and the rest of his men waited in the trees like natives. His former enemy had personally requested the pastor to stand with him in the back, but he would not stand to the side when God’s battle was to the front. He was a shepherd and he would not abandon his flock in their time of greatest need.
He grasped his hands behind his back and patrolled down his line. He could feel his shadow, Peter, behind him. Peter wasn’t the same man he’d been before his captivity at Little Sable Point. He was still loyal, but broken. The man couldn’t make eye contact with Steele.
“Pastor. You shouldn’t be so exposed,” Peter said behind him.
The pastor glanced at him from his side. Peter clutched his AK-47 tightly in his hands.
“Nonsense. God giveth and he taketh. If it’s my time then it’s my time. No need to beat around the bush. If he wants me, he will take me whether or not I hide.”
Peter’s voice dipped. “Yes, Father. But you are our shepherd and our leader. Your flock will be lost without you.”
The pastor stopped, considering the man for a moment. “Will you?”
Peter stuttered, his eyes widening. “Why, of course.”
The pastor smiled. “Have faith in the Lord and you shall not fear. Do not put your faith in me for I will leave you wanting.” Lord, give us the strength to fight in your name. Let us not all fall here today. He continued walking.
He passed Brother Adam. The former nursing assistant held a double-barreled shotgun. It did not have a great firing range. The bald man nodded, but his eyes were afraid. “Gather strength from the Lord,” the pastor said to him. The goateed man swallowed, nodding feverishly. The pastor continued.
Brother Luke held his AK-47. His long black hair hung limp around his shoulders. He wiped the dirty hair back over his ear and gave the pastor a wicked grin. “When do you think the dirty Philistines will arrive?”
“Soon, my child.” But they are the Romans and we are the tribes of Israel.
“God will take pleasure in the slaughter.” He licked his lips.
Our slaughter? “Stay vigilant for God is with us.”
“God wills it,” Luke said loud.
“God wills it,” the pastor responded.
The pastor continued on, speaking and praying with his followers. He knelt with a group for ten minutes, leading them in prayer. He blessed men and women and absolved them of their sins. He assured them that heaven awaited their obedient souls. Even with the fear of battle, they did not fear death.
He stopped and bent down near a teenage boy. Maybe fifteen-years-old, but no older. His curly brown hair was matted and snarled.
His face and clothes were covered in dirt.
“What is your name son?”
“Alec, Father.” He clutched his gun like a football.
“Fear not the pain of death, Alec, for an eternity of life awaits you in Christ’s Kingdom of Heaven. Be not afraid for God is with us. We are like David before the Philistine giant, Goliath. Faith steadies our hands and fills our hearts with courage against the might of a great enemy, and no enemy shall prevail in the face of God’s faithful.”
The boy blinked and gulped. He visibly calmed before the pastor. “Yes, Father.”
The pastor lifted his eyes to the sky. “Dear God, bless your holy soldier. This boy Alec who has the heart of the lion David. Bless this warrior of God and give him the power to punish those that would do us harm.”
The pastor bent down and squeezed the boy’s shoulder. “You will fight like David did against Goliath. Remember his story. A boy no older than yourself defeated the mightiest warrior of all the Philistines.”
The rumbling of an engine quaked in the distance, the loudest sound for miles defiling the bucolic back road. The pastor turned his head, facing its direction. He stretched his neck and forcibly straightened his back. “Prepare yourself, boy.”
The pastor clasped his hands behind his back. His eyes were not what they once were, but he could see the dust cloud and the shadowy tan vehicles emerging in the distance. Single gunshots rang out. The .50 caliber machine gun rippled into the surrounding trees. That would be the Little Sable Point shooters kicking off the battle. One of the .50 cals went silent. He couldn’t see if the soldier had been shot but he assumed the devils of Little Sable were doing their dastardly long-range work.
Even as he watched, he knew that they retreated through the timber toward the hills on either side of the pastor’s line. Soon their day of judgment would be upon them and all the heavens would rejoice with the songs of angels.
After a stop-and-go, absorbing long minutes, the tan trucks grew larger. He started to be able to make out that they were the standard military Humvee. A helmeted soldier’s head and shoulders stuck out from the top.
The Departing (The End Time Saga Book 4) Page 41