by J. L. Bourne
SULPHUR CITY
My watch began to beep at 0430, prompting me to climb out of the warmth of my bag and into the cold folding chair next to the foosball table. As the fog began to drift from my mind, I heard strange noises coming from outside. I grabbed my NVD and stepped out onto the fire escape. The two cubs were wrestling over the scraps I’d tossed down last night. The wind was blowing at me from the direction of the animals, so I knew that they wouldn’t notice me up here. Mama Bear was nowhere to be seen, but a part of the courtyard was blocked from my view. It was biting cold outside, so I went back in to layer up and get packed and moving.
It was just before five when I retraced my steps through the gym to the locked back door and out into the parking lot on the opposite side of the gymnasium from the bear den. The faint light I’d seen last night in the window of the elementary school across the road was gone.
I followed Highway 16 south, looking for the Sulphur City Road. I’d have frozen if not for the layers and pace I was moving.
The road was long and relatively straight by Arkansas standards, with access to the woods on both sides; I felt safe walking on the actual road until the sun came up. Here it was dark and quiet, with no signs of life. Not even the chirp of morning birds. I was able to make three miles and be nearly upon my turn before it got too light to risk walking out in the open.
The last half mile was a brutal trek through tall, wet grass, soaking me from the waist down with morning dew until I broke out onto Sulphur City Road. I turned west and made it to the outskirts of Sulphur City by about noon. A barn sat half collapsed just off the road, so I climbed up into the loft and set up an observation point, intending to be here for about an hour before moving into the micro town.
The loft floor creaked; its sounds made me think the whole barn would collapse in on me if I stepped in the wrong spot. This was the highest point that overlooked the only intersection and four-way stop within fifteen miles.
I pulled the binoculars from my pack and glassed the area from the crooked loft window. The intersection had score marks on the concrete where it looked like a vehicle burned up. Panning the binos to the right, I could see an armored vehicle sitting half inside the front of a home just up the road from the intersection. No smoke or movement or sounds were coming from any direction except the dilapidated barn structure I was using. After an hour of seeing nothing out of the ordinary, I climbed back down out of the barn and moved low to the intersection, crossing it carefully and quietly.
The armored vehicle up ahead appeared to be a mine resistant ambush protected (MRAP) carrier. The back end was riddled with armor piercing dents and punctures and explosive damage. One of the tires was bent at an odd angle, indicating that this thing wouldn’t drive again without depot-level repairs. As I came around, I could see the side of the vehicle.
“GHT” was all that was visible, with the rest obscured by the house it had crashed into.
#FIGHT
This was one of the ghosts’ MRAPs, belonging to someone crucial to the liberation of the detention center at the university. My gut sank and I needed to sit down for a moment. Without the help of those armored rebel vehicles last winter, we’d never have taken the prison. Jim would still be held there as a political prisoner.
I leaned up against the back of the MRAP and took a few deep breaths, trying to suppress the debilitating anger and frustration of the situation.
I ended up opening the back door on the vehicle and was hit by the smell of a corpse. Reluctantly, I climbed up into the derelict armored vehicle, wrapped a bandana around my nose and mouth, and leaned my head into the front area of the MRAP.
It was a ghost. The body wore the familiar clothing, but it was too decomposed to identify. I climbed out of the MRAP and onto the roof of the vehicle.
“B” was spray-painted in bright letters.
Blinky, the bravest of all the ghosts. The one never afraid to put his life on the line for freedom of those around him.
I spent the rest of my daylight hours digging a hero’s grave.
—————
04 Dec
Early
I spent the night back in the loft of the partially collapsed barn. There was enough old hay to make it a little softer, but I still had to deal with the cold and the creaking of the old hulk. I barely got any sleep, as the barn seemed to shudder every time a gust of wind blew down the valley. I couldn’t build a fire without burning the whole place down, so I had to rely on my sleeping bag to fight off the wind that seemed to find its way through the cracks in the barn walls. After a cold, miserable night, I forced myself up and on my feet, tearing into the last energy bar. I still had some water, likely enough to reach the river that would be raging down the middle of the valley a few miles on the road past Sulphur City.
After packing up, I slipped on my NVD and climbed down the rickety wooden barn ladder to the dirt floor. At the bottom, I felt for my only companion, the MP5K slung across my chest on a single point sling, resting on my right hip. I paid my last respects at Blinky’s grave and got moving.
I made good time and was at the quarter mile straight stretch right at sunup. At the last dogleg before the straight stretch, I climbed the nearby hill and stopped for a water break. While finishing up my second-to-last bottle of clean water, I pulled the binoculars and glassed the road ahead. I had a clear view for nearly a half a mile across the flat valley to the next hill.
My heart sank again as I saw another goddamned MRAP on its side just before the bridge. I couldn’t see anything else but the bottom of the vehicle. It was a clear morning with no trees between here and the bridge. I’d be out in the open for a few minutes before I could cross the bridge, but I had no choice. I had to see the MRAP; I had to know if another ghost had been assassinated here.
It took an hour to go the distance. I kept hearing faint sounds of engines in the sky and worried that a hellfire would go high order nearby at any moment.
I feared my government.
After killing my back and knees by low crawling or crouching the whole way through the tall grass of the adjacent fields, I was finally near the overturned armored vehicle. I held my breath, rounding the wreckage. As the top came into view, I let out a sigh of relief. No markings on top. Someone besides me had taken out a DHS MRAP.
I scanned the skies again before examining the overturned hulk. Small-arms fire riddled the entire vehicle on every visible side and a large hole ripped through the front end. I pulled out my flashlight and checked the damage. The three-inch diameter hole was coated in a green tarnish around the edges all the way through the vehicle into the cab.
Copper.
Someone had been making explosively formed penetrators.
My design had gotten out there. I’d heard it distributed on the pirate stations in between DHS propaganda interruptions before I’d skinned out and headed for the hills of Newton County.
“Someone hit back, Blinky,” I said aloud without even thinking.
I was so enthralled trying to examine what took down the DHS armor that I didn’t notice the huge gap in the bridge just up ahead. Leaving the rusting MRAP, I carefully stepped out onto the concrete and steel structure that spanned one of the larger branches of the White River and began to piece together what happened here. The DHS MRAP was probably hauling ass down the quarter mile, like I used to do as a teenager. The driver likely didn’t see the hole in the bridge until it was too late. I walked back to the MRAP and, sure enough, faded skid marks on the road where this heavy fucker locked its brakes, screeching to a halt right before someone detonated the copper EFP into its grille, instantly cooking the occupants.
Bad day for whoever was inside.
I didn’t even want to climb up and see what the driver looked like now. It wouldn’t be pretty.
Leaving the wreck, I walked over to the artificial precipice. There was a twenty-foot gap between me and the rest of the bridge and a lot of rushing water below. I backtracked to the wreckage and veered do
wn under the bridge to the riverbank.
I was only three miles from Jim. I pulled my radio and was about to key our private channel when I hesitated, reminding myself of the technical capabilities of the lawless thugs that were running the country now. I switched off the handset, pulled the batteries, and tossed both inside my pack. I couldn’t risk the radio turning itself on in my pack and something keying the transmit button as I trekked to my holdout.
I headed down stream over the rounded rocks that the river had polished over thousands of years, long before men like myself walked this area. After following the river’s path for an hour out of my way, I saw a beaver dam up ahead. As I approached, the loud slaps of beaver tails on the water warned the others to escape; some large birds squawked and flapped away into the trees. I wasn’t desperate enough yet, but now I knew where to find them when I got to that point.
Greasy beavers.
Moving closer to the large dam, I began to see bright contrasting colors intertwined with the branches and tree limbs that made up the structure. It wasn’t until I was nearly upon the dam that my brain processed what I had been looking at.
The dam was clogged with dozens of human corpses in varying stages of decomposition. The birds that were scared away from the beaver’s warnings began to return and peck away at the rotting flesh. I moved closer, covering my face.
All civilians.
Bullet holes.
Some children.
I dropped to my knees and struggled to keep my rage in check, staring at the sky, wanting so much to line whoever was responsible for this against the wall—to give them the justice they deserved.
I vomited into the river and watched it flow quickly into the dam. My eyes were watering and my stomach churned for a long while before I was able to compose myself enough to stand.
I said a few private words for the people unfortunate enough to have a beaver dam as their final resting place. I then kept moving, now cognizant of this water source and where it flowed.
FAMILIAR PLACES
Two hours after the dam, I found the path I was searching for across the river. The decrepit steel beam bridge spanned the rushing waters up ahead. It more resembled an Erector Set creation than a working structure. Every piece of its frame was rusted Mars red and chunks of its concrete were missing, forming holes throughout. Many years ago, after school, when this one-lane bridge was still in use, I would jump off into the deep water and swim. The bridge was condemned a long time ago; I thought it had already been torn down for razor blades. Huge berms of dirt and concrete pylons were put in place on both sides to keep vehicles from attempting to cross the abandoned deathtrap. This bridge was long replaced by another, but that was two miles farther downstream and could be manned by another checkpoint.
I’m sure the old girl could handle a couple hundred pounds, even if just one more time. I approached the archaic structure, marveling at its resilience and refusal to collapse. The weld markings indicated that the thing was built in 1913. I climbed up onto the structure and stuck to the edge where I could keep a couple hands on the beams. Aside from a few chunks of concrete falling away beneath my feet and plopping into the rushing waters, it held just fine.
I was across the river in less than ten seconds and safe on the other side. I climbed the steep barrier berm and skirted the concrete pylons and was on the road that used to bring wagons, horses, and people over the one-lane bridge. The abandoned road was dirt for another quarter mile up to the new road and then it was washed out by rain and lack of road-grader maintenance. I jumped the washed-out sections and took comfort in the thick canopy of trees that covered my head, blocking any view from the skies above.
It was cold in the shade of the large oaks, but I wasn’t alone. More deer jumped across the road ahead of me, their white tails flashing as they vaulted over the three-wire fence on the left side of the path. Up ahead, I could see the light at the end of the tree tunnel and quickened my pace. Only three more turns in the road until I was on my land again.
Approaching the exit to the old road, I could see more concrete pylons and another dirt pile. I started jogging to those, keeping the MP5K from banging against my side as I went. At the dirt pile, I took cover and pulled out my binoculars to survey the newer road that ran from north to south in this particular stretch.
Easing up over the berm, I was at first startled by what I thought I’d seen. Dozens of people, mostly dressed in white and evenly spaced like they were about to march in a military parade. At second glance, I realized it wasn’t people; it was tombstones rising above the grass at a cemetery. I’d forgotten about it, as you couldn’t really see the cemetery when driving by on the new road below my vantage point. From up here, the monoliths stood tall against time and the elements. Looking at them through my peripheral vision, I could make myself see a column of people again.
Satisfied that I was alone, I swung my torso and legs over the steep berm. Two turns left.
With only a mile to go, I half jogged, half walked to the next turn in the road, leaving the pavement only to give the farmhouses a wide berth so as to not be detected and reported to the DHS by any quisling traitors looking from their windows.
Now west onto Black Oak Road.
One turn left.
I was moving quickly up the hill when I heard an engine. I took off my pack and tossed it over the barbed wire fence, chasing it over into the adjacent field. I lay low as the sound of the engine told me it was at the top of the mountain, probably three quarters of a mile away. As I lay in wait, another sound began to drown out the approaching vehicle. Electric engines whirred and revved from somewhere.
I peeked my head up over the top of the tall grass and the small drone’s gaze immediately met mine. Instinctively, I slapped open the MP5K’s stock, bringing the weapon up to my cheek and firing at the drone. It hovered at first but then began to take evasive maneuvers. A round hit one of the quadcopter motors, sending it spinning hard into a nearby tree.
The engine on top of the mountain began to rev.
I had to move.
I sprinted in the opposite direction of my property as the vehicle sped down the hill to the quadcopter crash site. I pulled my M4 off my pack along with some magazines before hiding the rest of my kit underneath an old rusting truck that had been sitting at the edge of this field since long before I was born.
I snuck to the edge of the grass line with a clear view of the road as I caught my first glimpse of the vehicle, a black Chevy SUV with DHS markings on the side along with “K9 UNIT” stenciled on the rear window.
Two men came jumping out of the SUV dressed in body armor, short-barreled M4s at the high ready. One of them opened the back door and yelled what sounded like a German command into the backseat. A large dog jumped out onto the pavement. Its teeth flashed and it wore a saddlebag as well as some sort of shoes that covered its large paws. One of the men gave it a rag to smell and firmly issued another command, and the dog immediately put its muzzle to the road. In a split second, it shot across the road and jumped the fence in the same spot I did a few moments earlier. The men took up defensive positions around their no doubt armored SUV.
I’ve been taught how to evade dogs, but I simply didn’t have the most important ingredient now—time.
With time and distance, evasion can be made possible by not traveling in a straight line but rather in a system of U-shaped paths, with the goal of eventually crossing streams and other terrain that would make tracking difficult.
The large dog was only a few hundred yards away on a straight-line sniff path to me. I could hear it growl as it swiftly navigated through the tall grass and shrubs. I ran up the hill, looking over my shoulder like a wide receiver. The dog broke through the brush fifty yards away and caught sight of me. Its ears perked as it quickened its pace, baring its large white fangs as it closed the distance.
I hated to do it, but I took the shot, hitting the dog in its chest from fifty yards. It flipped end over end, yelped, and then lay
still. The shot was suppressed but it was an M4 and loud with the silencer—just harder to triangulate. I looked back one last time to see if the men were in pursuit, and noticed something very troubling.
The dog wasn’t there anymore.
I barely had enough time to take the second shot, this time through its head right as it leapt at me. That put its lights out fast, painless. As the dog lay dead on the ground, I verified that it wore body armor, which is what must have saved it the first time. I truly felt bad for the animal, as it was only doing what it was trained to do and didn’t know right from wrong, unlike the two men that sent it to kill me.
I worked my way a few yards back to a break in the grass line and got low, observing the men. One of them was missing and the other remained positioned on the opposite side of the vehicle, his rifle atop a bipod on the hood. I backed away a little farther from the edge of the grass when I observed the man lean toward me on the hood, putting the rifle up to his shoulder.
A twig snapped behind me.
I rolled over onto my back and aimed the gun between my knees as I became aware of an electronic beeping sound. The sound seemed to get louder and the frequency higher.
Louder again, the frequency constant.
“They fucking shot Brutus!” I heard a voice yell out.
Again, this time after a radio was keyed: “They fucking shot Brutus. Get your fucking ass over here!”
I heard a car door slam and the horn on the SUV bark once.
I decided that on my back was not a good way to die, so I quickly got up, but not high enough to be noticed by whoever was coming to see Brutus the dog bleed out.
Goddamn, I felt bad about it.
I waited with my gun leveled in the direction of Brutus’s master as the one from the SUV arrived on the scene.
“What the fuck?! You see, Tom, this is why guns have been outlawed. These fuckers can’t be trusted with a pair of kid’s scissors, let alone a firearm,” the SUV guard said.