Renegade - 13

by Joe Nobody

  The first sign of what the locals were now calling “the rebels” was a motorcycle, more specifically, a dirt bike.

  Out of the mist, the odd pitch of its buzzing motor disturbed the morning silence. “Someone in Cyrus’s camp is smart,” Jacob whispered. “High speed scouts.”

  The eyes of Mineral Wells watched the individual rider from their hiding places, tracing his slow and cautious advance down I-20. Soon, another appeared, riding outside the ribbons of black pavement on the grassy knolls, stopping here and there before powering off to examine the next suspicious spot in the road.

  Soon, a third and a fourth biker joined the advance party.

  When they reached the roadblock, the riders stopped, idling at four different points, studying the mountain of sheet metal, glass, and rubber Jacob’s bulldozer had piled three stories high across all lanes of the interstate.

  Abe could see one of the scouts speaking into a radio, no doubt warning the follow-on forces some miles behind them. “So much for the element of surprise,” the old farmer whispered.

  The bikers retreated then, one of the most skilled riders pulling an impressive wheelie as he accelerated back toward friendly forces.

  It was another 10 minutes before the heavier growl of diesel motors disturbed the noiseless morning mist.

  Cyrus’s “armored spearhead,” was actually six flatbed semi-trailers. Each bed was walled with what appeared to be concrete road barriers and heavy timber. Abe could see slits and portholes here and there, an unmistakable forest of rifle barrels protruding through the stout cover.

  The homemade, mobile forts were being backed down the road by some obviously skilled truck drivers. They strategically positioned the hardened, up-armored trailers toward the front, serving to protect the vulnerable diesel “pushers.”

  “Hold your fire,” Jacob transmitted into his CB radio. “Wait for the signal.”

  Cyrus’s militiamen pushed the trailers until they were within 100 yards of the roadblock and then stopped. Abe watched as the nervous men inside the fortifications glanced right and left, wondering when hell was going to join the rain and fall on their heads.

  A mile east, out of sight of Abe and the defenders, a snaking line of school buses opened their doors, hundreds of “shock troops,” pouring out of their yellow transports. These were the best of the militia, all young, fit, healthy men who had military training and combat experience.

  They were soon fanning out in tight formations, their mission to flank the anticipated ambush that would surely be on the way to their first objective – Mineral Wells.

  These infantry units began advancing along both sides of the interstate, their informal skirmish lines reaching out 400 yards on both the north and south sides of the lanes. They moved well; platoon-sized units leapfrogging each other as they approached the barricade’s mountain of steel.

  “We can’t wait much longer,” a nervous voice over the shortwave advised. “They’re just about on top of us.”

  “Hit them!” Jacob snapped into the radio.

  Two hundred gun barrels appeared from the wreckage surrounding the roadblock as another 400 defenders rose from ditches, fence lines, and woods. A thunderous explosion of gunfire roared across the rural Texas countryside.

  Cyrus’s infantry had been expecting the assault, but that didn’t negate the pure astonishment and amazement of the Mineral Well’s attack. Out of nowhere, the shock troops were hit with everything from 12-gauge buckshot to high powered deer rifles. As the blizzard of high-velocity death ripped through their ranks, the Fort Worth militiamen were screaming, dying, and diving for cover all at the same moment.

  Meanwhile, a wall of lead slammed into the fortified flatbeds, the sheer volume of incoming fire appalling the men who had little option but to duck behind their concrete bastions and cover their heads. They had been told to expect 40 or 50 men at the most, over-the-hill farmers and dumb, country boys who would probably turn tail and run at the first sign of trouble.

  Still, it didn’t take long for the Fort Worth rifles to get into the fight. Within seconds, the shock troops were regrouping, now laying down a steady beat of return fire. Leaders shouted orders while their men began the cat and mouse game of small unit maneuver.

  Back in town, Bishop and Grim exchanged looks, both men wanting nothing more but to join the fight. “We can’t,” the Texan said. “We have a higher purpose.”

  “Call it what you want,” Grim replied, then pausing, listening to the distant crackle and boom of the battle. “Those people are dying out there.”

  “SAINT Six is our objective, Grim. You know damn good and well we must do this. Besides, if you’re itching for a fight, I’m sure this little war will provide plenty of opportunity.”

  While the old warhorse clearly didn’t like it, he nodded his acceptance. “How long before we go under cover?”

  Tilting an ear toward the distant battle, Bishop replied, “Not just yet. We’ll be able to tell when it’s getting closer. I’m not in any hurry to enter the cramp locker just yet. After all, we might be stuck in our hides for a long time.”

  Grim understood the term well.

  Each of the SAINT One members had constructed a camouflaged hide the day before. Bishop had found a large pile of windblown leaves near the gas station. For two hours, the Texan had worked hard creating an invisible spot to lay low and wait for SAINT Six to arrive. Dragging his survival net through the ground cover until the mesh was thick with dead, brown foliage, he’d then built a supporting structure out of concrete blocks and sticks, essentially creating a mini tent that was barely high enough to cover a man’s prone body.

  That was the problem.

  For their scheme to work, each of the SAINT One members was going to have to remain motionless, perhaps for hours at a time. Bishop was going to be lying on cold, wet ground now that it was raining. Holding position without the possibility of movement meant cramps were common. Muscles became stiff. It took a supreme level of discipline, both mental and physical, to simply not move. Not a scratch, stretch, yawn, or cough – thus the term cramp locker.

  Butter and Pug were holed up in a large pile of scrap metal. Like a pair of badgers, the two men had yanked and pulled out tarnished pieces and parts to create a burrow through the heap of corroded iron and rusting steel. A few well-placed sections of oxidized, metal roofing had perfected the concealment. In chilly, wet weather, their hide was preferable to Bishop’s. If the sun were out and the temperature on the rise, they would be hiding in an oven.

  Kevin was nearby, choosing to dig out a classic spider hole, complete with trap door. Just inside a small, wooded area behind the former post office, the team’s marksman had identified excellent fields of fire. Given the kid’s thin frame, Grim decided it was a flawless choice.

  Bailey and Grim had selected the bed of a long-abandoned pickup, the antique pile of decomposing metal parked just up the way from the church, but well off the main street. A filthy tarp covered their fighting hole. SAINT One’s newest member had impressed his commander when he’d filled several old, leaf bags with sand and dirt to up-armor the aged truck’s flimsy bed.

  “We can’t use the buildings,” Bishop had warned his men the day before. “The first wave of Cyrus’s troops might decide to torch the entire township, and I for one don’t want to be trapped in an inferno while waiting for SAINT Six to show their ugly faces.”

  Now, they waited, hoping the rain would stop, praying they wouldn’t have to enter the cramp locker just yet.

  Bishop listened to the distant battle, toying with his magazines, fidgeting with the handle of his fighting knife.

  The first causalities began arriving a few minutes later, rushed by stretcher to the makeshift hospital at the orchard.

  Many were carried by pre-teen boys, four of them required to haul the weight of a full-grown man. Others were helped back by a friend who helped them walk. Some were howling in pain, others crying uncontrollably. Boxes of ammunition replaced human bodi
es on the way back to the front.

  Bishop followed one of the men who’d brought in a wounded comrade and was now busting ass to get back to the fight. “How close are the invaders?” the Texan asked as the two jogged side by side.

  “They’ve pushed us back to Frost’s Farm,” the man reported. “I don’t know how long we can hold them there. They’re fucking crazy … running into our fire like we are throwing spitballs or something. They just keep coming and coming. I know we’ve killed at least a dozen. Hell, we’re down almost as many.”

  “Good luck, friend,” Bishop replied, letting the man return to his own battle. The Texan had no idea where Frost’s Farm was, or how much of a retreat was involved. He preferred a first-hand look, but knew that wasn’t in the cards this time. The uncertainty was maddening.

  Abe watched another flaming bottle of gasoline fly through the air, the tumbling bomb looking like it was made from a mason jar, just like Eve used to can tomatoes.

  The thrown missile fell short, hitting the emergency lane and exploding in a whoosh of black smoke and red flame.

  Two of the flatbeds were burning and out of commission, the ammunition left on board still popping off. Several bodies were crumpled beside each of the trailers, the corpses all men who had leapt over the side to avoid being burned alive.

  But only two of the mobile forts were out of the fight.

  The others were still fully manned and making the men and boys of Mineral Wells pay for any exposure or attempt to dislodge them. The roadblock was a standoff of sorts, neither side able to push back the other.

  Jacob, working the radios, tugged on Abe’s sleeve.

  “They’re running out of ammunition on the right flank,” he warned, pointing in that direction. “Two of our reserve units are moving to support the men at Frost’s farm. I’m hearing that Cyrus is mustering his men there and that they are about to break through.”

  For the last two hours, Abe had been managing the roadblock while Jacob coordinated the men fighting on the edge of town. The entire defensive force of Mineral Wells was now complaining about running out of bullets.

  “We’re going to lose our community due to a lack of ammo?” he asked Jacob. “That just doesn’t seem right.”

  “War is war,” replied the stoic veteran. “Sometimes casualties or strategy have nothing to do with winning or losing.”

  Just then, another of the roadblock’s defenders was carried by on a gurney, the man clutching his gut with both hands as he moaned in agony. “Is it time to fall back?” Abe asked his friend.

  Jacob held up his hand, listening to a radio broadcast streaming across the airwaves. A few seconds later, he threw down the headphones in disgust. “They’ve broken through at Frost’s Farm. Several hundred of them. We have to get our people out … it’s over.”

  Abe had seen so much blood and gore during the last few hours. He’d watched men burn alive, be nearly cut in half, and scream for mercy from God above. Every man, woman and child had done everything in their power to save Mineral Wells, but that just was not going to happen.

  “Yes, sound the retreat. Let’s get as many of our people to Abilene as possible.”

  Bishop watched as a group of gray-haired men hustled off, following the path toward Frost’s Farm. The Texan knew instantly that Mineral Wells was about to fall.

  “They're sending in the old guys now,” Bishop motioned to Grim. “They’ve committed their final reserves. I think it’s about time for us to hunker down and hide.”

  Grim watched the group of mature gents moving toward the sound of the raging battle. “Yup. Looks like they’re scraping the bottom of the barrel.”

  Bishop did a double-take, “Grim, half of those guys are younger than you are. Now, if that ain’t the pot calling the kettle black.”

  “Yes, sir, but I’m the benefactor of good genes. Besides, my kind and loving personality helps me keep positive Zen and karma flowing through my inner core, and that translates to a longer life. I’ll let the guys know it’s time to hit the holes and get ready to blast SAINT Six in the face.”

  Before Bishop could react, the church bell rang once, twice, three times. “Fall back,” Bishop whispered, remembering the code. There was a pause, then three more loud clangs.

  Engine noises sounded from the orchard, the people assigned there starting the motors and preparing for the evacuation.

  Bishop rushed to his pile of leaves, unsure exactly how soon enemy forces would victoriously march down Main Street. Less than a minute later, he was snug inside his mini-tent, lowering the front edge of the net to make himself invisible. With a few minor adjustments, he could see almost the entire town.

  The first ragtag group of defenders came into view a short time later, a bunch of half-running, filthy men making for the orchard. They looked like they had been in combat for days, not hours, many of their soiled bodies wrapped in bandages, two of them limping badly and having a hard time keeping up.

  The rifle fire was closer now, the approaching firefight sounding like a 4th of July fireworks show on steroids.

  Five minutes later, the reserves returned, fully engaged and trying to fall back in an orderly fashion. Bishop was impressed, the older men showing more poise and calm as they fell back into the main part of downtown. A few seconds later, the Texan got his first look at the assaulters.

  There were the blue arm bands, just as Pug had described. They moved better than the locals, with far more fire discipline and superior angles of engagement. It was clear why Cyrus’s forces were winning.

  Less than a minute after the last Mineral Wells pickup raced off for the west, a platoon-sized element entered the tiny berg. Bishop watched as one of the leaders ordered his men to search every building. “Smart,” he whispered. “Just don’t search too thoroughly.”

  So small was Mineral Wells that it only took the rifle squads a few minutes to declare the settlement empty. Part of the reason for the speedy inspection was the limited physical space to be checked. But in addition to that, the people of Mineral Wells had completely stripped the town of anything usable, down to the church hymnals.

  Still, Cyrus’s people had held the field. With a rebel yell, the leader held up his AR15 and shouted, “This town is ours!”

  A celebration broke out just then, several of the men joining in, cheering and shouting, all of them ramped up by the sweet sensation of victory.

  It was another three hours before the first vehicles arrived, the work of Jacob’s bulldozer obviously delaying the opening of I-20. Bishop had begun to wonder if Cyrus had enough heavy equipment and engineering support to ever clear the roadway.

  Watching from their hides, SAINT One waited, muscles growing sore, bones icy cold as the drizzle continued.

  The dreary weather put a damper on the morale of Cyrus’s Army. It was the most boring victory celebration the Texan had ever witnessed.

  The deep rumble of trucks soon reached Bishop’s ear, more and more 18-wheelers of all configurations rolling into the small village. Between the semis and the school buses, Mineral Wells was beginning to look a lot like the parking lot that was I-20.

  For the most part, the fighting men of Fort Worth did what all armies do when given a bit of downtime. Bishop could see small clusters of riflemen eating, cleaning their equipment, and a few even catching some shuteye.

  An hour before sunset, whistles began blowing, followed by loud voices shouting orders. “Mount up, ladies! Time to move out. On to Abilene! You can sleep after you’re dead!”

  With a chorus of grumbles and bitching, the troops began shuffling toward their respective transports, obviously already tired despite it having been the first day of their campaign.

  “The Abilene Visitor’s Bureau isn’t going to roll out the red carpet, my friends,” Bishop whispered from his leafy den. “Nick has a very unpleasant surprise waiting for you.”

  One by one, the buses and trucks turned around and headed out of town, back toward I-20. Fewer and fewer men were
walking around now, and those stragglers were quickly being rounded up and sent packing for the next battle.

  As more and more of the opposition’s troops moved out, Bishop began to stress. For a little more than 20 noiseless minutes, there had been no sign of Cyrus or SAINT Six. In fact, he hadn’t detected any command presence above unit level. Had Terri completely missed this call?

  Up the road, a new movement drew Bishop’s eye. Out of the mist, two lines of men stepped along the edge of the pavement. A minute later, Bishop realized that they were marching with their hands locked behind their heads. Prisoners.

  The Texan sensed he was looking at the last, few, brave defenders of Mineral Wells that had stayed behind so the rest of their neighbors could evacuate. Many of them wore bloody bandages, a few stumbling as they struggled to trudge along.