by W. J. Lundy
Brad moved to the front. “We were with a patrol south of here that was ambushed.”
The man looked at Brad’s uniform and the nametape. “Sergeant Thompson?”
“Yeah, that’s me.”
The soldier’s face hardened. “Aww, shit; they’ve been looking for you. Is that chief with you all too?”
“Chief Rogers? No, he should be here.”
The solder turned and yelled back up to the Stryker. “Sir, this is Sergeant Thompson!”
A young lieutenant bounded from a hatch and skidded across the surface of the vehicle before dropping to the ground. The man wore a similar multi–cam uniform; although, his was covered in dirt, grease, and blood. His face showed signs of stubble and his eyes drooped from fatigue. “Sergeant Thompson, the colonel has been looking for you… well, all of us have.”
“The colonel?” Brad asked.
The lieutenant’s eyebrows lifted, showing surprise that Brad was unaware of who he was speaking. “Colonel Ericson? The outpost commander,” he said.
Brad shrugged and lifted his M4, clicking the three-point sling to the shoulder of his gear. “Well, let’s go then; I can’t wait to debrief him.”
Chapter 21
Joe heard the rustling of leaves and forced his eyes open. The thick Appalachian fog settled in on him and made every part of his body shiver from the dampness. The prisoner was grunting again. Joe watched as Dan pulled away the man’s gag, fed him more pills, and then poured water in his mouth. The man shook his head, refusing to swallow, so Dan pinched the man’s nose and poured in more water until he finally gagged down the pills. Joe watched the older man work on the prisoner; he showed no emotion as he carried out his ugly deeds. The old Marine was business-like, as if he was hanging a picture frame. Not a question of mercy or brutality, he was just performing another task.
Dan allowed the man enough time to catch his breath before replacing the gag and pulling the hood back over his head. The prisoner was already wearing heavy shooter’s earmuffs and thick dark-tinted goggles. Dan called it sensory deprivation; he said it was one of the best ways to convince a man to cooperate and force him to rely on his captors. Especially out here, where everything was a threat, the man’s own thoughts would scare him more than the reality around him. Since the man had been blinded and deafened, his actions went from defiance to childlike, quickly submitting to them.
The trucks were a treasure trove of information: maps, stolen mail, and pictures. There were boxes of ammo, canned goods, and plenty of narcotics, which the prisoner was currently enjoying. The intel gave Dan a good idea of what they were up against. This was not a group of do-good survivors; they were more of a street gang. Dan referred to them as pests that required extermination.
After the initial contact, Dan gathered the rest of his men and sent them up the mountain after their families. He told them to leave no trail. If Joe and Dan managed to fail, he wanted the strangers’ attack against them to end at the cabin. He told them he would get information from the wounded man and take care of Chuck and company—slow them up as best he could then meet them in a day or two.
The wounded man was reluctant at first, but Dan had a way with people and this prisoner was no exception to the rule. The prisoner slowly came around the longer he bled. Dan promised to treat his wounds and give him drugs for the pain if he could lead them back to where Chuck and the others were camped. They had travelled through the night to reach this place. It wasn’t much to look at, lying on a muddy slope at the edge of a wooded valley looking down over a cluster of rusted, tarpaper–sided shacks. A tall wooden fence surrounded most of it with chain link in the front section and a tractor-trailer turned on its side covered one end.
Joe watched as the wounded man slumped back against the tree. “How do we even know he’s telling the truth, Dan?” Joe asked. “I ain’t seen anything move down there; maybe it’s empty.”
The old Marine looked back at Joe over his shoulder. He was checking the bindings on the prisoner’s wrists and ankles. “Well, he’s had more than a double share of Demerol and Prozac; I guess he could still be in a mood for lies, but why would he? I have been doing my part to keep him in his happy place. You will find the more drugs you give a man, the less he tends to give a shit. At this point, I doubt he cares much for Chuck and those scumbags at the bottom of the valley.”
“Can’t we just leave them alone? I mean, hell, maybe they’ll never come back up the mountain after the beating they took.”
Dan laughed and shook his head. “And maybe unicorns and puppy dogs will take over the free world. You just don’t get it, boy. Guys like that always come back, like a wild dog that craves meat. They’ll take a beating, but they will continue to return until they get it. I’m sure Chuck brought his people back to lick their wounds. But they will always know there is something up that mountain, and eventually they will go back for it.”
Dan let the prisoner fall back into heavy brush then turned and crawled down alongside Joe. They had replaced the shotgun with a pair of mini-14s from the barn. Joe was now wearing a heavy parka and a load-bearing vest weighed down with magazines. Dan was dressed the same except for a large scope on his rifle and the pouches of grenades he carried. Dan lifted his rifle and swept the compound below.
The sun was breaking the top of the mountain, casting an orange glow over the cluster of buildings. “Look there, behind the long steel building… does that look like their vehicle?”
Joe strained his eyes and looked below at the small compound. There was a large one-story building just inside the chain link fence with a large gravel courtyard next to it. The buildings were arranged in the shape of an L; the one-story building being the short leg, then two rows of long, narrow buildings making up the long leg. Just at the back of the buildings, Joe could see a number of vehicles, and one he was sure was the truck.
“That’s the truck; I’m certain of it,” Joe whispered. “What are we going to do?”
Dan yanked a long strand of grass from the damp ground and chewed at its root. “Well, I was thinking we should take our friend home. He held his end of the bargain and got us here.”
Joe opened his mouth to argue when he heard voices coming from below. He turned to Dan and could see from the expression on his face he’d heard them too. Joe held his breath and looked down at the trail below them.
Moments later, a group of men appeared on a previously unseen thin trail just meters below. The lead man, wearing camouflage pants and a gray sweatshirt, carried a crossbow; the two behind were younger and skinnier and, together, they struggled to carry a whitetail deer. A fourth man, farther back, lugged a large burlap bag over his shoulder. The bottom of the sac was red and dripping with blood. Aside from the man with the bow, none carried weapons at the ready.
One of the young men grunted and lost his grip, dropping the front half of the deer to the ground and causing the second man to trip over the carcass. Crossbow turned back and scowled at them. “Come on, dammit, this is taking entirely too long!”
The man in the back moved forward and dropped his canvas sack. “Here, Jeb, take the bag and I’ll have myself a spell on the deer.”
The young man stared at the bag, then looked up at the older man and nodded. He got back to his feet and hoisted the bag to his shoulder, allowing the other to grab the deer by its neck and lift it to his hip. Crossbow scanned the area and stepped back off down the trail, the others following close behind.
Dan let the strangers move to the bottom of the trail and create separation before he spoke. “That’s it, we got the right spot; looks like we caught them on a grocery run,” he whispered. “What I wouldn’t do for a radio and a C-47 Spooky right now. Good ol’ Puff the Magic Dragon would knock these boys outta their socks.”
“Dan, what the hell did you do in the Marines?” Joe asked.
“A bit of this… a bit of that,” Dan said.
Joe shook his head and pressed his face back into the tall grass. He watched the men n
avigate the hill and cross a street at the bottom. They casually walked to the chain link fence and removed a bit of chain, letting the others through before latching it behind them.
“Arrogant bastards don’t even post a guard,” Dan said. “We’ll let them get inside, give them a few minutes to get lazy, and we’ll follow the trail.”
Joe bit his lower lip; Dan looked at him and smiled. “Don’t sweat it, kid; this is going to be fun.”
Joe scowled as Dan crawled back up the hill; he manhandled the prisoner back to a sitting position, and then forced him up to his feet. Dan dragged the man forward, and then pointed for Joe to move down the trail. “I hope you’re right about this,” Joe protested.
“I’m always right, 60 percent of the time,” Dan laughed.
He stepped off into a controlled slide in the damp grass, dropping down the slope and emptying out onto the trail below. Joe looked up to see Dan pushing the prisoner ahead of him; the man fell hard to his back then half-tumbled ahead as Dan dug in his heels to guide the man to the bottom. The prisoner moaned through his gag but quickly faded back to a low grunt.
Dan shoved the prisoner forward then back to his feet. He pushed him to Joe. Joe clenched the back of the man’s shirt in a balled fist and guided him ahead of them. When Dan pointed to the front gate, Joe acknowledged the direction and moved down the trail toward it.
“You sure on walking right to the front door?” Joe said.
“Not particularly. Let me move out ahead of you; if anyone takes a shot at us, leave him where he stands and run to cover. If we get separated, make your way back to the blockhouse.”
“Okay, Dan,” Joe said. He stiffened his arm and guided the prisoner straight ahead. The man was slumping in his steps, fatigued and staggering from the drugs. Dan moved past them and stopped where the hard-packed trail met the side of the blacktop road. He searched in both directions then ran across. Joe held in place, waiting for Dan to scout the immediate area. Dan pressed his back against the wood part of the fence then ran at a low crouch to the gate. He put his hand to the latch and then looked back at Joe, waving him forward.
“What the hell are we doing here?” Joe mumbled to himself.
He took the prisoner and pushed him onto the road and then, eager to get out of the open, he nearly dragged the man behind him as he crossed. He quickly moved up beside Dan, who grabbed the prisoner by the arm and nudged him gently against the gate. Dan turned and pointed to a gravel parking lot. The lot was filled with several empty vehicles on flat tires, and at the back of the area was a pair of overflowing green dumpsters.
“We’ll hide over there while we watch. Get ready to move; this won’t take long,” Dan whispered.
Joe watched as his mentor handcuffed the prisoner’s wrist to the chain link fence. Dan then tied a small bit of wire through the bottom of the gate’s frame and laced it along the ground to the corner fence post. He pulled a grenade from a pouch and used a small strip of green tape to fix the body of grenade to the post then took the slack out of the wire and attached it to the pin.
Joe shook his head. “That’s dirty, Dan.”
“Yup,” Dan said. “Dirty Dan, that’s what they used to call me.”
“You like this shit, don’t you?” Joe asked.
Dan looked back at him. He pursed his lips and shook his head. “Nope, I’m just good at it.”
Dan pulled the hood from the prisoner’s head and removed the wounded man’s earmuffs, goggles, and gag. The man looked at Dan, his eyes squinting from the bright light. “Deal’s a deal; you showed me the way home, and I brought you here. Try and stay out of trouble, okay?”
With bloodshot eyes and dilated pupils, the prisoner looked through Dan—obviously stoned out of his mind. “Well, see ya around,” Dan said before pushing the man against the gate.
Dan drew his 1911 and fired two quick shots into the dirt. Joe, not expecting it, jumped.
“What the hell you waiting for? Run!” Dan shouted.
Joe quickly bounded forward, following the older man to the dumpsters. Together they ran at a full sprint, sliding on the gravel and ducking between the cars and the green dumpsters. Dan pulled the scoped rifle from his shoulder and nestled in under a big truck. Keeping Joe positioned behind him.
Joe pulled his own rifle and went to crawl next to Dan. Dan held up a fist and waved him off. “Just watch my back; if you see something, point it out to me,” he said.
It didn’t take long for the shouting inside the fences to start. Doors slammed and men yelled obscenities at each other. A man walked into the open, just behind the gate. Barefoot and shirtless, wearing torn blue jeans, he clutched an AR-15 to his naked chest. The man staggered toward the gate then stopped and raised his rifle; he held it for a moment then took his eye off the stock, showing recognition. He lifted his head and yelled to someone out of sight just behind him. “It’s that son of a bitch Chris; thought you all said he was dead.”
A voice hollered; the sound of it chilled Joe—he knew it was Chuck. “Can’t be. I saw Chris take a round to the chest.”
The shirtless man stepped forward, his head swiveling while searching the surroundings as he walked. “Yeah, it’s Chris alright. Hey, buddy… Chris… it’s me. What’s wrong with ya?” the man hollered. He stopped again and looked back. “I think he’s drunk or something.”
“Hold up; maybe he’s infected,” Chuck said.
Shirtless held his ground, hesitating. More men came into view around him, one far larger than the rest of the group, wearing an olive green jacket, and carrying the MAC-9 at his side. Joe immediately recognized him as Chuck. The man moved into the group, stopping to examine the man standing at the gate.
“You high or something? What the hell’s wrong with you, Chris?” Chuck said.
Joe lowered himself to the ground, still keeping the men in sight from his hiding place behind the truck. “The fat one, it’s the leader; kill him so we can get out of here,” Joe whispered.
“Patience, grasshopper,” Dan whispered back.
Frustrated, Joe pushed away, resting on the backs of his heels as he watched the group of strangers. The fat one shoved one of the others ahead of him and the man approached the fence. Joe recognized him as one of the younger men that carried in the deer. Another man stepped to the side, the hunter with the crossbow. He raised his weapon and approached to within feet of the gate then waved the young man forward.
Crossbow froze and then spun, searching the outside. “He’s handcuffed!” he yelled.
“What ya mean handcuffed?” Chuck asked.
Crossbow looked back, irritated. “He’s handcuffed… not many ways to explain it, Chuck!” he retorted. “Get some bolt cutters.”
The young man dropped back and disappeared from view while the others moved forward, gathering around the gate but still staying inside the fence.
Dan adjusted his position, rising up on his elbows and pressing his eye to the scope. “See how they move? This group is used to being in control; even after what happened yesterday, they feel safe. No guards posted, no patrols… even that hunting party with the deer was lightly armed and careless,” Dan whispered.
The young man returned carrying the bolt cutters. He stepped up between Shirtless and Crossbow and approached to the gate. Chuck moved up behind them to get a better view. “Cut him down,” Chuck said, his MAC-9 still at his side.
Joe heard Dan click the safety off on his rifle. “These guys are really stupid,” Dan whispered.
“You sure we need to kill ’em, Dan?” Joe said.
Joe pulled the rifle in tight. “Yeah; if we don’t, they will come back up the mountain. I’m not willing to stake Amy and the others’ lives on it.”
The young man tried to maneuver the bolt cutters through the chain link to get at the handcuffs. Chris—wounded on the other side—was hanging by his arm now, the tension making it even more difficult.
Chuck stepped ahead and pointed at the latch. “Open the gate, dummy; you ain’t n
ever gonna cut it from out here.”
Shirtless lowered his rifle and fumbled with the gate’s latch; he pulled it in and the young man with the cutters stepped out. The posture of Crossbow immediately shifted to panic. “Grenade!” he screamed as the gate’s motion popped the pin of the grenade, a tiny spring throwing the spoon free and clanging into the air.
Crossbow stepped back, Dan’s rifle barked, and a heavy .300 Win Mag round hit Crossbow square in the chest a millisecond before the grenade exploded and obscured the group in a flash of dirty smoke. Dan shifted his position; rolling from the truck, he fired again into the smoke. He then rose to his knees, firing a third round. Joe searched the gate area but couldn’t see anything through the smoke.
Dan got to his feet and grabbed Joe before running through the back of the parking lot and into the dense brush. They climbed into the thick trees partially up the hillside before stopping again.
Dan pointed a finger toward the small trail they traveled earlier. “Keep watching our six,” he said as he got back on the scope and searched the gate; he fired again, then again.
“What are you shooting at, Dan? I can’t see shit,” Joe said.
“Just keeping their noggins down so they can’t maneuver.”
Screaming from inside the compound intensified and someone fired their weapon, the MAC-9 letting out a long burst. As the smoke cleared, Joe could see bodies at the gate. The wounded man now lay limp, though still attached to the now mangled gate. Shirtless and the young man with the bolt cutters were down—lying together in a lump—and Crossbow was on his back with his legs apart. He searched and spotted Chuck sitting with his back to the building, his left leg twisted oddly. Chuck had a bloodied bandage tied around his knee in a hasty tourniquet.
“There he is… by the building,” Joe said.
“I see him,” Dan answered.
They could hear Chuck screaming as he raised his weapon and fired another wild stream through the gateway, the rounds harmlessly smacking into the dirt and pinging off the gate. A man peeked around a corner; Chuck turned and yelled at him. The man peeked out again, and then ran to Chuck’s side, grabbing his arm, and prepared to drag him when Dan’s rifle fired again. The man slumped and fell across Chuck’s lap, causing him to scream out yet again. Chuck wrestled with the body and rolled it off him.