by John O'Brien
“Everyone hold your fire but be ready, I’m taking one out,” I say into the radio.
I line my red dot up on the head of the apparent leader and flip my selector switch to semi. A small pull on the trigger and the M-4 jars slightly against my shoulder. The crack of the round firing and going supersonic, sending its deadly payload outward, startles the group further. The steel round connects with his head with a solid thunk, rocking his head backward and tossing the cap into the air. Blood sprays outward and to the rear, a brilliant pink mist lit by the sun. Bits of bone and clumps of brain matter add mass to the mist. His body stiffens and both the lever-action rifle he was carrying and his body falls straight to the ground, the rifle clattering on the pavement and his body hitting it with a fleshy thump.
“Last chance shitheads. Who’s next?” I call out moving my red dot to the man standing next to their fallen leader.
Every man stands with shocked expressions. See, most people expect the banter to continue and the one with the wittiest line wins. They think the war of words is the actual battle. They watch way too much TV. Or did. This is the last thing they expect or want. The realization that I am not kidding around, or that banter and talk will even be a part of this, dawns brightly upon them. They expected something like they were engaged in with the family to ensue. Nope, not going to happen. You cannot fuck around with mentalities like these. Especially when they are confused as to which choice they should make. You make it very clear what the right choice is and do it right from the start.
“Lynn, bring your team out into the open but ready to open up,” I speak into the radio.
Black Team emerges from the tree line, lining up along the parking lot on the other side. Spaced apart but ready to deliver immense amounts of firepower should they need. The men notice the movement to one side of them and see Red Team positioned behind the cars with their weapons trained on them on the other. Most drop their weapons before being told to. They outnumber us by a fair margin but also know the odds of them living long enough to make that count, should it come down to a fight, are slim. They know when to say when. Hmmm, must be going around, I think. An assortment of guns falls to the ground in a continuous clatter lasting a few seconds.
“Move over there slowly,” I say pointing to a spot in the parking lot to my right with the barrel of my carbine. “In the middle and sit down with your hands on your head. Move in any way we don’t like and you’ll not appreciate the result.”
“Lynn, move up and cover them,” I say as the group of men shamble over and sit down on the warming pavement. I direct Red Team to set up a small perimeter, shoulder my weapon and move over to the woman with my hands open.
“It’s okay, ma’am, you won’t be hurt,” I call out towards her.
She is still holding the revolver out in front of her but she has lowered it down at an angle. I can sense she feels conflicted; feeling both saved, or at least hoping so, and unsure if she should relax. The young boy is still clutching her waist with his eyes now darting from her and to the man, his dad apparently, lying on the walkway.
“Lynn, can you come over here?” I ask into the radio holding my position.
“Can you talk with her? I think she may still be in a little shock and need a woman to assure her she is safe,” I say to her once she arrives.
Lynn shoulders her rifle and walks over to her, hands spread in a reassuring manner. The woman does not raise her gun up but she does not lower it either. A little sense of relief flows from her to see a woman and she lets Lynn approach, the boy sliding around behind his mom as Lynn draws near. Lynn comes to a stop in front of her and slowly puts her hand out to the pistol in the woman’s hand, pushing it gently down to the side. I cannot hear exactly what the conversation is but I can tell there is one by the woman’s mouth moving. She abruptly erupts into tears and, dropping the gun on the ground, throws her arms out and gives Lynn a hug, enfolding her and sobbing on her shoulder. Lynn puts her arms around the grief and shock-stricken woman.
After a few moments, the woman recovers and draws back. Unwrapping her son’s arms from around her, she bends down to say something to him. Standing after she has a word with her son, she walks over to where her husband lies on the ground, the pooled blood around him drying in the warming air. She crouches down and I observe her remove the wedding band from his hand and deliver a kiss with her fingers to his cheek. Standing once again, she gathers her son and walks with Lynn back towards me, the woman stopping a few feet away as if uncertain of her position or safety.
“She says they were trying to find food and water when they were waylaid by these guys,” Lynn says with a measure of disgust nodding towards the group of men sitting on the pavement, bunched together with Black Team forming a semi-circle around them. “They shot her husband when they became cornered here and he tried to defend them.”
“That’s kind of what I thought,” I reply. I wave the woman over and she approaches in a hesitant manner, automatically sweeping her son behind her in a protective manner as she nears.
Dark circles around her brown eyes tells of the horror and sleeplessness she must have faced over the past few days; as does the grime and dirt spotting her face. Her diminutive stature belies the look of determination in her eyes she had just a few moments before as she stood off the group of men looking to harm her and possibly her son.
“I’m very sorry for your loss ma’am. You’re safe with us and be assured no harm will come to you or your boy,” I say.
A look of relief passes through her eyes on hearing my words and eyeing the armed men around her; her body language showing a measure of the tension inside releasing.
“Do you know of or heard of anyone else alive?” I ask.
Looking back at me, she shakes her head “no” evidently not trusting to talk at this time.
“You and your son are welcome to come with us. But just so you know, we’re not staying here. We have an aircraft and are heading to the Northwest. It’s your choice but I would feel very remiss leaving you here,” I tell her.
She looks to Lynn as if looking for an answer. She appears to be somewhere in her twenties and at a loss as to what to do. Lynn looks back at her and nods her head; both in reassurance and that she should indeed come along with us.
“Okay, sir, thank you,” she says in a shy voice after a moment’s pause and glances over at her late husband lying in the sun.
“Don’t worry, we’ll take care of him and give him decent honors,” I say but with a feeling that our time line is slipping away. More time spent here is less time we’ll have today down south. “What’s your name miss?”
“Kathy,” she responds.
“And what’s your name young man?” I ask directing my question at the boy anxiously clutching his mom but peering out around her waist.
“Robert,” he answers.
“Well, I have a son named Robert as well. He’s back at the airfield waiting for us,” I say with a smile. He smiles timidly back.
“What do you think we should do with them?” I say turning my attention back to Lynn and nodding at the captive men.
“Shoot ‘em,” she says with passion and anger in her voice. I would have expected that answer from Lynn. She experienced a similar horrific incident in her past. As a matter of fact, I would expect that answer from any woman having had to face such ugliness. That kind of anger just does not dissipate. I give her the sideways look of ‘really!?’
“Okay, just the left testicle,” she adds after seeing my look and knowing inside the both of us that we cannot outright shoot anyone we’ve captured.
Well, I would make an exception for the night runners but, although anyone may think differently, it is awfully hard to actually coldly shoot anyone unarmed that you have captured. I do feel a sickness inside that makes me want to, for a moment, take her up on her suggestion.
“We’ll see,” I say stepping over, with Lynn walking just behind my right shoulder, to the men whose future manhood is in serious
question.
“Anything to say for yourselves?” I ask the group with disgust, gazing at each of them. Each of their eyes turns downward as my eyes focus on them. Yeah, you should feel ashamed.
“We didn’t mean anything,” one of them finally says although his eyes remain glued to the gray pavement in front of him. “We weren’t going to hurt them.”
“Explain why she was trembling in fear with a handgun then! Explain how her husband is laying on the ground over there! Go ahead, tell this young lad why his dad isn’t going to be there for him! Didn’t mean anything my ass!” I say quietly yet with emphasis and hear Kathy begin sobbing quietly behind me. Sometimes I just don’t think about what I’m saying, I think regretting those words were said within her hearing.
“Any of you have knives? Raise your hand higher if you do.” I ask the humbled group. Most raise their hands.
“Good. You four,” I say picking out four of the strongest looking, “go pick up that man and follow us. Lynn, detail two to cover them.”
“Yes, sir,” she says lapsing back into her professional form as the four pick themselves up and walk to the dead man with two members of Black Team to the rear and side covering them.
“Would it be a fitting place under those trees?” I ask Kathy. She blinks her tears away, looks over to the trees indicated, and nods. It does seem a peaceful place sheltered by the trees.
“The rest of you over to those trees and start digging,” I say eyeing them carefully, not expecting them to bolt due mainly to my outright shooting of their leader. I see the abject obedience and low esteem written across their faces and in their eyes. “One grave and make it snappy!”
“What about Joe?” One of them asks looking over to where their former leader lies by the evaporating pool of blood circling his head and running in lines along the uneven pavement.
“He stays where he lies,” I say. I don’t have the stomach or time.
“What about us? Are you going to shoot us?” The same man asks with fear in his voice.
“I haven’t decided yet. Compliance will certainly be in your favor,” I say trying to keep the balance of uncertainty and hope in each of them. Knowing their fate, whether for good or bad, will cause a reaction of some sort on their part. Knowing they will die for sure will cause them to find a way to flee or attack knowing they have nothing to lose. Letting them know they may live and giving them a semblance of hope will keep them docile and doing what you want. Off balance and indecisive, that is what I want them to feel.
“Red Team, keep a moving perimeter about us as we move over to the trees and notify the others at the airfield that all is in hand and well,” I say in the radio.
“Roger sir,” I hear McCafferty respond.
The group of men, and I use the term loosely, are sweating furiously by the time they finish digging a large enough hole in the ground. The temperature is climbing as the morning progresses and the sun makes its way higher into the clear, blue sky. The trees here provide some shelter but it becomes warm nonetheless, the lack of a breeze is stifling. The smell of freshly dug up earth fills the air as Robert’s dad is lowered into the five foot hole, seventeen men can dig a hole pretty quick, even in this hard packed earth. I am not really a good one for words for these times so I ask everyone to say a prayer in their own fashion with a moment of silence.
Red Team is still keeping a small perimeter and I ask them to recover the guns dropped by the marauders — a much better word for them than men. They return carrying a variety of weapons with them, mostly hunting rifles, shotguns, and handguns. I have the marauders stand and searched without finding any additional guns; they only have their now dulled knives with them.
“Are we going to get those back?” Asks the one man questioning earlier, referring to the guns and now fairly sure we are not going to annihilate them. At least he could think; I mean, who would search someone a while after being captured if we were just going to shoot them down. Why not just do it?
“Nope,” I answer.
“Are you going to shoot us?” He asks.
“Most likely not.”
“You’re just going to leave us here defenseless?”
“Should’ve thought about that before,” I say not having the least ounce of remorse for them. This new world, if we ourselves live long enough to keep mankind going, does not need these types around to foster or bring about their kind of thinking. The kind that thinks bullying women or forcing them is okay. And that goes for a large variety of actions. We really need to foster morality and, not only the ability to know right from wrong, but to act in that manner. Harmony with our environment and peace with those around us. Hopefully this new age, which will be a while in the making considering how few of us there are left, will have that facet to it. This time, we can hopefully do it right.
“You there,” I say pointing to the one I thought I saw some uneasiness in with prior our intervention.
He is a strong looking young man with a medium build either in his late teens or just out of them with short black, tightly curled hair. His dark eyes and face turn towards me with a look of fear and dread.
“How do you feel about what happened?” I ask sweeping my hand in the general direction of where they had Kathy and her son cornered.
“I didn’t like it at all, sir,” he answers lowering his head and then looking back into my eyes. I perceive no deception in them or with him.
“Why didn’t you do anything?” I ask further.
“Well, I really didn’t know what to do. I was worried they’d turn on me,” he answers. The other marauders direct quick, dark looks in his direction.
“What’s your name?”
“Kenneth. And I’m really sorry ma’am,” he says directing this last to Kathy.
“Can we go with you? Will you take us with you? We’re really sorry too lady,” the other man with all of the questions pipes up and asks.
“Not a chance in hell. Now all of you get the fuck out of here before I change my mind about everything. If I see you again, you die!” I give him my answer in no uncertain terms. “Kenneth, you can stay and go with us if you’d like.”
The remaining marauders, seeing their chance at living to see another sunrise, take to their heels, vanishing off through the trees. Kenneth looks after them in a moment of uncertainty and then remains.
“Let’s get out of these trees and back,” I say to the group. “Black Team in the lead, Red Team following. Keep an eye out to where they went.”
“Hooah, sir.”
“All other teams, this is Jack, we’re heading back with three civilians in tow,” I say into the radio letting the others at the aircraft know. “Robert, is the aircraft refueled?”
“Just finished, Dad,” he answers.
“Okay everyone, let’s be ready to go on our arrival. We’ll be there in about fifteen minutes,” I say pressing the mic button again.
“We’ll be ready, sir,” I hear Drescoll respond.
Following our path back through the silent base, we make our way through the warm, humid morning back towards the aircraft with our three new passengers tagging along with us. We keep the same staggered formation with Kathy, Kenneth, and Little Robert, that’s how I think of him now, in the middle of our formation. We are going to be way crowded in the aircraft now. I mean, a regular C-130 would start to feel crowded, but this one was not meant to handle a lot of people. It was meant to handle a lot of fuel. But we will manage. We may have to figure something else out though if we run across another large group.
This last little escapade did answer one question, or at least prove a nagging thought that was in my head — there are others. I hope that a majority, and there have to be others, are not like this last band and just out marauding or out for themselves; treating others with impunity. I mean, why would you do something like that when it’s obvious we are on the brink? Doing harm to others instead of helping? To me, that is truly evil and I just don’t get it.
I catch movemen
t out of the corner of my eye, turn my head, and see a dog paralleling us. It has been out there since we started back. Trotting or walking along; keeping the same distance away but definitely intrigued by us. I keep alert for any sign of others remembering back to the pack we saw by the side of the road when we were heading up to McChord. Thinking they may develop into packs as dogs are wont to do. But from all indications, this one is alone. I cannot really tell just what kind of dog it is from the distance it is keeping away from us, but I can tell it is a larger breed and mostly black.
“Sir,” Henderson says nodding toward the dog.
“Yeah, I see it,” I respond back. “I just think it’s curious. And alone.”
We are about to take the short road back onto the ramp, to disappear between the building and leave the base proper. I turn back and see the dog has stopped as if seeing us off and not wanting to follow us. Probably because it would have to draw closer in proximity to us to do so. In order to follow us, it has to come closer to some extent, but it seems to want to keep its distance. I can sense a longing in the way it stands to follow but then sits right back down.
“Everyone hold up a minute,” I say out loud. The clatter of boots on the hard top ceases and everyone turns, setting up a small perimeter automatically.