On his belly, he ‘army-crawled’ the few feet he needed to reach the end of the horizontal tree trunk, then crouched over like an Olympic sprinter, and dashed into the clear. Rounds immediately stitched a straight line up the hillside, passing directly in front of him, the shooter overestimating the needed lead, and missing him cleanly. Clark dashed on, putting ground behind him, while Tim readjusted the angle and drained another clip at the fleeing man. The burst kicked up dirt and ricocheted off nearby rocks but the runner remained unharmed. Sheer luck or a guardian angel -- he would never know, but a grateful heart supplied the energy he needed to drop over the canyon’s rim and into the relative safety it provided.
Rather than continue the straight line down into the canyon, which would bring him up and near the Jenson’s location, he pivoted at a 90 degree angle and rushed just below the crest of the hill, rapidly closing the distance between himself and his attacker. Tim, the Harvester’s self-appointed leader, had also run on a parallel track for the canyon when Clark cleared the rim, anticipating that he would attempt to rejoin his friends on the other side. He moved with less speed and determination than his counterpart, exercising a bit more caution, as he approached the valley’s lip. The Harvester secured a new clip into his assault rifle, tapping the side of the metallic container against his leg, before sliding it into place. He held the fully loaded weapon across his body as he neared the angled descent, being able to see more and more of the dense brush on the opposite side with each apprehensive step.
Clark’s gamble of running down the hill and making another right turn at about the distance that he’d last seen the assailant paid off. By doing the unexpected, bolting up and over the angle of the canyon, never slowing down from the time he’d kicked off from behind the fallen log, he came face to face with a very astounded Harvester. Tim’s reaction time was quick. The killer swung the front end of his rifle at Clark, but the motion was not fast enough, as Clark had leveled his own weapon before clearing the canyon’s rim. Lead flashed from the Ruger before Tim could get a single shot off. Fire and smoke erupted from the .223 caliber rifle as Clark pumped his finger against the gun’s trigger. The rifle’s muzzle velocity at such a short range accentuated the slug’s impact, making it sickening to watch as the copper-jacketed lead ripped through Tim’s body, sprouting a geyser of blood with each penetration. His body jerked and contorted in a ghoulish jitterbug before collapsing in a lifeless heap of muscle and bone. Clark stopped long enough to take a couple of deep breaths before slinging his Ruger over his back and taking Tim’s fully automatic weapon in his hands, along with the appropriate ammo.
Adrenalin and a love for his friends pushed him back into the canyon at full tilt, jumping over the smaller shrubs in an almost out-of-control plunge to reunite the trio.
* * *
Minutes before Clark’s descent on the other side of the canyon, Rod had clambered up the rise, pushing with his feet while dragging his weight with his forearms. Farrell had gone down hard, pitching backwards off the crest of the knoll and out of sight. Bullets continued to rain down on their position but Rod remained low and protected, at least for the few seconds it took him to scramble up the incline and over the natural protrusion. His big brother lay on the other side, still alive but not moving. The onslaught of gunfire ceased once he cleared the mound, giving him a moment to tend to Farrell’s wounds.
“Rod,” Farrell gurgled, “get out of here! Make a run for it. I’m afraid I’m done.”
Rod knelt at his side, not knowing where to start or what to do with so many wounds and so much blood! “I’m not leaving you. We’ll make it. I’ll get you back, somehow, I’ll get you back.” With that said, Rod lifted the borrowed assault rifle and fired three rounds into the air, hoping that Clark would hear and be able to help. “Can you walk? If I get you on your feet, do you think you can walk?”
“Nope, can’t even feel my legs.” He coughed, a mixture of blood and spittle misting the air and splattering Rod’s face and neck. “There’s no time. While they come for me, get into the bottom and run for the truck. Keys . . . ” again he coughed, emitting more of his precious life-giving fluid. “Pocket, take them.”
“Stop talking like that! We’re both going home!” Rod was trying to convince himself just as much as he was Farrell. Leaving the mortally wounded man for a moment, the younger Jenson crept back to the top of the rise and peered over. Three men, one very large, moved from one piece of cover to the next, cutting the distance between them but still a good 100 yards away. He swung the rifle over the hilltop and hammered each of their positions with a burst. “That’ll give ‘em something to think about!” he said, rolling away from the crest and back to his brother.
Blood was now dripping from Farrell’s chest and sides, pooling on the ground around him. As Rod peeled back the blood-soaked shirt, multiple entrance wounds were visible, each oozing or pumping plasma. Rod’s hands covered them, applying pressure, hysterically trying to save the dying man. Farrell reached up, placing his left hand over Rod’s and held it against his chest. Their eyes met and a message was conveyed between the two that required no words. Best friends from their youth, companions through the most difficult of life’s journeys and now their hearts torn in twain as the older man whispered his dying words.
“Its okay. We gave it . . . ” he sputtered again, trying desperately to get the words out. “Promise me . . . ” the words trailed off and his eyes closed for just a few seconds.
“Anything! You know I’ll take care of Elva. I’ll see to it that she’s always well cared for!”
“Wish I . . . I could see my boy.” A stream of tears began at the corner of the rough man’s eyes and ran steadily down his temples and onto the ground. Rod ran his hand through his brother’s wavy hair, smoothing it back and providing what little comfort he could. “Rodney.”
“What, I’m right here.”
“No, . . . name,” Farrell whispered, his eyes now fully closed, a peaceful, pain-free look crossing his face.
“I don’t understand. What do you want?” a confused Rod asked.
“Baby’s middle name,” he managed to say, very faintly but still audible. “Rodney.”
With their hands still clenched together, blood spilling over both, Rod asked, “You want the baby’s middle name to be Rodney? Is that right?”
Farrell did not answer but nodded his head just enough to confirm the request. Another few seconds passed, with nothing said. Rod was beside himself, unable to bring the words to his mouth that he so passionately wanted to share. He pressed his face into his brother’s neck, bringing their cheeks together, as he hugged him tightly. Farrell used the last remaining ounce of strength that he had to wrap his left arm around Rod’s neck and squeezed him tight. “I love you,” he gently uttered into his brother’s ear.
“And I you . . . and I you,” Rod said between sobs.
“Tell Elva . . . tell her . . . I’m sorry.”
“I will.”
“Do . . . do you think . . . Mom,” there was a long pause, the air moving in and out of the big man’s lungs slowing and barely perceptible. “Will she . . . have cookies . . . waiting for me?”
“I’m sure she will, and Dad, Shirt and our sisters will be there to share them with you,” Rod squeaked out, sitting back and looking into his brother’s face.
“Elva . . . Elva.” His grip weakened, his hand fell to his side, the gentle breathing stopped and he was gone.
It took only seconds for Rod’s anguish to turn to anger, a vengeful, acrimonious rage that needed release. Picking up the Harvester’s assault rifle, he fashioned the bandolier around his chest and checked the weapon, confirming that it was fully loaded. Kneeling next to his brother’s body he called upon God in a fervent cry for help, not to escape but to avenge his brother’s death and bring those responsible to the judgment bar of God. “Make my feet swift and my aim sure!” he concluded, before springing to his feet and running for the knoll, and his destiny beyond.
* * *
Clark had just cleared the dense brush on the northwestern slope of the valley when he saw Rod jump over a rise 50 yards to his left. Rifle fire erupted directly in front of Clark, all directed up the hill at the charging Jenson. A man, clad in jeans and black leather vest, a logo crudely stitched into the back, which read Harvesters, knelt behind a cluster of rocks, firing wildly up the hill. Clark could have casually walked up behind the brute and slit his throat but there was no time. He lifted the fully automatic rifle and drilled a pattern into the logo, slumping the man over the rocks, his weapon clattering to the ground before coming to rest in a patch of spring flowers.
With his confidence bolstered and the battle swinging in their favor, Clark surged up the remaining few steps of the valley and onto the gently, descending slope Rod was recklessly traversing. From his vantage point, Clark could see two men pouring lead from their weapons at the running, rage-filled sprinter. Joining the race from an angle of 90 degrees, the mustached Ward member opened up with his rifle as he began to run at the two stationary assailants. Drawing fire from two attackers was more than the fatter one could take. Forgetting the fight, he turned and began to waddle down the hill, his gut bouncing and swinging side-to-side with each panicked step.
Rod’s feet carried him faster and faster down the slope, jumping obstacles as he went, the weapon a relentless staccato of streaming lead. The fire from his right had ceased, so he concentrated on shelling the center mass, assuming it to be Don Bullock, and then back to the left. Suddenly from his right he saw movement, someone also running and firing at the would-be killers. “Clark!” he yelled, not so much for his friend to hear, but to confirm for himself that he was not alone. On the fly, and with bullets bouncing all around him, Rod reloaded the rifle and kept up the steady drone of blasts that finally silenced the entrenched Harvester. Neither knew who had fired the fatal round that killed the man but it was apparent, once the two friends converged on the site, that the lowlife would never harvest another liver.
“You okay?” Clark asked, trying to catch his breath while tossing the rifle aside, completely void of ammunition.
Rod gestured in the negative without speaking. He bent over and pressed the assault rifle into both knees, fighting to control his feelings, emotional exhaustion setting in.
“Where’s Farrell?”
Rod swung his eyes to the knoll and nodded, “Up there beyond the crest.”
“He hurt?”
“Dead,” Rod confirmed.
“No . . . Rod, no! Not Farrell too!”
The Jenson brother looked down the hill, the site of Bullock boiling his soul with a yet, unquenched wrath. “It’s his turn! We end this now!” Rod seethed, pointing at the obese character fleeing down the mountainside.
“I couldn’t agree more. You go left and I’ll go right,” Clark issued, with a determined ‘we’re comin’ for ya’ look on his face.
“Don’t kill him. I want him alive. I want him to see what he’s done before he meets his maker,” Rod ordered.
The two split up and descended the mountain at a full press. They stopped periodically to fire their weapons in front of Don, which eventually brought him to a stop, his hands raised in the air. The assault rifle he’d used to kill Farrell dangled from his fingertips. As the two men approached him, Bullock released the weapon and let it bounce and pitch into the dirt. “I’m unarmed! I’m unarmed!”
“Can I kill him now?” Clark asked.
“I’m unarmed! Can’t you hear me?” Bullock screamed.
“Not just yet.” Rod approached the portly leader, walking a full circle around him, before holding the heated barrel of his rifle with one hand and slamming the butt of the gun into Don’s oversized belly. He doubled over in pain, throwing up on the ground in front of him.
“All right Tubby, march!” Rod stressed the order by ramming the heated barrel into Don’s backside.
They revisited the battlefield, one step at a time, the walk much harder on Don than the other two. No one spoke; the only sound came from the rotund fellow, his labored breathing and moaning being carried away on the wind. Reaching the crest where Farrell lay, Rod shoved the barrel deeper into Don’s flabby back, pushing him closer to his brother’s remains.
“Do you see what you’ve done?” Rod asked.
Don kept his peace but a very faint, almost imperceptible wry smile curled the outer corners of his mouth. Rod again plunged the rifle butt into his mid-section, bringing forth a string of expletives and pleadings for his life. They fell on deaf ears.
Rod moved to Farrell’s side, his back to Bullock. “He was the best. He was my brother and you’ve taken him from me.”
“Yeah, but . . . ”
“But nothing!” Rod’s tone was sure, and silenced the Harvester’s leader with an abrupt finality in his voice. With the hefty man at his back, Rod slid the Old Timer hunting knife from the sheath at Farrell’s side, the nine-inch blade, razor-sharp and gleaming. “What do we do with you now, Don?” he asked, not really expecting an answer.
Don stuttered, looking for the words that would save his life. “Let me go. I’ll go wherever you want me to. I’ll vanish, won’t cause you folks no more trouble. You can trust me,” he said, the sweat pouring from his face.
Rod stayed at his brother’s side. His heart wanted to believe the obese villain but his logic told him otherwise. Men like Bullock thrived on power; he would never relinquish what he had. If they let him live, Rod suspected they’d be fighting the same battle again, just on a different battlefield, with more friends dying and more heartache. The younger Jenson looked into the lifeless face of his brother, searching for a solution or sign that would help bring peace to himself and The Ward. As he’d walked up the hill, he’d envisioned pulling the knife from Farrell’s sheath and slitting the pig’s throat, but now, with the knife in hand, the task seemed impossible.
“Rod, you want me to walk him down the hill and drill one through his brain?” Clark asked. “We owe it to Farrell and Roger to dispose of this garbage!”
“I know. I know, but is that who we are, Clark? Do we become killers in the name of justice?”
“Yeah, you guys are better than that,” Don blurted out, his tone a whistling annoyance.
“Shut up!” Clark said, punching the fat man in the side with the butt of his rifle.
Don doubled over but the pleading didn’t stop. Rod couldn’t even bring himself to face the killer, hatred and revenge ripping him apart.
“Come on Mr. Jenson, I’ll do whatever it takes. I’m begging. Is that what you want? Do you want me to beg?” There was no answer but the big man dropped to his knees, clasped his hands together as if in worship and continued to plead for his life.
“Get up! You sicken me!” Clark said, moving to stand in front of the Harvester, prompting him to his feet. Rod imagined the scene behind him but did not take his eyes off Farrell. He still held the knife in his right hand while resting the left on his brother’s cold, bare arm.
“Okay, okay, help me up,” Don insisted, reaching out to Clark, while trying to lift his enormous weight back to his feet. Clark hesitated; taking just a fraction of a second to look at Rod, giving Don the chance he’d been counting on. Men with compassion were always the easiest to kill. Bullock propelled himself forward, launching his weight into Clark and knocking him backwards. He snapped his forehead into Clark’s face, breaking his nose and dropping him to the ground. The two wrestled with the rifle, Don pulling it away with another head-butt, sending Clark into darkness.
The rotund brawler turned, pulling the trigger and swinging the barrel in the same motion, anticipating that Rod would still be near his brother. He was not. Slugs flew, striking only dirt and air. In that instant, Bullock knew he was dead. From his left, Rod leapt at the big man, whipping his left hand around the back of Don’s neck, giving him the leverage he needed to drive the blade upwards, through his bloated diaphragm and into the beast’s beating heart. He twisted the handle bef
ore withdrawing the knife from his brother’s nemesis, then stepped back and watched the man bleed out and die.
* * *
The ride back to The Alamo was heart wrenching for the surviving friends. The minute they’d made it back to the trucks, a second wave of bad news was thrown in their laps. A distressed Godfrey could be heard as they approached the vehicles, his British accent unmistakable and lifting above the ambient noises all around them. “Mayday, Mayday! Farrell, we need you back at the campus right away. There’s something wrong with Elva!” The words filtered through the radio, repeating again and again.
Rod had carried his brother, while Clark had managed with the smaller man, Roger. They were the most difficult steps either man had ever taken, not due to the physical hardship but from the emotional toll levied against each. Gathering the bodies had begun with Roger. The two had made the difficult walk back up the canyon to retrieve his equipment and remains, the men quiet, their thoughts their own. Clark had insisted on performing the duty himself; Rod would need all of his strength to carry his brother down the mountain. They did nothing with the bullet-riddled corpses of the Harvesters; they would be torn, devoured and scattered before the week was out.
As the laborers approached the sacred ground where Farrell lay, the brothers-in-arms could see a commotion, a territorial battle, taking place for the abundant feast that was Don Bullock’s carcass. Two large, turkey vultures pranced on the dead man’s chest and abdomen, flapping their wings at one another, their bald, red heads ducking and weaving to avoid the other’s feigned attempt at an attack. Clark looked about for signs of others but there were only the two, dancing and vying for ownership of the freshly deposited carrion.
From a short distance, Rod and Clark watched the display without speaking, until Rod finally said what they were both thinking. “Well, there’s Kim and Farrell fulfilling Kim Jenkins’ last request.”
The Living Hunger Page 38