The day after: An apocalyptic morning

by Jessy Cruise

  "Oh yeah?" Skip asked. "Did you give her some of the morphine?" El Dorado Hills, though they had not volunteered to allow their physician to fly out for the battle, had donated considerable medical supplies for stabilization and pain control. Morphine, Dilaudid, and Demerol - all heavy narcotics - were among those staples.

  Janet nodded. "And a few other things," she said.

  "She let me burn a joint in here," Susan said. "Some of the good shit too. I'm flyin higher than you were."

  Skip laughed a little. "I'm glad you're feeling okay, Suse," he said, reaching down and giving her good hand a squeeze. "I'm sorry you had to get shot up to have it happen."

  "Fuckin bullet just came flyin in there," Susan said. "Boom, and next thing I know, I'm bleeding all over the damn place. Some soldier I am."

  "It's not your fault you got hit," Skip told her. "You did good out there. You guys threw back that first strike and put a serious fucking hurt on those assholes."

  "Good," she said. "I only wish poor Helen would've been as lucky as me. I saw her when they brought us in." She shook her head a little, a tear forming in her eye.

  Skip had noted the absence of Helen in the room when he came in. "Did she go easy?" he asked Janet.

  "As easy as could be," Janet told him. "She was still awake but couldn't breathe very well. I... well... I gave her morphine to quiet her." She paused a little, a tear forming in her eye as well. "A lot of morphine."

  Skip put his arm around her and gave her a comforting hug. "That's all you can do, Janet," he told her. "It's better that way."

  "I know," she said softly. "I just wish I knew why we're going through all of this. Why are those men attacking us, killing our people and making us kill them? What's the point of it all? Haven't enough people died from the comet?"

  "I don't know, Janet," he said. "It doesn't make a lot of sense to me either."

  They stood that way for a moment, Skip's arm around her, both of them silently watching Susan, who had lost track of the conversation and was staring intently at a Thomas Kincaid reprint on the wall.

  "I'd better get back up there," Skip said at last, breaking the embrace. "Part two is about to start."

  "What kind of casualty count are we looking at?" Janet wanted to know.

  He shrugged, unable to give her even a guess. "As few as possible I hope," he told her.

  "Another napalm canister on the chopper, sir," Corporal Andrews said, pointing up at the aircraft that was just now spiraling up to altitude from the direction of the town.

  "Jesus," Stu said, shaking his head and looking at it with fear. "How many of those fucking things do they have?" He was gripping his rifle closely as he lay on his stomach behind a fallen log three hundred yards from the center hill held by the Garden Hill bitches. Around him, on both sides and utilizing every piece of cover they could find, was every man that had not been sent out to accomplish the flank attacks: a grand total of ten uninjured and twelve that were too wounded to participate in the attack but well enough to fire a gun. He and this rag-tag understrength collection made up the new fifth platoon of the militia and their job would be to put covering fire on the center hill during the attack.

  "What should we do?" Andrew asked fearfully, wanting very badly to bolt and run as far away as he could.

  "Hold here until they start to close," Stu said, lifting up his radio. He keyed it up. "Heads up everyone," he said into it, transmitting his words to all squad and platoon leaders, "the chopper is back in town and it has another canister beneath it. Keep an eye on it and scatter if it tries to close with you. Remember, do it organized and that thing can't hurt you. Panic, and it'll kill you."

  No one acknowledged his words but he knew that everyone had heard them. He continued to watch the helicopter and it's deadly cargo, waiting for it to start an attack run. But it didn't. It simply took up a watching position over the Garden Hill positions and went into a hover.

  "Come on, asshole," Stu challenged. "You want to hit us, then do it."

  The chopper didn't budge. Soon Stu was forced to conclude that it was holding its canister in reserve. Probably, he figured, because they didn't have any troops near the main concentrations to fire the tracer rounds that would ignite the napalm. Maybe they were even now moving those troops over!

  "Sir?" Andrews said, breaking his concentration a little.

  "Shut the fuck up," Stu barked at him. "I need to get this attack rolling before they think to shift their positions around." He keyed up his radio again. "Stinson, Lima, are you in position?"

  "We're formed up over here," Stinson's voice said. He was in command of the troops hitting the left flank. "What's the word on that helicopter? Is it going to hit us again?"

  "I don't know what the fuck its gonna do," Stu barked into the radio. "Do I look like a fuckin psychic? Just get ready to move in."

  There was a crackle of static on the frequency and then a prolonged pause with the carrier open. Finally Stinson's voice replied: "Sure, we're ready when you give the word."

  "Good," Stu said. "Lima, you there?"

  "Here, sir," Lima, who was a little greener than Stinson, replied instantly. "We're in position and ready to advance."

  "All right," Stu said. "We're going to start putting fire on that hill in front of us to keep their heads down. Once you hear our gunshots, both of you move in. Keep me advised on your progress. I want to be standing on top of those fucking hills looking down at a bunch of dead bitches in less than thirty minutes."

  After both leaders acknowledged his orders he turned to his own men. "All right," he told them. "Let's start shooting."

  They opened up, most firing single-shot rifles, a few with semi-autos, and Stu with his fully automatic M-16. They peppered the ground on the hill before them, the concussions from the shots stinging their ears. They had absolutely no idea that there was not a soul in occupancy on the hill they were firing at.

  On the flanks the two groups of fifty-six men heard the echo of the fire reach them. Their commanders gave the order - in both cases with a distinct lack of enthusiasm - and they stood up and began to move. They formed up loosely, as they had before, with no clear point position and with their numbers spread widely, only a few layers deep. They moved at a near run, their weapons held at the ready, their eyes searching the terrain before them for the telltale flash of weapons firing. Though they were anxious, none of them thought that they were going to be fired upon until they were well forward and starting to come around behind the outside positions that had pasted them so soundly in the first attack. They were at the far end of the range of those hills. None of them, not a single one, seriously considered the thought that their enemy might have shifted place to put themselves in front of them once more.

  "They're moving in," Skip's voice announced over the VHF radio a moment later. "Estimate fifty to sixty troops heading rapidly towards both flank positions. Mick, Paula, get ready for them. You should have a visual any second now."

  Paula spotted her quarry first, or at least one of her women did. Within a few seconds, everyone had spotted the line of dirty soldiers trotting towards them through the mud and around the trees. Weapons came to bear and safeties were clicked off. Everyone felt the anticipation of battle slip away to be replaced by the almost relieving adrenaline rush that came with the actuality of it.

  They watched silently as the line continued to close in, not needing to assign targets since everyone already knew their sector of responsibility. Paula gave no last minute reminders to her troops as she had the first time. Her troops were veterans of this technique now and to do so would be insulting. Finally, after three agonizing minutes, the first of the enemy crossed the three hundred yard-yard barrier.

  Paula waited until nearly half of them had crossed over and then gave the order: "Riflemen, fire at will."

  Rifles began to crack and bullets began to fly downrange. Even before the first bullet hit, the enemy were diving into the mud. Before the second volley was sent out, they were retur
ning fire.

  Within one minute of the first shot from Paula's position, Mick's position a half a mile to the west opened up on the group advancing on them as well.

  The second battle had begun.

  Four of Stinson's men had been taken down with the initial volley and an additional two since then. Now everyone had found reasonably good cover behind rocks or trees. Stu's voice was screaming over the radio, demanding to know what the hell was going on but he ignored it for the moment. He fired a short burst at one of the flashes coming from the hill, knowing he probably wasn't hitting anything but doing it anyway.

  "Goddammit, Brandon," he shouted at one of his corporals, "easy on that automatic. Bursts you asshole, bursts! Don't fire a whole fuckin clip off at once!"

  Brandon ignored him completely, slamming another magazine in and firing half of it off with one trigger pull. Perhaps the first three bullets went where he had aimed them but the rest flew well over the top of the hills as the barrel was forced up.

  Stinson ignored the fact that he'd been ignored and turned his attention elsewhere. Two of his squads were still lingering in the rear, where it was reasonably safe. "Sanders, Jackson," he barked at the leaders of those squads. "Get your people the fuck up here and help us put fire on that hill! Get in the fuckin war why don't you?"

  They at least did as he ordered, bringing their understrength squads up to covering positions. One of them, a young private from the Grass Valley raid, didn't move fast enough or crouch low enough and was drilled with two bullets. Stinson shook his head a little, wondering just what the hell was going on. What were they doing out here, having a gun battle with a bunch of women? What was the damn point?

  "Stinson, Lima," Stu's voice barked from the radio once more, "what the hell is going on out there? Report!"

  "Asshole," Stinson muttered, ducking as the next volley of fire came rolling in from in front of them. The tree he was hiding behind took several shots right on the other side of his head. It was becoming such a common occurrence that he hardly jumped. He pulled out his radio and keyed up. "Stinson here," he said, shouting into it so he could be heard over the noise of gunfire, "we're taking fire from the hills at our one o'clock. I estimate platoon strength up there at least."

  "Who is firing from up there?" Stu demanded. "They don't have that many people!"

  "Well they sure as shit dug them up from somewhere!" Stinson yelled back. "Or maybe we're imagining all this fucking lead flying at us!"

  "You watch your mouth with me," Stu said angrily. "Remember who you're talking to!"

  "I remember," Stinson said. "We're pinned down at the moment but seem to be safe. The fire has slacked off some. I've got seven casualties."

  "Hold in place for now," Stu told him. "And conserve ammo if you can. Lima, are you there? What's your situation?"

  Lima's voice came on the air a moment later. He was very excited and gunfire could be heard in the background. "We're under fire from the hills," he yelled. "We're also taking crossfire from the left! I have nine dead and four wounded!"

  There was a long silence over the airwaves as Stu pondered this new information. Finally he came back on. "Stinson, Lima," he said, "you need to move your troops forward. Split your commands in two and advance half at a time! One group gives covering fire while the other group moves forward and then you do it the other way."

  Stinson looked at his radio in disbelief for a moment. Around him, those squad leaders that had radios were looking at theirs as well. Was Stu insane? Advance into that fire? The bitches hadn't even pulled out their automatic weapons yet.

  "Stinson, Lima, Goddammit, did you copy me?"

  Stinson keyed his radio up, not sure what was going to come out of his mouth. "Stu," he said into it. "With all due respect, we'll take very heavy casualties if we try to advance against them. They're behind heavy cover and they have automatic weapons."

  "I agree with Stinson, sir," Lima cut in before Stu had a chance to reply. "I'm not sure we can take this hill with the troops we have available."

  "Now listen up, you two," Stu growled back at them. "You will advance to those hills now! At this very fucking minute! We need to take them and get rid of this resistance while we have a fucking chance to do it, before they shift their forces around again and make it even harder. The covering fire from the static half of the advance will keep their heads down while the other half moves. You won't just be charging into a slaughter. Now fucking do it or I'll see every one of you that lives through this hang when we get back to Auburn! Or better yet, I'll fucking shoot you myself right here!"

  There was another pause and then Lima's voice said: "Copy, sir. We'll be moving in."

  Stinson continued to stare at his radio, shaking in fear and rage.

  "Stinson," Stu's voice barked, "did you copy your orders?"

  His men were looking at him, waiting for him to do something. Finally he did. He was naturally the type to avoid confrontation with others, particularly those in power over him. True, he had become somewhat more aggressive over the course of the march, he had even mouthed off to Stu just now. But when push came to shove, when the time for a real decision came, he found himself unable to deny the authority. "I copy," he said into the radio. "We'll be moving in shortly."

  He actually heard the collective gasp of his remaining men as he said these words. He could feel the burning of their murderous glares upon his face. He was suddenly very scared, and not just of being killed in battle. But he allowed no fear to show on his face. Calmly, he turned to them. "You heard the man," he said evenly. "First, second, and third squads, get ready to advance. Fourth and fifth squads, get ready to lay down some covering fire."

  Nobody moved, they all continued to glare at him. He stared back. "You guys want to mutiny?" he asked them. "You want to disobey orders and pull back from here? Go ahead if you dare. Just remember, you may be saving your asses for the moment, but we have to go back to Auburn eventually. You'll live through the battle but you'll hang for mutiny."

  Uncertainty showed in most faces at his words. They realized there wasn't really much of an option. As perverse as it sounded, their best chance of long-term survival meant rushing into the onslaught of rifle fire.

  "Let's get it done," Stinson said, sensing the change in mood. "We don't have all fuckin day. Fourth and fifth, covering fire!"

  A rifle popped from one of the men, sending a bullet towards the Garden Hill positions. Another pop followed. Soon, nearly twenty rifles were firing at them.

  "All right," Stinson said over the tactical radio, "first, second, and third squads, move in!"

  They obeyed him. Though they had been on the very verge of mutiny a moment before, thirty men now pulled themselves to their feet, hefted their weapons, and began rushing forward.

  The covering group fired as quickly as they could, plastering the hillside with bullets in an attempt to keep the enemy's head down. It worked to a certain degree but not quite as well as was hoped. The flashes of return fire still appeared only not as intense as the initial barrage. Men in the advancing platoon began to fall. Two of them fell down about thirty yards in and then another three went quickly after this. One more crashed to the ground at about the fifty-yard line.

  "Get down," Stinson ordered over the tactical radio. "Get down and take cover!"

  The men didn't have to be told twice. They hurled themselves into the mud and found whatever piece of shelter they could from the rain of lead that was hitting them. No sooner had they settled in however, than bullets began to plink in from another direction; from the hillside to the right of them.

  "Goddammit," Corporal Givens, one of the squad leaders from the advancing half of the platoon, yelled into his radio. "We're taking fire from our two o'clock. They've got us in a fucking crossfire again!" Even as these words were leaving his mouth, the man to the right of him suddenly gasped and slumped forward as a bullet smashed through his shoulder and into his chest.

  "Hold in place," Stinson yelled back. "Start pu
tting fire on the hill in front of you! The sooner we make it to that hill, the sooner they stop shooting at us."

  Givens heard this and shook his head in disgust. "What the fuck are we doing this for?" he mumbled to himself. To his men, he yelled: "Covering fire on the hill, right now!"

  The rifles began to pop as the lead group took over the job of keeping the enemy occupied. Stinson gripped his rifle and looked at the men with him. "Let's go," he told them. "We'll advance to the left of Givens' group and take up position fifty yards in front of them. Go fast and keep low."

  They began their dash. Stinson, as any commander would do, waited until they were all under way and then brought up the rear. His feet pumped up and down and his back cried in protest from the hunched over gait. Mud splashed up over his legs and onto his feet. He stepped over the top of the bodies that had fallen in the first advance, not giving them a second glance, not even Private Landau, who was still screaming for help. Two of his men went down with body shots before they even reached Givens' position. But it was when they passed this point and began to move into new territory that the punishment really started. The defenders on the hill opened up with their automatic and semi-automatic weapons.

  Stinson clearly saw the rapid, flashbulb-like flashes from the gaps in the cover. He kept running. Three of his men were peppered with bursts of fire, blood flying out of holes ripped in their backs, brains flying out of smashed skulls, bodies thumping into the mud. He stepped over them and kept going. Two more men were mowed down - one with legs cut out from beneath him, one with a gut shot that exited just above the buttocks. Stinson himself felt a sting across the side of his face, had an impression of something whizzing just under his ear. It took him a moment to realize that a bullet had just kissed him, digging a furrow in his face but not penetrating. He ran faster, wanting desperately to dive down and take cover.

  At last it was time. When two more men were down and the rest were sixty yards closer to the hill, he gave the order. "Down! Take cover!"

  Within a second every last one of his men was face down in the mud, scrambling for cover.