The day after: An apocalyptic morning

by Jessy Cruise

  "Steady," Paula told everyone, her finger caressing her trigger, her mind marking the spot where the 200-yard mark was. She picked a small group of trees that she figured was about that distance, commanding herself not to be conservative. Though letting them get that close went against every instinct that she had, she knew she had to trust Skip's instincts more than her own.

  Finally the first of the men stepped past her invisible line. She waited until a few more passed over as well. And then, unable to stand it anymore, she gave the order to fire.

  Stinson was getting edgier and edgier with each step that they took forward. They had already gone well beyond the point where he had figured contact would be made with the enemy. Why weren't they firing? He could not bring himself to believe that they were really going to march in without any opposition.

  "Something's not right," he said to Stu, who was about ten feet to his left and slightly behind. "They should have shot at us by now."

  "They're probably..." Stu started, but he never finished.

  From the hills directly in front of them, barely two hundred yards away, a multitude of flashes suddenly erupted, including the repeating flashes of automatics. The range was much too short for there to be a meaningful reaction time and before anyone could dive down, a wall of lead came rolling in, cutting into their ranks like a lawnmower. Screams filled the air as more than fifteen men went down at once, blood flying from their bodies.

  "Get down!" Stinson and Stu and several squad leaders yelled simultaneously. They yelled even as they were doing this themselves. It was an unnecessary order in any case since everyone left at this point in the battle was well versed in the concept of getting their asses in the mud when the shooting started.

  Unfortunately, in this circumstance, hitting the dirt did precious little good. The range from which the gunfire was coming was simply too close, the gunfire itself far too accurate. Before anyone could scramble to cover, another volley of fire slammed into them, riddling those on the ground with bullets. More screams pierced the air as another six or seven were shot to pieces where they lie. Stinson himself had a burst of fire stitch through the mud less than two feet in front of him, spraying dirt and water into his face and temporarily blinding him.

  "Return fire!" Stu screamed, unleashing a burst with his automatic. "Get some fucking fire up on those hills, you assholes!"

  Stinson, like everyone else, ignored him in favor of finding some sort of cover to stop the deadly rain of bullets. He found a large rock that had once been under ground but that the constant rain had exposed due to erosion. No sooner had he pulled his body behind it then more bullets came flying in, this time from the flanks. He looked up just in time to see the flashes from the hills to the left and right of the position from which the original fire had come. "Jesus Christ," he said, terrified. Three more men fell to it in less than five seconds. "Stu," he cried at the leader, who was crouching behind a fallen log twelve feet to the right. "They've got us in a crossfire! We need to pull back!"

  "We're not pulling back!" Stu yelled. He fired one more burst and then looked over at Stinson. "We need to get around on the flank," he said. "We'll leapfrog again, just like before. You lead first and second squad over there, I'll lead the rest. Get ready to go!"

  "We can't flank them," Stinson protested angrily. "Goddammit you idiot, they're on both sides of us and up the fucking middle. They're killing us! We need to pull back!"

  "We'll give you covering fire, just like before!" Stu yelled. "Now get going before they kill all of us!"

  "They're in trenches, Stu!" Stinson yelled back, making no move to get ready to charge. "Don't you see that? Adams was telling the truth! They're firing at us from trenches and our covering fire won't do any fucking good!"

  Stu simply glared back at him, seemingly not hearing this last piece of information. "I gave you an order!" he said. "Get your fucking squad moving right now or I'll shoot you where you are! Do you understand me?"

  Stinson stared back, ignoring another burst of fire that slammed into his rock. He knew that even if he tried to go forward, there was no way in hell that the men would follow him. They had reached the end of their rope. The unit cohesion - while it might have been enough to get them to advance under light resistance - would never hold under an advance against this murderous fire. There was simply no way. Even now, as the first and second in command stared at each other, three more men were shot to death, victims of the crossfire from the right and left.

  "Did you fucking hear me?" Stu yelled at Stinson. "Get your ass moving!"

  Stinson didn't pause to debate what he did next, which is probably why he was able to do it. "I hear you," he said softly. He raised his M-16 up and pointed it at Stu. He squeezed the trigger, holding it down tightly. The weapon was still set on full automatic fire and Stu had time for one quick look of shock and surprise before his face, neck, and body were riddled with an entire clip of ammunition. He flopped, rolled, and bounced, blood flying into the air around him. Even after the action locked open on the empty chamber, Stinson continued to hold the trigger down. Around him the men, who had somehow known that that burst of fire was something different than return fire, were staring at him in shock as the bullets continued to fly in.

  "I'm taking command of this group," Stinson yelled out calmly. "Does anyone have an issue with that?"

  No one answered him, either in the positive or the negative.

  "Good," Stinson said. "My first order is to cease fire. Do not return fire at them. We're pulling back!"

  The looks of relief were unmistakable.

  Skip watched out the window of the chopper at the slaughter taking place below. Already he could tell that the militia would not be able to hold on for more than another minute or so before they went fleeing in terror back the way they had come. And when they did that the troops in the trenches would keep up the volume of fire on them, perhaps dropping half of the survivors as they retreated. And then, when the ones who survived that gathered in the rear to lick their wounds, he would direct Jack and Sherrie to drop the napalm canister on them. It was not something he was looking forward to, but it was something that would have to be done.

  "It's almost too easy," Jack said, obviously less than happy about the slaughter as well. "They don't have a chance."

  "They were given a choice," Skip said. "I didn't make it for them."

  "I know."

  Skip noticed now that there was no longer any return fire coming from the militia positions. What was up with that? Surely they hadn't killed everyone down there. And surely they weren't out of ammunition yet.

  The answer came a moment later when the CB band, which they were routinely monitoring, came to life. "Garden Hill command," said an unfamiliar voice. "This is militia command. Do you copy? Request immediate communication!"

  "What the hell?" Jack said.

  "Who was that?" Sherrie, who had heard everything through her headset, asked.

  "That wasn't our friend Stu," Skip said. "That's for sure."

  "Are you going to answer him?" asked Jack.

  Skip nodded and reached forward to turn the transmit frequency back to the militia channel. He keyed up. "This is Skip Adams," he said. "Go ahead militia commander. And please identify yourself."

  "This is Sergeant Stinson, new commander of the militia," said the voice. "I'm requesting an immediate cease fire."

  Skip and Jack shared a look with each other. Skip keyed up again. "Why should we do that?" he asked. "And where is Covington? Has he been killed?"

  "I killed Covington," said Stinson. "I did what should have been done a long time ago. I realize that we have crossed over the line that you drew in the mud down here, but I would like to accept the offer that you made earlier. We will surrender, drop our weapons, and go home right now if you cease fire."

  Skip didn't hesitate a bit. "We accept your terms," he said. "Hold in place and I'll contact my commanders. I'm warning you though, if you fire so much as a single shot towards us,
if you so much as take one step in any direction but back to the highway, you will all be under a death sentence."

  "Believe me, Adams," Stinson returned, "the last thing in the world that anyone of us left down here want is to be shot at any more. We'll put down our guns as soon as the firing stops."

  "Stand by," Skip said. "I'll be right back to you. Don't move until I tell you to."

  Sherrie seemed a little concerned. "Could they be trying to trick us?" she asked.

  "They could be," Skip said. "But I don't see what good it would do them. They're beaten. I think they're probably on the up and up." He reached forward and turned the frequency knob on the radio again, bringing him back to the VHF frequency. "Mick, Christine, Paula," he said. "The militia is surrendering. Cease fire immediately. I repeat: cease fire immediately. It's over. Please acknowledge."

  It was perhaps the longest minute of his entire life. After Adams told Stinson he would be right back with him, the bullets had continued to fly in. Two more men were killed and one injured as shots hit them. They all itched to pick up their rifles and shoot back at their tormentors, but none of them did, everyone knowing the consequences. All they could do was lie there behind their rocks and their trees and hope that they could live long enough for the communication channels of Garden Hill to work.

  Finally, after an eternity, the last groups of bullets came rolling in, hitting trees, plunking in mud, and whizzing through the air. The sound of the gunshots that had sent them lasted another few seconds as they trailed behind the projectiles. The last crack of a rifle echoed away into the distance and then, at long last, there was quiet, broken only by the sound of the rain and the groans of the wounded. The war was over.

  "Stinson, are you there?" came Adams' voice on the radio.

  "I'm here," he answered, rolling onto his back and sighing in relief. No Micker what else happened, he was at least alive.

  "The cease fire is now in effect," Adams told him. "Our troops are watching you very carefully of course, and they still have their weapons trained upon you, but they will not fire upon you unless you fire at them or you start forward."

  "Thank you," Stinson said. "Thank you very much."

  "Don't thank me," Adams said. "Thank yourselves. And remember this moment the next time talk in Auburn turns to conquest of Garden Hill. We don't go quietly."

  "No," Stinson agreed. "You certainly don't. For what its worth, most of us didn't want to come here in the first place."

  "But still you did," he answered. "We have free will as human beings. You folks came here and you caused the deaths of not only many of your people, but many of ours as well. And for what? For nothing. Had you taken our town you would have captured a few men, a few women, a few children and some food supplies. Was what you suffered really worth all of that? Don't bother answering me, I'm not up here to converse with you, just to get you out of here so we can go back to existing. I expect you to start your pullback to the highway immediately, without your rifles. We have two more hours of fuel in this helicopter and by the time we have to land to fill up the tank, I want you and your people back on the freeway and past the border sign that you encountered on the way in. On your return, you will follow the freeway lanes wherever possible. We will be watching you."

  Stinson looked around at the men that had been shot. Many of them were dead but more than a few were merely wounded. And then there was the group of wounded back at the original jump-off point. "What about our wounded?" he asked Adams. "What should we do with them?"

  "Those that can walk, take with you," Adams replied. "Those that cannot, you can either carry them on litters or leave them where they are."

  "Will you treat them if we leave them?" Stinson asked.

  "They will be killed where they are," Adams told him coldly. "We don't have the resources to care for enemy wounded; we have enough problems caring for our own. Sorry. Again, this goes back to the choices you made when you started marching this way."

  Stinson sighed. "I understand," he said. "We'll take as many as we can."

  "And make sure that the ones you leave behind," Adams added, "do not have any weapons available to them. Remove their rifles and place them apart from them. Take away their sidearms. If any of my people are shot at while we are clearing our terrain, if even a single bullet flies from one of your wounded that you leave behind, then this armistice that we have agreed upon will be null and void and we will hunt you down on your return march."

  "I understand," Stinson said again. "It will be done."

  "Good," Adams said. "I suggest you start doing it then."

  Stinson sighed again and put the radio away. He looked over at the men, all of whom were still lying in the mud, still unable to believe that it was really over. "Everybody who is not wounded," he said. "Form up on me. We got some work to do."

  Part 21

  It was approaching 4:00 PM on the afternoon following the battle and Skip was in a room in the El Dorado Hills elementary school that had been converted to a hospital room. It had once been one of the smaller classrooms just off of the former administration area. The desks had been removed and replaced with a four portable beds of varying type. The one that Skip was lying on had once been someone's hide-a-bed. His closest neighbor, Susan, who was only four feet away, was lying in a cot. She still had a bloody bandage covering her shoulder wound. She, like Skip, had yet to be operated on. Both of them had IV locks installed in their arms through which they were given injections of Dilaudid and Torridol every two hours to help with the pain and inflammation. Across the room from them were Rhonda and Sarah, both of whom had already been through their surgical procedures by the weary, overworked general practitioner and were now sleeping the sleep of the very heavily drugged. On the chalkboard at the front of the room the four occupant's names were chalked in and separated into columns by vertical lines. In these columns were vital signs, which were taken and charted every fifteen minutes, and the last drug dosages. Near the front of the room was Jennifer Harris, a middle-aged woman who had once been a teacher at the school and who was now one of the newly christened nurses. She was sitting down in a chair reading through a physician's desk reference manual.

  Skip had been here for a little more than three hours now, one of the last group to come over after the battle. It had been hard leaving the cockpit of the helicopter and allowing Jack to solo for the first time, harder than he had ever imagined it would be despite the uncanny speed with which the young man had picked up the basics of flight and landing. But leave it he had too. His wounded leg had been screaming for relief by the time they finished circling and observing the retreating militia members as they went back to the highway and flying the other wounded to El Dorado Hills.

  Skip was much more relaxed now, thanks mostly to the intoxicating quality of the narcotics he had been given. He was in fact, having a deep, philosophical conversation with Susan, who was flying about as high.

  "I think Charmander is definitely the best," Skip said. "I mean, he can start a fire, can burn shit up with his tail. Squirtle is totally useless in a fight. What's the point of squirting water at people? You can't win a battle with water for God's sake."

  "Not true," Susan said seriously, her words thick and slurred. "I saw him knock Team Rocket right the fuck down one time while they were battling Ash and Misty. Right on their asses! Tell me that's not a serious-ass stream of water. And Squirtle is cuter too."

  "But you can't kill someone with a stream of water," Skip protested. "Ask those assholes we napalmed. Fire is the way to go."

  "Nobody dies in Pokemon," Susan reminded him. "It doesn't Micker if they get burned or squirted. They just get knocked out."

  "That's true," Skip allowed. "And they always wear the same clothes too. Don't they ever wash them?" He smiled a little, thinking about it. "I've always wondered what Misty looks like naked. Or maybe Officer Jenny. Yeah."

  This gave Susan the giggles, which in turn gave Skip the giggles. Both of them laughed so hard that they
caused pain from their various injuries by the jostling of their bodies this produced. They were still chuckling a little when Pat entered the room. He was wearing his traditional jeans and flannel shirt. Mick and Paula were behind him, both obviously having bathed and changed clothes since the battle.

  "Mick, Paula," Skip hailed, seeing them. "What are you doing here? Is there trouble?"

  "No, no trouble," Mick said. "We just got done dropping the food supplies for the militia and we thought we'd swing out here real quick to check on everyone so we can give a report at the community meeting tonight."

  "So you had Jack fly you all the way out here for that?"

  "We also thought you'd like a report on things back in town," Paula told him, leaning down and taking his hand in hers. "And I wanted to see you too. I haven't had a chance to lay my eyes on you since we assembled this morning. I was worried about you."

  "I should yell at you guys for wasting jet fuel to fly out here," he said, squeezing Paula's hand back. "But to tell you the truth, I'm really glad to see you too."

  They discussed the health and well being of all of the wounded for a few moments, starting with Skip himself and working their way to the most severely injured. Skip and Pat both assured them that they were all doing fine - or at least as well as could be expected under the circumstances.

  "Renee tells us that the most dangerous thing to worry about now is infection or emboli in those with bone injuries," Skip explained. "She's putting us all on antibiotics and anticoagulants."

  "What about your leg?" Paula asked. "I heard it was pretty torn up. Will you walk again?"

  He frowned a little. "Renee only had a chance to take a quick look at it between other patients," he said. "She doesn't know yet. She thinks she might be able to put it back together but the bone is pretty shattered and some of the tendons are torn." He shrugged. "We'll just have to wait and see."