Holding Their Own: The Toymaker

by Joe Nobody

  The meadow’s grass was evidently thicker than it looked, Kevin seemingly taking forever to cross. His stride was more of a bounding motion, uneven and slow. Worse yet, the vines and thick grass didn’t seem to slow the horses at all.

  The fresh magazine was out of Nick’s vest and slammed home in a flash, his hand moving in a blur as he palmed the release and forward assist in the same motion. But it wasn’t going to be enough. They were going to run Kevin down before he reached the other side.

  With a war cry of his own, born of pure desperation, Nick charged from his cover. Like the riders, his accuracy suffered, the pumping of his legs throwing off any semblance of aim. His goal was distraction.

  But the riders were focused, either not hearing or not caring about Nick’s exposure. With murderous howls of bloodlust, they continued to rumble directly at the fleeing boy.

  And then Kevin pulled up lame, hobbled two steps, and went down.

  The fury that surged through Nick’s veins was unlike anything he’d ever felt. He’d seen his son shot before, the boy taking a round in the Alpha courthouse, but this was different.

  With his attempt at distraction failing, Nick changed tactics, taking a knee and hoping for accuracy.

  Evidently, the horsemen thought Kevin was dead, the lead rider changing directions and now charging directly toward Nick’s exposed position.

  Nick made them pay.

  One screaming warrior flew backward off his steed, a cloud of red mist hanging in the air were the man’s head had been a moment before.

  Another took a round to his shoulder, dropping his rifle and clutching the wound.

  When the riders were 50 yards away, Nick dropped prone, his weapon continuing its steady cadence of death.

  The big man rolled away at the last moment, the hammering hooves of the lead rider missing his head by mere inches. Twisting around, he continued to send high-velocity pain into the backs of the passing riders.

  The war party reigned up their mounts just over 100 meters away, the leader barking orders as they all dismounted.

  “Now we’re going to fight the old-fashioned way,” Nick growled, inserting a fresh box of pain pills into his weapon. “Come on in boys, I’ll bleed out every one of you fuckers. Right here, right now.”

  The hunters went low, using the grass and weeds as cover, trying to advance on Nick’s position.

  The Alliance leader wasn’t stupid enough to remain still. Thinking of his down man… his son… Nick began backing toward Kevin’s last known position.

  But Kevin wasn’t there.

  With a quick sweep, Nick knew he was at the spot where his son had gone down, the depressed grass a sure sign. He spotted the blood on the second glance, and then a trail leading toward the distant tree line. “At least he’s still alive,” the father whispered in relief.

  With his barrel sweeping the ever-deeper weed line, Nick followed the bent grass and blood. He came across Kevin’s crawling form 20 steps later.

  Thinking to help his son scramble into the woods, Nick reached down with a helping hand. “Come on, I’ll be your crutch.”

  “No, dad! It’s too bad. Go on. Get away!”

  Nick assessed Kevin’s leg and grimaced. The bullet had struck the boy right below the knee and striking bone. The yellow-white stub of a compound fracture was protruding from the exit wound. Blood pumped from the hole.

  As a Green Beret, the father had seen more than his share of combat wounds. Instinctively, he knew Kevin would survive the injury – if it could be treated quickly.

  Nick flung his carbine around to his back, bending to lift his wounded man into a fireman’s carry and hustle to the cover of the pine thicket. He was just about to pull Kevin over his shoulder when his son’s eyes went wide, a warning forming in his throat.

  They came from three directions at once, appearing out of the grass like ghosts.

  Nick was hit in the upper thigh and chest with the first salvo, his body armor stopping only the second round.

  With the speed of a striking snake, Nick pulled his knife and stepped into the closest attacker, driving the blade up and into the man’s chin.

  The ear-shattering blast of Kevin’s sniper rifle shattered the prairie as the prone boy managed a shot.

  Something heavy hit Nick’s arm as another man’s shoulder slammed into the team leader’s hip.

  A confusing hurricane of swirling bodies, flashing steel, and the pointblank discharges erupted on the prairie. Nick registered a scream of agony, but couldn’t tell if it came from his own throat or someone else’s.

  His knife found flesh again. He stumbled on a body. His fist crushed into something solid. A stream of blood droplets flew through the air in a slow motion arch, beautiful and translucent, glistening in the high sun. His vision was limited by a grey tunnel around the edges. The grass was no longer green but stained the dark purple of a bruise. The smell of copper overrode the sweet bouquet of wildflowers.

  The world went dark and silent.

  Chapter 10

  Someone was carrying him, and that struck Nick as funny. Nobody had ever been able to manage his girth before. It must be an angel. Maybe Gabriel himself. I hear he is pretty strong for a fellow with wings, Nick thought.

  And then there was light without passage of time, and finally, Diana’s face.

  I’m dead, he thought. I’m seeing the ones I love. Where’s Kevin?

  It was the pain that changed the big man’s mind and forced his tormented brain to swim to the surface.

  Again, he was gazing into Diana’s worried face. “Nick!” sang her wonderful voice. “Oh, Nick… I’ve been so… how are you? Are you in pain?”

  It all came rushing back, the chase, the horsemen and their screaming cries of war. “Kevin! Where’s Kevin?” he croaked.

  Diana didn’t answer, “You’re in the hospital at Fort Bliss. Butter carried you out.”

  “Answer me, damn it,” he grumbled. “Where’s my son?”

  Her expression said it all. Looking down, she mumbled, “We don’t know. Grim and Butter couldn’t find him. They fought off the men who hurt you, but they couldn’t find Kevin.”

  Nick looked around the room, seeking a first-hand account. But only Diana was there. “Where is Grim? Where’s Butter?”

  “Grim’s in the brig, cooling his jets. He was going all over the base, demanding he be given troops and transport to go back after Kevin. He lost his temper and beat the shit out of two MPs, and they… umm… detained him for a while.”

  “And Butter?”

  “He’s in a room two doors down. He’s okay, but he hurt his back carrying you off the mountain. They’re checking the x-rays right now.”

  Nick tried to rise, thinking Grim’s reaction was the only one that made any sense. Rivers of pain changed the big man’s mind.

  “And me?”

  “You’re not in any shape to do anything but lay there and recover. They dug two bullets out of you. You’ve got 90 staples in your body. You’ve lost a lot of blood, and the docs are worried about a concussion. You didn’t have a heartbeat when Grim and Butter drove you up to the emergency room.”

  She took Nick’s hand in hers, tenderly squeezing her reassurance. And then it all came welling to the surface, tears streaming down Diana’s cheeks as sobs racked her body.

  “I’m here,” Nick tried to comfort in a soft tone. “I’ll be all right. We’ll find Kevin. It’ll be okay.”

  “Oh, God, Nick!” she wept, letting it all out. “I thought I’d lost Kevin and you both. I haven’t slept for two days.”

  Kevin thought the man examining his leg was one of the weirdest individuals he’d ever laid eyes on. If this dude walked in claiming to be Merlin, I’d buy his story.

  “His injury is beyond me,” Hack said over his shoulder to the hovering Apache. “We need to send for a real doctor.”

  “Why, Grandfather? Why bother? My men want to watch him scream as they peel away his skin bit by bit. Why fix what we’re only
going to kill?”

  Hack shook his head, motioning his friend outside. “We gathered valuable information from the first prisoner. This one is younger and doesn’t wear the patches of the U.S. military. His equipment is different. His weapon is not standard issue, and he wears no rank or insignia.”

  “Let me have him, and I promise he’ll tell us anything you want to know… before his brain seizes out from the pain.”

  “Well, now that’s the problem, isn’t it?” Hack replied, his patience growing thin. “I don’t know exactly what to ask him. At least not just yet. Besides, I’m still convinced there’s value in keeping hostages.”

  “It didn’t keep them away this time, Grandfather. They still came. My men still died.”

  Hack shook his head in disagreement, “I don’t think so, my friend. I don’t think this group was regular Army… at least not anymore. Even their ammunition was different. The rounds we pulled out of that kid’s sniper rifle had been reloaded. The U.S. Army doesn’t do that.”

  The Apache didn’t back down. “I still want him. I’ll wait until you’re finished, and then I want him.”

  Hack stared at his friend for a moment, almost as if he was making a difficult decision. “Look, I know you’re wondering if I value Indian life as much as my own kind. Let me be absolutely clear, right here, right now; I’m trying to do everything in my power to save Native lives. You are the only people on earth who have never judged me by my appearance, only by my heart. But that is just a kid in there, and he may know valuable information that can save lives… red and white. Do you understand?”

  There was a hesitation, but finally the Apache nodded his agreement.

  Hack extended a hand and placed it gently on the Native’s shoulder. “Now, I’m going to send for a doctor.”

  Hack scribbled a note on a small piece of paper and then stuffed the message into a plastic tube. A few minutes later one of the toymaker’s drones blasted into the air, rushing away on plastic propellers to deliver its cargo.

  Hack returned to the prisoner, smiling with good news. “I’ve convinced my Apache friends to leave you in my care for the moment. Your outfit hurt them badly, and they want revenge. What is your name?”

  “Kevin.”

  “Okay, Kevin, that’s a start. Can you tell me your full name, rank, and serial number, please?”

  The captive’s eyebrows knotted, almost as if he didn’t understand the question. “I don’t have a rank or a serial number. I’m not in any army, ours or theirs.”

  It was Hack’s turn to be puzzled. “Okay. Maybe that’s a good place to start. Could you define ours and theirs for me?”

  In the younger man’s mind, it was a strange question. Maybe he’s testing me, Kevin thought. Maybe he’s trying to see if I’ll tell the truth.

  “Theirs is the U.S. Army. My dad used to be a sergeant in that Army. Ours is the ADF, or Alliance Defense Forces. I’m not in either.”

  Hack rubbed his chin in thought. He’d heard of the Alliance in Texas, but there had been only wisps of information and rumor, little of which he believed.

  “So by using the word, ‘ours,’ I assume you are from Texas?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “And what were your friends and you doing, sneaking around our territory?”

  “Gathering information, that’s all. Really.”

  “Why?” the toymaker frowned.

  Kevin thought long and hard before answering. He’d heard his father complain several times about the lack of funding and training the council gave for the SAINT teams. One of his favorite examples being a SERE (Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape) course. “If any of those guys are ever captured, they won’t know how to handle it,” he’d argued with Diana.

  “I don’t think I should answer that,” Kevin replied honestly. “But I will say that we didn’t want to hurt anybody or anything. Those were our instructions.”

  Hack took a minute to digest the answer, a sadness filling the older man’s eyes. “Do you know anything about our desert army ants, Kevin?”

  An hour later, Hack emerged from the storage room, his entire perspective of the world having been changed by a young man with the busted leg.

  Waving over his Apache friend, the toymaker said, “You’re not going to believe what I’ve just learned. But I’m fairly confident what that kid just told me is true.”

  The Native didn’t respond, but Hack didn’t seem to care.

  “I need a drink,” he announced, moving with purpose toward the cabin. “I’ll be right back.”

  Knowing the Apache wouldn’t accept even if he offered, Hack poured himself a shot of bourbon. Swilling the brown liquor around, he downed the two-fingers in a single swallow. The burning sensation surprised him…. It had been how long? Four years? Five?

  He eyed the bottle, thinking of another, but then dismissed the urge. He wasn’t going to do anyone any good intoxicated.

  Returning to the front porch, Hack motioned for the Apache to join him on the swing. After the two were seated, he began repeating Kevin’s story.

  “Those rumors we’ve heard of the Texans organizing and forming some sort of government? Well, according to our young friend, all that is true, plus more.”

  Hack continued, relaying how the Alliance had learned of the Valley Green Project, and that had been the primary reason why a team had been sent in to spy.

  “And you believe him?”

  “I do. I verified certain facts with our other prisoner, who would have no reason to lie about Texas.”

  The Apache shrugged, “So what does this mean to the people and the project, Grandfather?”

  “Now that’s the question of the day,” the toymaker replied. “On one hand, it seems we’ve made two powerful enemies. On the other, I wonder if there is a way to play them against each other.”

  Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of a man on horseback, the lone rider allowed to pass through the security perimeter without much fuss.

  “Welcome, Doctor,” Hack called from the front porch. “I have an interesting case for you today.”

  The president pushed back from the table, his appetite lacking. That seemed to happen a lot these days.

  While the news of his son being seen alive had provided a great measure of relief, the actions of the Alliance in discovering that fact were troubling.

  Diana and her council had taken it upon themselves to send in a team. They had managed to mess things up even further, and the information coming out of Fort Bliss was fueling a growing movement of hostility against the Alliance.

  The president now had people, important individuals he depended on to govern, pushing him hard to “Knock those cocky Texans on their asses.”

  He had tried to warn them. He’d made things as clear as possible over the radio. He’d even played the trump card of his son being held captive.

  And yet, they had still gone rumbling into U.S. territory with armed men, hell bent on securing their precious “national security.” That little tidbit had not been received well with the men running the rest of the country, and in a way, the president couldn’t blame them.

  Despite the near-destruction of the city of Washington, the inner-circle of political power brokers had managed to survive mostly intact. It was amazing.

  Few legislators had lived through the uprising and riots. Despite the heroic efforts of the Capital Police and the Secret Service, the vast majority of Congressmen had perished. How was it that with half of the city burning out of control, nearly all phone lines and common forms of communications failing… how was it that the partisan dynamo of backroom dealers and behind the scenes titans had managed to survive? The Colonel often wondered if any of these power mongers had defied the odds by negotiating deals with Lucifer himself.

  The president could feel the vibrations of trouble brewing. Like a seasoned captain could sense the health of the ship’s engines through the deck under his feet, he knew turmoil, strife, and backlash we
re about to rear their ugly heads. War was the inevitable result.

  He’d never had any political aspirations whatsoever, let alone any objectives of sitting in the Oval Office. Not once did he visualize a future of kissing babies, shaking hands, or of giving an acceptance speech in front of an enthusiastic crowd of supporters.

  His boyhood dreams had been of soldiering, defending the flag, preserving the American way, and strolling across the battlefield like a victorious Audie Murphy or John Wayne.

  Military service was everything he’d hoped, at least until promotions and the recognition of his politically astute mind had taken him away from the core of Uncle Sam’s Army. They sent him to Washington for reasons unknown. He reported as ordered, arriving as an exceptionally bright, freshly minted young colonel.

  He could remember those days clearly, the excitement and sense of purpose associated with working in the nation’s capital. Better still, everyone knew the path to achieve the Mount Olympus of military careers lead through the Pentagon.

  The bowels of the political machine that was the U.S. federal government required a steady diet of fresh meat. Light colonels were a dime a dozen at the Pentagon, essentially the main course for a very hungry beast. They were consumed in quantity, chewed up and swallowed by the all-powerful triad of elected officials, the military industrial complex, and the enormous amounts of money that flowed through the system.

  The gifted military phenomenon was thrust into a grinder that had long ago forgotten the men and women who actually did the fighting. Contracts, purchase orders, grants, and procurement commitments were all that mattered to the vast majority of the people he interacted with. No one seemed to care about the 18-year-old private being asked to carry a weapon into battle. There was no consideration of the young sailor who would be charged with making the missile system function properly, his life and ship depending on the technology purchased to assist him.

  The Colonel was fine with all of that. Men were greedy. Corporations existed for profit. Senators and Congressmen won votes by bringing jobs and federal dollars back home. No, the political aspect was to be expected, and while he found the breadth of the carnage somewhat surprising, it wasn’t his primary issue.