by Tom Abrahams
“How do you know that?” whispered one of the followers. “It sounds like one gun to me.”
Praacheen shook his head. “No,” he said. “It’s two or more. I’m sure of it. We’re not far from them.”
The lone woman leaned toward the leader. “Should we radio the other approaching squad?”
“No. There’s a fair to middling chance the Cartel has our radios,” Praacheen said. “If they’ve taken out two teams, we’re better off not revealing our position.”
As if on cue, the radio crackled against Praacheen’s hip.
“Red squad eight. Blue squad nine,” said Baadal, his voice digitized and overmodulated. “Please advise status. Over.”
The woman looked at Praacheen and then at the radio on his hip. She bit her lower lip.
Praacheen raised his finger to his lips. “Wait,” he whispered.
There was no response to Baadal’s query. The radio was silent until the southern rim leader called again. “Red squad eight. Blue squad nine. Please advise status. Over.”
“They’re going to think we’re dead,” whispered the woman. “They might endanger more squads if they think we’re dead.”
Praacheen pinched the volume dial on the top of the radio, spun it to the left, and turned it off. “He also let the Cartel know we’re on the way.”
“What do we do?” asked one of the squad, a portly middle-aged man with a mangy beard. “We’re walking into a trap. Now that they know we’re coming, they’ll blow us up like target practice. Especially with those assault rifles they’re using.”
“We wait here,” said Praacheen. “I’d say fifteen minutes. Then we advance to the corner. It’s only two hundred yards from here.”
“Why?” asked the portly Dweller.
Praacheen nodded at the woman. “She’s right,” he said. “They’ll send another team, if they haven’t already. Two teams are better than one.”
The portly Dweller scratched his chin. “Aren’t you going to want the radio on? That way we know who’s coming. Damn sure the Cartel’s going to be listening.”
“My guess is,” said Praacheen, “whoever they’re sending won’t be exposed on the radio. They have to know they’ve already done enough damage by talking.”
“I hope you’re right,” said the portly Dweller.
“Fifteen minutes,” said Praacheen, “and we’ll know.”
***
The hip pack bounced against Battle’s side as he jogged quickly upward. He was following the guard and the two operators toward the southern end of the canyon.
The moon, which had escaped the earlier cloud cover of the night, provided the only illumination for the men.
Battle was winded, still recovering from the smoke damage to his lungs he’d suffered weeks earlier. He moved forward as fast as he could, his boots crunching against the dirt and his legs burning from the ascent. It was as if he were back “in country”, performing an extraction or manning a patrol.
As the men gained altitude toward the rim, it grew warmer, lacking the breezy chill of the canyon’s floor. When they reached the rim, the guard held up his hand in a fist to stop the foursome.
“We’re taking the long way around,” he said. “If they’re attacking the southeastern corner, we need to come at them from behind. They’ll be less likely to expect an attack from the west or the north.”
The guard waved the team forward and they marched quickly. They accelerated and were at a full run as they passed one of the cabins perched on the rim’s jagged edge. Before the Scourge, it had served as a rental house for canyon park visitors.
Battle imagined the view from the cabin would’ve been spectacular. The vision evaporated as quickly as it formed, and the four of them pushed ahead. He found the going much easier on level ground. Still, his thighs were thick with fatigue from the upward hike.
Starting their turn west some two hundred yards south of the rim, in the distance Battle heard the rat-tat-tat of semiautomatic gunfire. The men exchanged glances but said nothing to each other when another volley of snaps punctured the quiet air surrounding the southern edge of the canyon.
To Battle it sounded like a typical night in the midst of a war. His mind drifted as he ran. He recalled the night he spent wondering how close that gunfire would come to his position. He thought about Syria and being trapped with an injured man whose life depended on him. His eyes drifted to the horizon, expecting to see the flash and glow of tracer fire.
Rat-tat-tat. Rat-tat-tat.
It was obvious to Battle someone was engaging the Dwellers stationed to protect the edge of the canyon walls. He slowed, following the lead of the guard and the two operators.
“We should head north from here,” said the guard. “Follow my lead.”
The foursome stepped as quietly as possible, covering the distance between their position and the rim with caution. Battle adjusted his grip on the HK and shifted it to a low carry position that would allow him to quickly shoulder the weapon and fire.
The moonlight helped with the detail’s vision, but also exposed them should the Cartel team get the drop on them as they approached. Battle didn’t like it.
Rat-tat-tat.
The quick burst came from closer than Battle would have thought. He was looking for its source on the near horizon when a second burst dropped one of the operators.
Rat-tat-tat.
Battle dove to the ground. He grabbed the injured operator’s ankle, crawled a few feet to his left while dragging the man, and found relative protection with his back against a tree trunk. The operator was alive, but the blood from his wound was profuse. The moonlight reflected in its sheen as it leaked from a wound at the man’s neck underneath his beard.
Rat-tat-tat.
Battle laid down his weapon and pulled the man’s upper body into his lap. The operator’s eyes were wide and dancing with fear. His breathing was ragged and his body shuddered. Battle placed a hand on the operator’s cold, sweaty forehead.
“I’m here,” Battle said softly, trying to keep the man’s attention focused on his voice. “I’m with you.” He found the operator’s hand and held it with his. “Squeeze my hand,” he said.
The man was trying to talk. He was stuck on the first word and couldn’t get it out. His grip was weak.
Rat-tat-tat.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
The guard was returning fire.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
“Do you pray?” he asked the man, surprised the question had popped into his head, let alone come out of his mouth.
The operator was losing focus. His eyelids were flickering. Losing consciousness, he managed a slight nod.
Battle squeezed the operator’s hand tightly. “Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name…” He recited the rest of the Lord’s prayer. By the time he was finished, the operator’s breathing had stopped. His eyes were frozen half open, his body limp.
Battle closed the man’s eyes and then his own. “As far as the east is from the west,” he whispered, “so far has He removed our transgressions from us.”
For an instant, Battle felt whole. His faith, somehow, was still there. It was buried deep within him. It was becoming increasingly difficult to find, as was his humanity. In that moment he found both.
Battle shook himself from the introspection and gently pushed the operator from his lap. He rolled over onto his stomach as if he were getting ready to do a push-up and picked up the HK.
He adjusted the rifle so it was in line with his body, spread his legs, and pointed his toes outward. He kept his ankles as flat as he could, but his knees resisted. A foot or so from the rifle was a medium-sized rock. The rock was wide and relatively flat. He slid it over underneath the barrel of the rifle to act as a stabilizer. Although a bipod would have been better, Battle had no choice.
He pulled the stock into his right shoulder, raised his body and then lowered it. He relaxed his frame into the ground, keeping the barrel on the rock. Battle knew hi
s aim wouldn’t be perfect without the stabilized bipod. There’d be recoil he couldn’t mitigate.
He settled in and checked the sights, pivoting to search the darkness. He couldn’t see anything at first. The moon only provided so much light.
Battle looked to his right and saw his two surviving partners. The other operator was crouched behind a berm. He was kneeling and kept peeking for opportunities to fire.
The guard was ahead of them by twenty feet or so. He was lying flat on the ground, in similar position to Battle. He had a large boulder protecting him and was unloading his rifle into the dark.
Battle looked back through his sights. Still nothing.
Rat-tat-tat.
There it was. A muzzle flash. It gave Battle a target. He took in a deep breath and released it, applying pressure to the HK’s trigger.
***
“I think that’s our signal.” Praacheen waved his team forward. It was only a ten-minute wait. “Move carefully. We’re stepping into a gunfight.”
He led his team south toward the cacophony of gunfire. Ahead of them, he could see the intermittent fire and light of the assault rifles. They looked like fireflies dancing in the distance.
They were within fifty yards when Praacheen stopped his team. They were behind the Cartel, which was turned to face whoever had engaged them from the south.
He counted three shooters from the spacing of the flashes, but it was too dark to know the number for certain. Praacheen signaled for his team to stop and provide cover for him as he moved slyly forward.
The closer he got, the easier it was for him to make out the outline of a large outcropping of boulders. The muzzle flashes were partially obscured by the rocks. There was no way for him to know exactly how many enemies he was facing.
Beyond the rocks, maybe another fifty yards or so, were flashes from two or three additional weapons. The echoes of those rifles sounded different from the ones closer to him. They were likely friendlies, Praacheen surmised. If that was the case, they had the Cartel pinned in their positions. Better yet, with their attention turned south, they might not see his team approach from the north.
Praacheen turned back to the men and woman of eastern rim squadron nine, anxious to tell them of their fortune. He took a couple of quick steps north when he felt a sharp, deliberate punch to his lower back. The impact was followed by an intense heat that radiated outward until he felt nothing.
He lost his footing and fell forward. Praacheen caught himself with his hands before he planted his face into the dirt. His rifle flew forward and slid a few feet from him.
Still unsure of what had socked him in the back, Praacheen tried pushing himself to his feet. He needed his weapon. His feet, his legs, and his hips wouldn’t cooperate.
They were dead weight.
Praacheen rolled over onto his back, propping himself up on his elbows, to look at his legs. They were there, outstretched and seemingly unscathed, but he couldn’t feel them.
They became blurry. He squeezed his eyes shut and reopened them to regain focus. He was dizzy. His mouth was cotton thick.
He looked into the distance, toward the rock and its muzzle flashes. A shot zipped past him, close enough for him to hear it displacing the air next to his head.
Trying to stay conscious while maintaining his wits, he dragged himself backward on his elbows. He glanced over his shoulder. He couldn’t see his teammates yet.
Quickly, he worked his arms to pull himself away from the threat. His left elbow dug into the jagged edge of a rock and he bent his arm in pain. At that moment a round slugged the dirt next his right leg. A third punched into his thigh at a shallow angle and bored its way up toward his hip.
Praacheen looked at the wound but couldn’t feel it. Then he noticed the thick dark smear trailing behind him in the dirt. He was bleeding from his back.
He kept inching backward on his elbows, sweat stinging his eyes. He wanted to call for help, but knew that would draw a perfect shot that might end him.
He caught another flash before he felt the burn of a shot through his right arm. He fell over onto his right, his arm collapsing underneath him. Praacheen grunted and rolled to his left, his arm flapping wildly, and tried dragging himself with his one good limb.
His fingers clawed at the dirt, digging for a grip. His mouth was so dry.
“Praacheen,” called the woman. “Oh my—”
“Grab him,” said one of his men. “Under his arms. Don’t worry about the wounds.”
In the haze of shock, he couldn’t tell whose voice it was. He felt the strong pull of two people dragging him farther from the flashes, farther from the Cartel.
He swallowed hard against the fiberglass lining his throat. A gravelly, weak voice he didn’t recognize gave his team the warning. “There are three or more men behind the rocks,” he said. He sucked in as deep a breath as he could muster. “We have a team to the south.”
The woman knelt beside him. “I’ll stay with you,” she said. “The rest of you, go get them. Take them out. Find the team to the south.”
Praacheen closed his eyes. A rush of comforting warmth enveloped his damaged body. Muffled against the sensation of calm, he could hear the voices of his team members. They were arguing. They were debating. Praacheen did not care. Suddenly, none of it mattered. He let the warmth take his breath from him.
Praacheen was dead.
***
“We’ve got ’em on both sides,” said the recon posse’s leader. “Hold your positions. We’ve got nowhere to go.”
He’d instructed the men to his left to target any approaching Dwellers from the north. The men to his right were engaged with an unknown number of assailants approaching from the south. He moved between the groups.
His most recent shot in the dark had found its target, slugging a wounded Dweller trying to inch his way toward safety.
Without night vision, they would have been fighting blind. With a near full moon beginning to wane, they had some sight. They were in good shape, behind the rocks, from any northern approach. The southern attackers were a different matter.
They were aggressive. They had untold numbers. So far, two positions had opened fire. They might be a distraction; they might be cover. The recon leader couldn’t be certain of anything.
“Why don’t we have scopes?” asked one of the bosses. “Woulda been nice.”
“We’re running light,” snapped the leader. “With a full moon, we didn’t see the need. The scopes are extra weight.”
Thump, thump, thump.
An incoming volley from the south smacked against the boulders.
“Another stupid move,” said another boss. “If I were running this—”
The elder growled. “You’re not. Focus on your job. Complain later.”
“There ain’t gonna be a later if we get killed,” one of the men said. “We’re trapped here without an escape. There’s not enough light to effectively pick them off. There’s too much light to sneak away and retreat.”
“You knew the job,” said the leader. “Now do it!”
The other bosses stopped their tantrum for the moment and returned to the steel sights of the weapons. They were silent except for the sound their rifles emitted as they unloaded rounds in both directions.
The one who’d called the move stupid was on one knee, aiming south, when a barrage of bullets from that direction tore through his chest. His body rattled against the rock and he collapsed in a heap, falling onto the man next to him.
Thump, thump, thump, thump, thump.
Another volley peppered that boss across his midsection above his waist. He convulsed and dropped onto the dead man next to him.
The leader moved to take their position, and he steadied his weapon toward the direction of the shots that killed a third of his posse. He crouched low behind their bodies, feeling them jerk and shake as another assault sprayed their corpses. Without sight, he returned fire.
Rat-tat-tat. Rat-tat-tat.
; “We’re down two!” he called to his men over the gunfire. “I need the focus south. One stay north. The other two join me this way.”
“I got it,” called the one who’d complained about the lack of scopes. “I’ll take the north. Watch my—”
A trio of slugs found his back. The impact thrust him forward, twisting against the boulder, and he slid to the ground. The recon posse was shrinking.
The leader shifted his position again. “I’ll take the north,” he said. He climbed over the third dead boss and pressed himself against the boulder. The leader peeked around the edge of the rock and saw an advancing team of Dwellers. There were three or four of them. They were grouped tightly together, likely to mask their numbers.
They were stuck. This was not going to end well.
***
Battle’s aim was instinctual. Even with the slim bluish light of the moon, he was able to make out enough of the silhouette attached to the muzzle flash that he was confident when he squeezed the trigger.
He couldn’t be sure he’d hit his mark, so he adjusted his aim infinitesimally to the left and squeezed again. The kick against the flat rock he used as a steadying pod was inefficient at best. The barrel moved with the recoil.
Battle believed he’d hit his mark when the muzzle flashes from that spot stopped popping. He’d hit his target. He waited for the next mark.
To his right, both the guard and the surviving operator were returning fire. With a closer vantage point, the guard might have a better shot, but he was too exposed.
Rat-tat-tat.
A grunt followed by a pubescent-sounding scream told Battle the guard was hit. His screaming alternated with heavy guttural moans. Battle resisted the urge to tell him to be quiet so as not to give up his own location.
Rat-tat-tat.
The guard was silent.
Battle was watching the guard and didn’t spot the location of the flash. He had no distinct idea of where to aim. He didn’t want to indiscriminately fire either. That would be as bad as had he called out to the guard to tell him to shut up.