by Tom Abrahams
After spending several hours prepping the compound for a coming raid, Rick had reluctantly volunteered to be the lookout. Gus had stationed him near the creek, telling Rick that would be where he’d stage the assault if he were in charge.
The sun was another forty-five minutes from lifting over the rolling edge of the horizon. Gus had also told Rick the troops would hit them before sunup when everyone was deep asleep. He’d been right about that too.
Rick was leaning against a tree near the edge of the creek where it ran under State Highway 95. The trucks, two of them, were stopped on the highway at the start of the elevated portion, which ran across the creek from south to north. The noise had initially startled him and he’d dropped the radio resting in his lap. He groped the ground at his sides, finding it amongst the leaves and rot of the creek’s steep but narrow embankment. He held it tightly with one hand and narrowed his eyes toward the voices and boot steps. Both were getting louder as they approached.
Despite the darkness, Rick could make out the fast-moving forms of at least a dozen men. They were splitting into three or four different groups, jumping from the highway to the ground below at different points.
Rick waited until the men passed him and keyed the radio he gripped tightly with one hand. Convinced the soldiers couldn’t hear him, he turned on the transceiver and keyed the microphone.
“They’re here,” he said with his mouth pressed against the speaker. “Repeat, they’re here. Do you hear me? Over.”
The radio crackled. Rick looked at it and then pulled it to his mouth again.
“The soldiers are here,” he said breathlessly. “Do you copy? Over.”
Nothing.
Rick pushed himself to his feet and climbed up the creek’s embankment toward the clearing at the edge of the trees. From there it was a straight shot back to a narrow wooden bridge to Gus’s ranch. His thighs burning, he stayed low, crouch-running north. He knew he wouldn’t beat the soldiers, but he didn’t have to do that. It wasn’t part of the plan. Up ahead, under the cover of trees, he saw a flash of light and slowed to a stop, quietly lowering himself to the ground, keeping his head up so he could see the light. It was coming from a team of soldiers. They were picking their way through the cover of the creek-side vegetation.
Perhaps he could beat them.
He held the radio close to his ear. It was silent. “C’mon,” he said between his teeth, “answer the freaking radio.”
He drew the radio back to his mouth. When he was about to try again, he realized he was on the wrong channel. He cursed himself, fumbling with the knob atop the radio.
“They’re coming,” he said hurriedly. “They’re coming. Copy? Over.”
The response was immediate. “Copy. How many? Over.”
“Twelve. Three or four teams. All coming from the south and east. Over.”
“Copy. Over and out.”
Rick turned off the radio and scrambled to his feet. The light up ahead was no longer visible. Staying low, he resumed his awkward hunched-over run toward the creek crossing. The cold morning air tightened his lungs. He suppressed a coughing fit as he worked his way north.
He hadn’t wanted to leave Kenny and his ex, Karen. He’d wanted to be there with them when everything got heated. Gus had convinced him he was the best to be the lookout. Despite Mumphrey’s offer to take the spot, the ranch owner said he wanted Rick there. Rick had been with him when they’d seen the FEMA camp. Rick knew what they were up against.
Mumphrey had promised to keep a close eye on Kenny and Karen. He’d told them he’d go kicking and screaming. Rick was afraid of that, but he wanted to be a team player. Now, as his heart raced and his legs burned, he regretted not having been more selfish. Sure, Karen was a pain. But she’d earned that right. She’d earned more than that.
He knew she and Kenny were hunkered down in a crawl space underneath the main house. Lana Buck and Candace Bucknell were also hiding there. Gus thought it was the safest place to be if “things got violent”.
Reggie Buck was positioned atop the garage on the northeastern corner of the property. Gus had armed him with his Remington .308 bolt action sniper rifle with a bipod and night vision scope. Reggie would be an overwatch covering the whole property.
Gus had activated all of the trigger alarms he’d installed on the perimeter fences. He’d armed trip wires between the greenhouse and garage, and between the greenhouse and main house. There was no way to cross from one to the other without setting off the wires.
Rick had protested the trip wires. “These are American soldiers we’re talking about, Gus,” he’d said. “You can’t maim a soldier. That’s treasonous.”
Gus had laughed incredulously at the suggestion. “Treasonous?” he said, stepping uncomfortably close to Rick. “The US government is sending armed, professionally trained killers onto my land to forcibly remove me and imprison me? And I’m treasonous? You best rethink that position before I forcibly remove you.”
Rick had held his ground. “I’m not telling you to go quietly and obey. I’m suggesting you not injure or kill anyone. You heard them. They said they’d only open fire if we did it first.”
Gus had stuck his swollen finger in Rick’s chest. “I know my rights. I’m an American too. They’ll take me from here in a bag. You wanna leave? Do it. But all of you will end up in that camp, locked up and groveling for gruel. You want that? Leave.”
Rick had apologized, not because he was sorry but because he wouldn’t leave Kenny and Karen, and she wasn’t leaving. She’d made that clear. Making one tortuously long trip in the Jeep was enough. Besides, Gus did have a point. The government had no right to do what it was doing. Martial law or no martial law, Off-the-Grid-Gus and his guns weren’t hurting anyone.
Chugging as fast as he could, the winter-hardened ground crunching under his feet, he regretted not having stood up to Gus. He regretted not having taken Kenny and Karen, regardless of what she’d wanted, loading them into the Jeep, and going somewhere else.
More than that, he wished Nikki were with him. She’d have stood up to Gus. Heck, she’d have kicked his ass. Undoubtedly. On principle alone, she’d have sprung flat-footed into the air, snapped into a tornadic spin, and slapped his jaw with a roundhouse. Then she’d have drop-kicked Karen if she’d resisted leaving ahead of what amounted to a military invasion.
Rick caught a stitch in his side and he slowed, stretching as he walked cautiously toward the tree line. He was pretty sure he’d reached the general area where the wood-planked footbridge crossed the creek onto Gus’s property, giving him access to the northeastern parcel.
He clipped the radio to his belt and, with his head on a swivel, approached the canopy of pines, scrub oak, and scraggly yaupon that tangled its way between the taller trees. His feet crunched on the leaf-covered ground and he stopped. He listened for chatter or the sound of boots. All he heard was the start and stop of tree frogs croaking.
Rick was unarmed other than the radio. It was his choice. He didn’t want to shoot an American soldier. Though, as he wound his way through the brush, squinting to find his path toward the footbridge, he regretted not being armed. If he happened upon a soldier, or they found him wandering in the thin band of woods, it wouldn’t end well. His breathing slowed, but his heart rate maintained its thick and heavy pulse against his neck and chest. A cold sweat chilled his forehead and the back of his neck. And then he saw him. Rick stopped cold.
On the eastern edge of the footbridge was a lone soldier. He was crouched low, bent on one knee. He held his rifle to his shoulder, his eye pressed against what Rick figured was a night-vision or thermal scope.
Rick cursed under his breath, frozen where he stood, afraid to move his feet and rustle the dead leaves that carpeted the ground. Clearly, he hadn’t beat the team to his position. They’d moved faster than he’d anticipated. Still, he had to get across that bridge. He looked over his shoulder and back toward the highway. It would take him too long to run back and approach
the property from the main entrance. He couldn’t even move fifty yards south and try to cross the creek on foot. He’d make too much noise or get caught in what Gus had warned was a surprisingly swift current. His only option was going through the soldier.
Rick looked around at the ground. In the darkness, he found a palm-sized rock. Next to it was a rotted tree branch less than a foot long. Keeping his feet where they stood, he managed to reach far enough to grab both and hold one in each hand. He took a deep breath, sucking the cold air into his lungs before exhaling. There was no more time to wait.
Rick took a soft step forward, testing the leaves. Then another. He’d taken a half-dozen steps before the crunch gave him away. When the soldier swung around, Rick flipped the branch to the left. It swirled through the air until it cracked against the side of a tree.
The soldier rose to his feet, the weapon still ready, and took a step forward. He swept the area with his weapon as Rick took another set of quick steps closer to the bridge. When he stopped, he tossed the rock in the same direction as the stick. It landed on the ground with a thud and the soldier advanced toward the sound, his movements silent and fluid. His rifle trained straight ahead, the soldier was jerking in a short, tight pattern as he scanned for the source of the noise.
Rick figured he was ten yards from the soldier and directly behind him. The footbridge was straight ahead. He had two options. He could make a run for the bridge and hope to cross it without taking a bullet in his back, or he could disarm a professionally trained soldier. The former option was far more appealing.
As he took his first step toward the bridge, the soldier swung back around. Rick felt the scope catching him in its sight. Instead of trying to hide, his instincts took him in a surprising direction. He played possum.
He raised his hands above his head. “Help,” he whispered. “Sir, please help me. I’m trying to escape. These peop—”
“Stop!” barked the soldier. He kept the weapon trained on Rick and moved deliberately toward him. “Don’t move. Move and you’re toast. Got it?”
Rick stood motionless. He was no more than five feet from the footbridge, standing on the edge of the sharp creek-side embankment. “I got it,” said Rick. “Please help me.”
The soldier stopped two feet from Rick. He tilted his head away from the scope but kept the rifle leveled at Rick’s chest. His finger was extended along the guard and not pressed against the trigger.
The soldier jabbed the weapon in Rick’s direction. “Who are you?”
“My name is Rick,” he said breathlessly. “I’m trying to get out of here. I—”
“Where did you come from?” The soldier’s eyes were wide and bright against the dark smudge of mud-brown camouflage face paint streaked across his cheeks and chin.
Rick hesitated and stuttered an unintelligible answer. His shoulders were starting to burn from holding his hands above his head. His arms were heavy.
The soldier snapped, “Where?”
Rick motioned with his chin toward the other side of the bridge. “Over there,” he said. “The other side of the creek.”
The soldier glanced to his left and the footbridge behind him at the exact moment the distant sound of semiautomatic gunfire cracked in the distance. A cascade of echoing shots followed two short bursts. The soldier turned toward the sound, momentarily distracted.
It was enough time for Rick to step to one side and grab the rifle barrel with both hands. He yanked it as hard as he could, pulling the soldier off balance enough that when he applied leverage and shoved the butt at the soldier’s face, it caught the man squarely on the jaw.
The soldier grunted and his head snapped forward to his chest. Still holding the barrel, Rick jabbed at him again and struck the soldier’s collarbone with a sickening crack.
The soldier cried out in pain and dropped to his knees, losing his grip on the weapon. Rick, surprised by his success, stumbled back with the rifle in hand. He nearly tumbled onto his back but caught himself against a thin tree trunk.
The soldier was on his side in the dirt, his body splayed on the embankment above the creek. He was whimpering and cursing Rick.
Rick stood against the tree for a moment, stunned, before he shook free of his mental paralysis and bounded across the footbridge. He thought about disarming the soldier of his sidearm and radio, but didn’t want to risk getting too close. An injured soldier was still a soldier.
Rick crossed the bridge and spun around, running backward for a few steps. He called back to the soldier in a hushed strain before turning back to run away from the creek.
“I’m sorry!” he called. “I hope you’re all right!”
His face flushed at the idea of what he’d just said. Nikki never would have apologized. He wouldn’t tell her about it.
“You’re an idiot,” he muttered to himself. His self-deprecation was interrupted by another snap of gunfire. Rick couldn’t tell who was firing. He didn’t know enough about guns to tell the difference by listening. The resonant echo also made it hard to decipher from where exactly the shots were originating. As he got closer, the high-pitched whine of the tripped perimeter alarms chirped and buzzed.
He reached the northern stretch of fence and climbed over it one leg at a time, dropping on the ground behind the garage. He puffed air from his cheeks, trying to catch his breath, and carefully worked his way toward the garage. Reggie Buck was supposed to be atop the garage’s roof, perched there with a bipod and scope-equipped rifle. He looked up toward the pitch, straining to see Reggie, but couldn’t spot him.
His job was to enter the garage and hop onto one of the two all-terrain vehicles Gus had stored inside his EMP-proof garage. But with the sounds of yelling came another short burst of gunfire from the south, closer to the garden and chicken coop. Ignoring the plan, Rick crouched low, his calves and thighs straining with exhaustion, and squeezed between the garage and the eastern fence line, moving south toward the garden and where he heard the most noise. He clung to the side of the garage for cover and so that Reggie didn’t mistake him for a raider, until he came to the edge of the driveway that ran in front of the garage’s entrance.
He stopped and pulled the rifle to his shoulder. Aiming south and squeezing shut one eye, he drew the other to the scope. His field of view filled with a hazy greenish glow. He swept the scope from left to right until he was aiming diagonally across the property toward the greenhouse. In the distance he could see two or three figures low to the ground. They were moving slowly, as if crawling on the ground. He swept back to the right and saw another signature. Someone was pressed up against the edge of the garden between its wooden edging and the fence. Rick stayed low and curled around the corner of the garage to look toward the front porch.
As he moved, he heard shouting from the greenhouse. For the first time, he could make out what was being said.
The first voice was definitely a soldier. “We don’t want to hurt anyone!” he shouted above the squeal of the alarms. “We’re here to help you. Please cease fire.”
The second voice was Gus, much closer to Rick. Perhaps from the main house.
“Not gonna happen. Get off my land. Fourth Amendment. Read it.”
Another rattle of gunfire pierced the air. Rick could see bursts of yellow-orange light from near the porch, muzzle flashes from Gus’s weapon.
“Man down!” called one of the soldiers. “Man down!”
Instantly, a crash of weapons erupted around Rick. He resisted the urge to cover his ears and retreated. He ran north around the back side of the garage toward the rear of the house.
From above his head, he could hear Reggie engaged in the gunfight. Rick emerged on the western edge of the garage and dropped to the ground. He crawled toward the main house on his elbows and knees.
Strobes of light flickered in the milky smoke that hung low to the ground. It was like a war zone, or what Rick imagined how one would feel. The repeated rat-tat-tat-tat of military rifles vibrated in his bones. His ears were
thick with a high-pitched ring. As he crawled west, scraping against the dirt to the house, he looked south. Gus was pressed against the greenhouse, using it as cover. He’d poke his head out and open fire on a moving target before retreating behind the Plexiglas building.
Rick looked forward to the lattice woodwork that covered the crawl space underneath the main house. He was halfway there when he saw Karen kick through one of the lattice panels. She scrambled from underneath the house and pushed herself to her feet as Rick heard a pair of rounds zip past his head.
“Karen!” he yelled, still on his elbows. “Karen! Get down! You’re going to—”
A single shot struck her in her chest, spinning her around like a puppet on strings until her limp body collapsed to the ground. She was facing Rick with wide eyes. Her mouth was open and she gasped for air.
“Karen!” Rick screamed and scrambled to her side. He raised himself onto his knees and grabbed her body.
Staying as low as he could, he dragged her against the house. He sat against the lattice and pulled her into his lap. He stroked her clammy forehead with one hand while searching for the wound with the other.
In the surreal lightning storm of the gunfire, he could see the tears streaking from the corners of her eyes and down her temples. She was trying to talk but couldn’t.
“Shhh,” Rick said, fighting back tears himself. “Don’t try to talk,” he whispered. “It’ll be okay. It’ll be okay.”
Finally, with both hands he ripped open her shirt and gasped. The wound was coursing blood. Rick fumbled around on her chest before he found the hole. He pressed his palm against it and Karen arched her back in pain. She gripped his leg with one hand, squeezing his calf. As quickly as she’d applied pressure, it weakened. Her body shuddered against his. Her eyes started to close.
“Karen,” he said, his throat aching, “stay with me. Stay with me.”