“Does anyone have eyes on this fucker?” Brubaker whispers through the comms device. Negative responses filtered into his ear.
“Sergeant Brubaker. This is Private Merriweather,” a voice interrupts.
“What are you doing out here, Merriweather? You’re supposed to be manning the radio,” Brubaker snaps.
“I am, Sergeant,” Merriweather replies. “I’ve got an incoming message from Major Brooks.”
“I’m a little busy at the moment,” Brubaker hisses.
“Understood, Sergeant. She wants to know our position. I think she plans on assuming command.”
“Then fucking give it to her,” Brubaker growls. “Brooks can have this fucking command after she gets here.”
“Who’re you talking to?” the voice asks from the trees.
Brubaker knew there was no way he could hear what he’d been whispering into the comms. That meant he’d either tapped into their frequency or was using some kind of directional microphone to hear him. Since the voice hadn’t asked him who Major Brooks was, neither of those possibilities seemed plausible. That left the only remaining option. The fucker was close enough to see Brubaker talking.
“It’s not fair if you can see me but I can’t see you,” Brubaker replies, trying to keep his voice as calm as possible. “Why don’t you come out so we can talk?”
“I didn’t say anything about seeing you. But I appreciate your confirmation,” the voice replies.
“Damn it,” Brubaker hisses, having fallen for the man’s ploy but involuntarily relaxing, just the same.
“Now, my son, on the other hand,” the man continued. “He tells me he’s got a perfect view through the scope on his rifle. He says he’s got a clear shot at you and at least three of your men.”
“Fuck!” Brubaker growls, hunkering down lower as did the rest of his men.
“He says that isn’t helping,” the voice chuckles.
Brubaker, Ferguson, and Gracey all began scanning the perimeter, trying to detect the son’s location. If there was a son to begin with. But only Gracey was searching the elevated positions in the trees. He tapped Brubaker on the arm when he spotted something suspicious. Reverting back to hand signals in case the bastards had hacked their frequency, he used two fingers to point to his own eyes and then shifted them to point up into the trees about fifty yards from their location. From beneath the partial camouflage of the leafless branches, he pointed out an old tree stand. It had probably once been used for the deer hunting Gracey had referred to, although not by him. The men watched the tree stand and saw a shifting silhouette and the glint of light from the end of a rifle scope. Brubaker turned his eyes back to Gracey and gave him the smallest of nods. Without question or sound, Private Gracey lowered himself to the ground and began the slow belly-crawl to circle behind the tree stand.
“If I wanted you shot, you’d have holes in you by now,” the voice says, giving no indication of having seen or been notified of Gracey’s movement.
Now that Brubaker had spotted the one in the trees, he could tell the man’s voice wasn’t coming from there. It sounded like it was possibly coming from behind an old tree stump below and to the left of the tree stand. That left at least one man unaccounted for, according to Gracey’s initial report, and he hoped the private would be keeping his eyes open for that one.
“Were you the ones who shot my men last night?” Brubaker asks, keeping him talking.
“Maybe we were. Maybe we weren’t. But if they got shot, it looked to me like they probably had it coming to them,” the man replies. “Were you the one who ordered them to chase those poor folks through the trees? Sick fucks. Do you know what they did to those people? There was nothing wrong with most of them and they just shot anyway. Some of those people were my friends!” the man yells, clearly becoming more emotional with the remembering.
“I’ve got eyes on the third man,” Gracey’s whisper came softly through Brubaker’s earpiece.
“What do you expect me to tell you?” Brubaker yells to the man.
“I expect some fucking answers!” the man shouts back. “And I expect to go home. I expect a hot fucking shower to wash all this shit off of me! I expect things to be like they were!”
“That’s what I’m trying to do. Come on out and we can help you,” Brubaker replies to the man. Through the comms device, Brubaker whispers to the rest of his men. “Number two is a sniper in the trees, fifty meters out on my ten. When I give the order, concentrate your fire there. I want that son of a bitch in pieces, but do not shoot number one. Repeat. Do not shoot the talker.”
“Major Brooks has our location and her ETA is in two hours,” Private Merriweather interrupts.
“Not, the fucking, time,” Brubaker snarls softly, rubbing his nose again.
“Why should I believe you?” the man asks.
“What do you want me to do about number three?” Gracey whispers. “I can do him, easy. Looks like he’s only carrying a shotgun.”
“Look. I know what you thought you saw last night, but that’s not what it was. Those men were acting on their own. They went rogue. You know. They just, snapped. But we’re here to help people just like you,” Brubaker replies to the man. “We’re the United States Army, for Christ’s sake. We don’t just roam around killing American citizens.” To Private Gracey, he asks, “Can you see number one?”
“So what are we supposed to do?” the man asks. “Are we just supposed to throw our hands in the air and surrender?”
“Negative,” Gracey replies. “He’s behind the stump below two. Take him and three out and the one’s all alone with no place to run.”
“That’s a start. Come on out and we can talk about this like reasonable men. We’ve got plenty of food and water for you and your son,” Brubaker replies to the man, not divulging the fact he knew there were more of them than the man had said.
“Awaiting orders on three,” Gracey says into Brubaker’s ear.
“What about the rest of my family? We’ve got some little kids with us,” the man says. Brubaker could hear some of the bluster had gone from his tone.
“Bring them with you,” Brubaker replies, finally standing up to show himself to the man.
“Sergeant. Three’s starting to move,” Gracey whispers.
“You mean it?” the man asks, poking his head around the stump to see Brubaker standing up with open, empty hands. From what he could see, Brubaker thought the man looked like he was in his fifties with dark hair. He could see thin straps of material on the guy’s visible shoulder, suggesting he may be wearing some kind of small day or hiking pack on his back.
“Sergeant?” Gracey repeats with more urgency.
“I give you my word as a soldier. Those men last night have been arrested and will face a full court-martial. What they did was beyond wrong. Now please, come out so we can help you,” Brubaker lies, trying to sound genuine and fatherly.
“You better not be bullshitting me,” the man says.
“I wouldn’t do that to you. Not everyone’s lives are at stake,” he lies again. A satisfied smile spreads across Brubaker’s lips as the man rises and steps from behind the rotting stump and into the clear. Even though the standoff wasn’t quite over, he was happy with the inevitable outcome. The sergeant lifted his hand to rub his itching nose again, and as it passed in front of his mouth he whispers, “Open fire,” into the comms device. An instant later, the forest exploded with gunfire.
The roar was so deafening in the forest, only Gracey heard the surprised grunt come from the man he’d snuck up on and knifed. The instant Brubaker gave the order, Private Gracey sprang before the first shot had been fired. He wrapped one arm around the thirty-something-year-old man’s throat as he drove him to the forest floor, puncturing the man’s lung with his combat knife to reduce his ability to scream and sound the alarm. It wasn’t necessary in this situation, but the method had been part of his intensive, hand-to-hand training. He immediately withdrew the blade and in a smooth, practice
d motion, slid the knife in again for the kill. The move was textbook perfect, pressing the tip to the base of the man’s skull, just to the right of the spinal column. The ka-bar met little resistance when he jammed it in. He twisted the blade as the man’s body went limp, having effectively been turned into a ragdoll, as the guy in the tree stand was sprayed with bullets.
Indiscriminate rounds whizzed through the trees and bushes, as Dave and his sons threw themselves flat on the ground. The three were following the narrow game trail and had stopped to rest, just minutes before the shouting began. They’d heard the entire conversation and at first, Dave thought this Sergeant Brubaker was calling out to them. But when the other man answered and began a conversation, Dave realized his mistake. He’d not known Sergeant Ian Brubaker hadn’t been speaking to them in the beginning, and it was the other man who’d mistakenly answered. If he’d remained silent, it would have been Dave and his sons at the center of the firestorm taking place, instead of the other men.
“What the fuck?” Zack asks, covering his head with his hands.
“I thought the one guy was surrendering,” Ben says.
“Be quiet and listen,” Dave rasps over the dwindling gunfire. Reaching down for the walkie clipped to his belt, he reluctantly switched it off. They were close enough to be able to see most of what was going on through the trees, but not every word being said. At least not with the addition of the ringing in their ears. But he knew the rest of their group was close enough to hear the eruption of gunfire and didn’t want to risk having the soldiers overhear Pam checking to see if they were okay.
“I said I wanted him alive!” Brubaker shouts as he looked at the bullet-riddled corpse of the man he’d coaxed from cover.
“You gave the kill order,” one of the soldiers says.
“I said, open fire. Not kill them all!” Brubaker shouts.
“It’s the same thing!” the soldier replies.
“The fuck it is, Trevor!” another shouts.
“How the fuck did you make it out of basic?” another asks, apparently to the guy named Trevor.
“Sucking dick is my guess,” says another.
This brought a chorus of laughing agreement until Sergeant Brubaker barked something, and the laughter stopped. There was a series of verbal exchanges Dave couldn’t make out, but he decided the sergeant was clearly pissed off.
“We should get closer so we can hear what they’re saying,” Ben whispers.
“Fuck you!” Zack replies quietly.
“We stay right here and learn what we can,” Dave says, settling the matter.
“Like I said. Major Brooks is going to be here in under two hours and then she’ll be in charge,” the sergeant says loud enough to be understood. “In the meantime, I want the four of you to take care of this mess. Ferguson and Gracey, you’re with me,” he orders.
“What do you want us to do, bury them or something?” Trevor asks.
“Are you going to bury three bodies in two hours, Private?” Brubaker asks but continues without waiting for a reply. “I don’t think so. What I want you to do, is search the bodies for anything that might give us a clue to who they are and where they’re from. Then I want you to collect their weapons and gather anything else we can use. Then, I want you to search the area and make sure there isn’t anyone else with these stupid fucks, who might be preparing to blow a hole in you out of revenge, and I want all of that done within the next sixty minutes. Then I want your asses back in camp and preparing to move out as soon as that ball-busting bitch gets here. Is that clear enough for you, Soldier?”
“Yes, Sergeant,” Trevor shouts, snapping to attention.
“We need to go,” Dave whispers to his sons.
“Yeah,” Zack agrees. “Like, right fucking now.”
Chapter 6
Pam heard the sudden gunfire from the direction she was sure Dave and their sons had gone. She immediately tried to raise them on the walkie-talkie, but there was no answer. Lynn was standing next to her, trying her best to convince her everything was okay and there was a reasonable explanation as to why Dave hadn’t answered the radio.
“Like they’ve been killed,” Pam had replied.
“You don’t know that. Maybe they just dropped the damn thing or turned it off for some reason. You just don’t know, sweetie. Let’s not jump to conclusions,” Lynn replies.
“Your mom’s right,” Mike says. He’d climbed his way out of the back seat of the Mercedes after the shots were fired. He didn’t want to admit it, but he also suspected the worst and assumed he’d need to be in charge now that Dave was gone. Mike had never watched a zombie movie in his entire life, let alone been as obsessed about the genre as much as he figured Pam and Dave were. He seriously worried about his chances to lead the surviving members of their family to safety.
Pam watched Joe and Brigette returning with Jaxon and Braxton from their Easter-egg hunt for used bottles, as the pit in her stomach grew wider and deeper. Before the four had left, Brigette and Joe promised to go no farther than where Dave, Zack, and Ben had entered into the forest and to come back within an hour. They’d been gone less than that and Pam was certain they’d also heard the volley of gunfire and returned immediately. But from the grins on the young boys’ faces as they approached, Pam reasoned Brigette and Joe hadn’t let on about what that could mean to the young brothers. Jaxon, the older of the brothers was happily swinging his plastic sack to and fro, while Braxton was having more difficulty with his. From what Pam could see, his bag looked to be considerably heavier than his older brother’s.
“Hey,” Brigette says as they approached. The tone in her voice was light and happy for the sake of her sons, but her expression told another story.
“Someone sure liked Gatorade,” Jaxon says as he hands his bag to Pam for inspection. Sure enough, half the bottles in his bag were from empty sports drinks.
“Good job,” Pam tells him, offering a high-five. Jaxon slaps her hand and beams back at her with pride.
Braxton hefted Pam his bag to inspect. She looked inside and saw a few crumpled water bottles, but the majority of them were an assortment of empty beer bottles and none she could see had lids. She looked at Brigette with a questioning expression, certain they’d discussed picking up resealable bottles.
“I tried to tell him,” Brigette tells her. “But he insisted on bringing them back.”
“That bag was really heavy,” Braxton exclaims. “I could barely carry it by myself!”
“Dude! You didn’t,” Joe interrupts. “I had to carry it for you because you were dragging it on the ground! But as soon as we got within sight, then you insisted on carrying it yourself!”
“It was heavy!” Braxton says, looking a little deflated.
“You’re the one who picked up all the glass bottles,” Joe counters.
“It’s okay,” Pam interjects. The last thing she needed was to watch an argument unfold between a child and her adult son. She also assumed Braxton’s seven-year-old logic had the edge. “You did good, Braxton,” she says, offering up another high-five and being relieved when Joe didn’t steal it from the kid. “I’m sure we’ll find something to do with them.”
“Maybe Molotov cocktails,” Brigette says, mussing her son’s hair with her fingers.
“That’d be cool!” Jaxon shouts.
“What’s a mallnoff cocktail?” Braxton asks.
“I’ll explain it later, buddy,” Brigette replies. “Have the guys checked in?” she asks Pam with desperate hope in her eyes.
“Not yet,” Pam answers as her eyes well with tears.
“Come on guys,” Lynn says to the young boys, ushering them away. “Let’s go sort these out and you can show me what you found.”
“Good idea. Maybe lay them all out by size and shape so we can keep an inventory,” Brigette says, trying to come up with anything that might keep them occupied for a while.
“What do you think?” Brigette asks Pam once the boys were a safe distance away.
“That’s not a good idea,” Joe replies. He wanted to add if they did choose to go looking for Dave and his brothers, they might end up with the same fate as they had but thought better of it when he saw the tear roll down her cheek. “We’re better off waiting here.”
The theme from the Halloween movies started so suddenly it startled them all and Pam jerked the walkie-talkie up and smashed the transmit button with her thumb.
“Dave! Dave! Come in!” she shouts into the small device, but the eerie chimes keep playing.
“Mom! It’s your cell phone,” Joe shouts.
It had been so long since they’d had any signal, Pam had forgotten she stuffed the useless device in her back pocket. Now, she fumbled to retrieve it, trying not to drop the walkie and answered it without checking the display.
“Hello! Dave?” she says, hoping to somehow hear her husband’s voice.
“Pam. It’s Amy,” her daughter says from the other end of the line. “I’ve been trying Dad’s cell for hours but couldn’t get through. The news just started getting some fucked up cell phone videos from Ohio, so I thought I’d give your phone a try. Who knew, right? Where’s Dad? Are you guys okay? Where are you? Are you on your way?” Amy rapid-fired the questions faster than Pam could answer them.
“We’re still in Ohio,” Pam began as best she could. “We ran into some trouble and we had to stop for a while. Your dad and two of your brothers are out now, scouting ahead. We’re worried there might be roadblocks or something. People are doing some crazy shit right now.”
“It isn’t just the people and it’s more than just roadblocks,” Amy replies. “I’ve seen videos of major looting going on and of the military turning people around and sending them back into that shit. They’re not letting anyone out. Some reports are saying they’re shooting people trying to get across the barricades.”
“Fuck! I… I…” Pam says, but couldn’t get any more words past the lump in her throat and the horrible images out of her head.
The F*cked Series (Book 4): Hard Page 8