by Nathan Jones
The battles couldn't all be like Gerry's Ravine, he knew that, but this was shaping up to be a real disaster. Tom was just glad that he'd specifically targeted the man with the radio first, and none of the other bloodies had retrieved it during their mad dash for cover; he didn't even want to think about the trouble they'd be in if the two other squads had more accurate intel and were already on their way. But even without the ability to communicate with reinforcements, the nearest of the other squads' scouts might be in range to hear the gunshots and send every Sangue in the area running to help.
If the enemy got out of this ambush they'd be able to delay the volunteers, slow and harass them until the other squads showed up. At which point any semblance of an advantage Tom's people had would be gone. They'd be forced to retreat, pursued by skilled soldiers with radios, and at all costs they had to lead the enemy away from Camptown.
They might end up like Brandon and the women Skyler had rescued from Sangue had a few weeks ago, hunted to exhaustion. Only at that point there'd be no one to rescue them, aside from a handful of volunteers still guarding the bowl valley who wouldn't be able to make a difference.
Tom heard more screams and bellows of pain from his people, in his group and Mitchells's both, and cursed softly.
In spite of his efforts to plan ahead, he hadn't expected things to go this badly or he would've sent another group of volunteers to circle south, both to provide another angle of fire at the enemy's positions behind cover and to cut off any attempt to escape. He'd been too confident that the surprise of their attack would at least pin Sangue down, if not eliminate them entirely like they had at Gerry's Ravine, and if need be he could safely send people to flank the bloodies whenever he wanted.
Then, to his vast relief, grenades thrown by his people started going off.
The first one came from the sheriff's group, a well-aimed throw between two trees into a nest of deadfall that at least three enemies were using as cover. The blast killed or incapacitated all of them, and Sangue's coordinated retreat effort stuttered for a moment as they tried to adjust to this new threat, calling out warnings and searching for more incoming grenades.
Heartened by the sudden change of momentum, especially when a grenade Logan tossed exploded near another group, not quite as well placed and devastating but still hitting at least two enemies, the volunteers renewed their attack.
Tom wasn't sure if that would be enough to seal their victory. If it wasn't, he needed to act now while the opportunity presented itself. “Come on!” he snapped to his team: Logan, Neal, and Reina. They'd all found shelter reasonably close to him.
He ducked upslope, deeper into the trees, moving quickly and erratically from one source of cover to the next and checking to make sure the others were with him. He led them around southwest, circling the Sangue squad at the best speed he judged was still safe. If they hurried they could flank the enemy, maybe even cut them off, and keep them from getting away while the other volunteers found better positions to shoot from.
Assuming the other volunteers had the presence of mind to search for those better positions. Especially Mitchells; he really, really hoped the sheriff had sent someone to cut Sangue off around the southeast, since that group was better positioned to cut them off to the south in any case.
Over the last couple weeks Tom had been working to organize his people into distinct squads and teams with competent leaders, who could make those sorts of decisions in the heat of the moment. But they were still weak in the area of small unit coordination, and this was the first time they'd attempted it outside of training. He needed to train them even harder after this, and encourage the squad and team leaders to train their people to best suit their respective strengths as well.
Assuming they survived this.
As Tom ran he routinely paused to check on the enemy position and movements. At one point he even found a target of opportunity in a soldier dashing from one source of cover to the next. He managed to hit the enemy somewhere on the torso with a hasty shot, then immediately had to duck behind a clump of trees as the man's squad mates covering him returned fire.
Tom shouted for his team to drop for the moment as well, and they waited like that for what seemed like an eternity but was probably closer to half a minute before the thud of shots hitting the trees around them stopped.
He cautiously darted upslope, even deeper into the trees, and kept going.
Their mad scramble finally brought them in a position to flank the enemy from the east. Unfortunately, his team arrived just in time to watch a handful of enemy soldiers scramble to safety in a copse of trees a hundred yards to the south, while two men twenty or so yards away covered them and slowly withdrew.
That seemed to be the last of them, judging by how the gunfire had mostly died down. Tom raised his AK-47 to aim at the pair of bloodies, whose cover offered them no protection from this angle. His first shot took a soldier in the leg, rather than the lower abdomen below the body armor like he'd intended, as the man abruptly stood from a crouch in preparation to flee after his squad mates.
The man went down with a scream like a mortally wounded animal, flinging his gun away as he thrashed. Tom wanted to put him out of his misery, but since he wasn't a threat at the moment he shifted aim at the second soldier, who was whirling in shock to face the new threat that had just taken out his buddy.
Before Tom could take the shot, the man abruptly turned and ran away after his companions who'd already escaped. Tom froze with his finger on the trigger, suddenly finding himself sorting through the moral implications of shooting a fleeing enemy in the back. Especially when the soldier dropped his rifle in his haste to escape.
Before he could decide what to do, the sharp crack of a gunshot from thirty yards farther southwest of the fleeing man made Tom jump. The soldier jerked and went down, blood slowly spreading to soak the front of his uniform, and began to gurgle and thrash on the ground not far from his wounded companion.
A few moments later a hail of bullets struck both downed enemies, and they gave a few final twitches and went still. Brandon's voice drifted to him across the distance as the young man cautiously stepped out of hiding. “Clear! All the surviving bloodies got away!”
Tom hastily made a last sweep of the area to make sure there were no more threats, then slung his rifle and approached the two downed soldiers. His friend, whose gun was still trailing wisps of smoke from the shots he'd just taken, met him there and checked the two men to make sure they were dead.
The young man didn't say a word about shooting a fleeing man, and when he finished and noticed Tom staring at him he stared back silently, as if daring him to say a word. After a moment Tom broke the stare and turned away, slinging his rifle over his shoulder and starting back to the main site of the battle to check the other bodies.
What could he really say? That soldier would've been helpless for exactly as long as it took him to rejoin his fellow bloodies and get another weapon. At which point he'd have turned right around and kept trying his hardest to find innocents to butcher, torture, and enslave.
Including Tom's family and friends.
Sangue had made their beds when they started invading their neighbors and committing one atrocity after another. Besides, this was war; he might've wished for a world where mercy and decency were still on the table, for both sides, but this wasn't that world.
The sight of the kid, who couldn't have been more than a few years older than Skyler, flopping to the ground with a look of horrified surprise on his face might trouble his thoughts for a while, but he'd shed no tears for him.
Maybe for how his life might've gone if he hadn't joined Sangue, and met his bloody end on some mountain slope far from home. But even there, Tom had far more worthy people who'd fallen in this invasion to offer his sympathy and regrets to.
Starting with the brave volunteers he'd just lost.
Chapter Two
Decisions
In the end, they'd managed to kill sixteen of
the Sangue soldiers, while the other four had gotten away. They'd lost three volunteers and two more were wounded, one seriously enough to worry Tom.
They'd captured more gear from the enemy: weapons, backpacks of supplies, cheap helmets and body armor, and even another radio. They'd also more than made up for the grenades they'd used during the fight, adding another half dozen to their arsenal.
Tom had sent Brandon and some of his best scouts to check in the direction the surviving enemy soldiers had fled, as well as to watch in case the other two squads came charging in to avenge their fallen buddies. He chivvied the other volunteers to finish looting the enemy soldiers, so they could get out of there.
If the remaining Sangue were spoiling for another fight, he wanted to make sure it was on his terms, at an advantageous time and place. This fight had been a resounding victory, but considering how close it had come to ending in disaster, mostly due to his hastiness planning and implementing the ambush and the frightening professionalism of the enemy, he wasn't feeling as victorious as he might have.
Especially considering the woman and two men, all good people, who'd died, and the other two men who'd been wounded. He understood the reality that he'd lose people in the fighting, but he'd never truly celebrate any win where volunteers died.
He wasn't the only one whose mood was grim as he oversaw the volunteers in preparing the bodies to take with them, eventually back to Camptown for a proper burial, as well as finding a way to move the two wounded. Or maybe everyone caught his heaviness of heart and followed his lead, in spite of the victory they'd just won.
Which is to say, everyone but Neal, of course. “So . . . this was a win, right?” he asked, looking around. “Why the long faces?”
Mitchells looked away from the bodies, expression dark. “You want to call it a win when we lost three good people?”
The bartender shifted uncomfortably. “Well yeah. I mean, we all accepted that this might happen, that's part of war. But still, we took out way more of them than we lost.”
The sheriff glowered. “Yeah, aside from the fact that they've got who knows how many thousands of soldiers to our dozens. Which means even looking past the tragedy of losing friends, the numbers aren't on our side . . . we could kill ten of them for every one of us and they'd still come out ahead in the end. Not to mention four of them got away to report in about this ambush.”
Neal walked away, shaking his head. “Well excuse me for being happy to still be alive, Mr. Morale.”
Expression dark, Mitchells took a step as if to chase the man down and give him a tongue-lashing. Tom caught his eye and shook his head. “He's being his usual charming self, but he's not wrong. We won this fight, and it could've gone a lot worse than it did. No shame in being happy about that.”
“That man should generally feel shame, just on principle,” the sheriff muttered. Shaking his head, he turned back to the volunteers and raised his voice. “Let's go, people! The nearest of the other two Sangue squads is too close for comfort, so let's skedaddle before they decide to crash this party.”
The few dozen men and women quickly finished gathering the looted gear and supplies and packed it in with their own stuff, while several people worked between them to carry out the wounded and bodies of their fallen. Mitchells led the way south at the best pace they could manage, with Tom scouting ahead to make sure they weren't running into any surprises.
While they'd had horses for quick travel and packing gear the last time they'd ambushed Sangue a couple weeks ago, Tom had decided to favor stealth over speed for trailing the three enemy squads this time, since horses were noisy, highly visible, and left a lot of sign of their passage.
Sign which they at all costs wanted to avoid leading straight back to the bowl valley.
Then there was also the fact that those animals were needed for the continuing work of building Camptown, and keeping them out for days at a time was bound to make Brady Everett, back keeping an eye on things while the sheriff was gone, pull out all his hair. Tom did have a few riders far back from their current position, well out of sight and hearing of the enemy, so he could get word back to Brady quickly in case they needed the horses or the remaining volunteers. But so far those riders had mostly just twiddled their thumbs.
The long and short of it was, they were on foot. Which meant if it did come to a chase, they only had their, by which he mostly meant his, knowledge of the mountains and their training moving through them to keep them ahead of the bloodies. And all the while he'd have to consider the possibility of leading the enemy to one of their prepared ambush spots, or setting up an impromptu ambush.
They couldn't, and shouldn't, run forever, when it was vitally important to keep Sangue far away from Camptown. That meant that not only did they have to win every fight, but they had to be careful how they won the fights.
Thankfully, it turned out that was a concern for another day.
They'd been traveling for about an hour when Brandon and his scouts, out of breath and irked at having to cover so much distance to catch up, reported that the other two Sangue squads had immediately withdrawn to the northeast when the ambush survivors reached the nearer one and reported on the attack.
The volunteers had fled a possible counterattack so quickly that Brandon hadn't been able to send word about the enemy's movements, so the young man had left a couple volunteers shadowing the enemy at a safe distance, in case this was a ruse and they suddenly changed directions, before returning with the rest of the scouts to report in.
That left Tom with yet another lesson to learn, another thing he should've thought of; planning a way for the scouts to contact them even when they were all moving quickly in possible combat scenarios.
In any case, Brandon seemed confident the day's defeat had spooked Sangue and they were at least regrouping, if not retreating all the way back to Highway 29.
After the volunteers' tense march following the ambush, this news was greeted with deep relief. Not only that, but it seemed like encouragement to finally allow themselves to celebrate the day's victory, and many people cheered and threw their hats in the air. Tom even spotted Neal passing around a flask.
Since it was clear there were no enemies tracking them, Tom started the group back towards Camptown. He didn't intend for everyone to go all the way back, of course, since they still needed to keep an eye on those two squads and patrol the area to make sure no other bloodies were sneaking up on them. He also had a pressing task he'd been considering, but had hesitated to assign to anyone because it might stir up Sangue like a kicked hornets' nest.
Today's ambush had probably already done that, so now might be the time.
When they set up camp that evening, he approached Mitchells about assigning volunteers to go back out for the scouting. The sheriff looked weary when he brought up the subject, looking around at their exhausted people morosely. “It's hard to enjoy these victories, when with every one we know Sangue is probably getting more and more pissed off and interested in this area. It never ends, does it?”
Tom tried to think of something encouraging to say, some hope that if they won often enough the enemy might go away, or at least not be able to bring enough force to bear to deal with them. But he had a feeling the man was right. “Never know what the future might bring,” he said instead.
“Get the feeling I might know all too well.” Mitchells sighed. “Anyway, I was thinking maybe I'll go out with the scouts for a few days. I've been leaving this entirely up to you, which isn't very leaderly of me. Especially when you've got a heavily pregnant wife who needs you back home with her.”
Well, it was hard to argue with that, since Kristy was indeed waiting for him at the summer retreat. And with her around seven months along, the day of their child's birth rapidly approaching, Tom was fretting more and more about being away from her.
What if she went into labor early while he was days away? Or, God forbid, suffered some sort of complications? What if Sangue snuck around from a different d
irection and she was forced to flee in her condition?
What if their headstrong son, Skyler, decided to do something, well, headstrong, and Tom wasn't there to rein him in?
Besides, the new batch of volunteers needed more training. And work had been stacking up around the summer retreat while he was focused on defending the bowl valley. It would be good to have some time to focus on his family and their needs. So Tom clapped Mitchells on the shoulder and left him to organizing the scouts, heading out to find Brandon for the other pressing task.
Unfortunately, his friend wasn't hard to find; he just had to follow the shouting. Which came as a huge surprise, considering how easygoing and generally well liked the young man was. Especially since, from the looks of things, it was Brandon striking the sparks.
Ray Mickelson, a few years younger than Tom and from his experience more than a little prickly, had apparently been in the middle of setting a fire when Brandon confronted him. And rather than being reasonable about it the way he usually was, the young man went into it verbally swinging. “You ever take five seconds to think about the rest of us when you do stuff, Mickelson?”
That immediately got Ray's back up. “What's this I was supposed to be thinking about?”
“Your fire! We've got almost forty people here, which means it takes a little planning when setting up camp. Meanwhile, you're building a fire in the middle of the main lane between tents!”
The other man looked stubbornly at the tents around him. “Seems like plenty of room to go around me.”
“Not when you finish that bonfire you decided was what you needed for cooking,” Brandon snapped. “Speaking of which, you miss Trapper's lessons on building a small, hidden fire?”
Ray hunched his shoulders. “This fire's going to be fine. Do I look like an idiot to you?”
The young man shrugged sarcastically. “Well, you do have that whole breathing with your mouth open thing going. I'm surprised you didn't blow the ambush when the bloodies heard you panting from a mile off.”