“Dad, we have to help him!” Dom shouted. “We have to go help him!”
“Run!” Ronaldo yelled back. “Keep running and don’t stop!”
Dom tried to run, but his legs melted away like butter. He watched as his family was consumed by a wall of fire.
“Dom!”
The voice finally jerked him out of the nightmare. He patted his chest as he sucked air, and he felt his sweat-drenched shirt but no fire. An infinite expanse of black velvet strewn with diamonds greeted him as he sat up.
“It’s okay,” Ronaldo said, putting a hand on Dom’s shoulder. “But you need to get up.”
“What’s going on?”
“You were having a nightmare,” Ronaldo said. “You were screaming.”
Dom was still having a hard time hearing after the attack on the highway. His right ear likely had a ruptured eardrum, which explained the bleeding. The ringing hadn’t stopped since the attack, but the mild burns on his exposed skin didn’t hurt as bad as before, thanks to the ointment his mom had brought along.
Medicine was one thing they hadn’t run out of. But it didn’t do any good if you were out of water and food.
“Dom, you okay?” Ronaldo asked.
He nodded and looked at his sister and mom. They were awake and quietly packing their belongings in the moonlight.
The camp where they had spent the night was tucked under a rock overhang in a remote area on Mount Baldy. Away from refugees, away from violence.
That was supposed to be the plan, but something was definitely going on.
Dom waited a second for his brain to catch up, recalling the nightmare as he blinked.
Not a nightmare, he thought.
Nightmares weren’t real, and what had happened on the highway was all too real. The boy with a missing arm was real. So were the thousands of people they had to abandon back there.
The scene would be forever seared in his memory.
“Is your gun loaded?” Ronaldo asked.
Dom nodded. “Of course.”
“Good. Stay here with your mom and sister. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
“What?” Dom said. “Where are you going?”
“To check things out. I think I heard voices, and I’m worried it’s someone who heard you scream. I’ll be right back, but be ready to move.”
Dom rolled up his sleeping bag and stuffed his gear inside his backpack. Then he grabbed his pistol and moved over to his sister and mom. They crouched under the overhang, shadowed from the moon.
“Did you hear anything?” Dom asked.
Elena shook her head.
“Mom, I’m scared,” Monica said. She nuzzled her head against their mom’s chest.
“Everything will be fine,” Dom said.
All he could do was try to reassure his kid sister that everything would be okay. The same thing he had been doing since they had to abandon their car at the Oregon border. She had been strong up to that point, but seeing the violence and the desperation of the refugees had broken her down. It had beaten them all down. The attack by the fighter jets had shattered what strength she had left.
Dom was hanging on by a thread, and he could tell that his father and mother were too, especially Elena. Fear and exhaustion had worn them all down.
But Dom didn’t have the luxury of giving in to it right now. His father was patrolling because he had screamed in his sleep.
You couldn’t help that, Dom thought. But guilt set in anyway. He had to keep strong and calm, especially right now, while he was responsible for his mom and sister. It would be his fault if anyone dangerous found his family.
He checked the left side of the overhang, where he was sleeping only minutes ago. The slope descended a couple of hundred feet—far too steep for anyone to sneak up from that direction, especially in darkness.
Seeing that it was clear, he hunched down and walked past his mom and sister to the other side of the overhang, his tennis shoes crushing a bed of dry pine needles. He flinched, expecting a crunching sound, but he still couldn’t hear much of anything—his own noise or anyone else’s—and this put him at a serious disadvantage.
His dad had gone down the hill to check the ravine below. That still left the approach from above the overhang. It wasn’t a great position to defend, but they had picked it because it concealed all four of them from above and below.
Glancing over his shoulder, he held up a fist for Elena and Monica to stay put. Then he moved around the side to check the forest cresting the hill.
The moonlight faded as a cloud passed overhead, and he waited three or four minutes before it emerged. A carpet of white streamed through the canopy above him.
He aimed his pistol, straining to see human movement.
On the journey back to Los Angeles, his father had taught him how to look for hostiles in a situation just like this. “Create a two-dimensional canvas and divide the terrain horizontally into thirds,” Ronaldo had said.
Dom scanned the canvas from left to right, right to left.
Limbs moved in the breeze, leaves rustling, oak branches beckoning like ghostly fingers. Shadows moved between the bases as he moved his gun from tree to tree.
Then came a muffled cry.
Dom turned, but too late. A blow to the head knocked him to the ground. His damaged hearing had allowed someone to blindside him. But he was used to taking plenty of abuse during his MMA fights, and he pushed himself back up.
The next blow knocked him facedown. He tasted dirt and blood.
Get up, Dom. You gotta get up!
A boot pushed down on his neck, and he felt cold metal touch the base of his skull—a rifle muzzle.
Pushed against the ground, one eye closed, he had only a side view of Monica and his mom. Two men had them cornered, and a third was rifling through their belongings.
Dom thought about yelling, but his first scream had already attracted the attention of these men. Any more would likely just get him killed.
He said, “Take whatever you want. Just leave us alone.”
“Oh, we’re taking whatever we want, all right,” said the guy going through their bags. He pulled out a smaller bag and shook it. Something small, probably lipstick or a compact, fell out.
“Where’s your jewelry?” he said, tossing the bag down onto the dry leaf litter. “I know you got it somewhere. It in your bra?” The man grabbed his mom’s shirt and yanked.
“Don’t touch me!” she shouted, pawing at the guy.
Dom fought to get up, but every time he squirmed, the boot pressed harder on his neck.
“Stop fidgeting, boy, or I’ll put a—”
Dom suddenly felt the weight lift off his back, and the gun barrel move away from his head. He turned to see a burly man wearing what looked like a dark neckerchief or bib below his chin. It dripped onto the pine needles, and Dom could see that the “bib” was actually blood pouring from the man’s throat.
In the glow of moonlight, Dom saw his father gently lower the dead man to the ground.
By the time the other three guys knew what was happening, Ronaldo had shot one of them in the chest. The guy who had grabbed Elena went down with a shot to the abdomen.
Elena and Monica tried to move away, but the third guy grabbed Monica and put a knife to her neck.
Ronaldo strode forward, his pistol aimed at the man.
“Drop the knife and I won’t kill you,” he said calmly, almost mechanically.
“Go fuck yourself,” the guy said. “You drop your gun or I stick this little bitch.”
Dom picked up the rifle and aimed it at the guy gripping his stomach—the guy who had ripped his mother’s shirt. His wails were loud enough to penetrate the ringing in Dom’s ears.
“I’m going to count to three,” Ronaldo said. “Drop the knife and let my daughter go, or you’re
going to die.”
The man glanced at the rifle Dom held.
“Let my sister go,” Dom said.
“Back up,” the guy murmured.
“Please,” Elena begged, holding up her hands. “Please don’t hurt my baby.”
“You don’t have to die,” Ronaldo said. “Just let the girl go, and you get to walk out of here.”
The man finally came to his senses and let go of Monica. She ran over to Elena, and Ronaldo put two bullets in his chest. The man staggered, his lungs crackling with fluid before he slumped to the dirt.
Monica screamed in horror, and Elena pulled her close to block her view. While she shielded her daughter, Elena watched with apparent grim satisfaction as the man died.
“Let’s go,” Ronaldo said. “There are more of them out here hunting.”
A few minutes later, the family had their gear packed, and Ronaldo had Dom take them around the overhang. Dom knew why.
The guy his father had shot in the gut was still alive—barely, but they couldn’t leave him behind if there was a chance he could get back up. Not to mention that he had touched Elena in a way that Ronaldo would never forgive.
Dom held guard and tried to listen, but the ringing in his ears was too loud. So he scanned the hills for movement.
When his father returned, his shirt was spattered with blood, and his features were void of emotion. His hero dad had done what he was trained to do—and saved them all. Now Dom better understood why Ronaldo had stayed with them rather than go to fight with Marks, Tooth, and Bettis.
“Sometimes, you have to use evil to fight evil,” he said, sheathing the blade on his belt. He put a hand on Dom’s cheek and said, “Don’t forget that, son.”
Still in partial shock, Dom set off with his family. They hiked through the early morning hours, moving quietly through the forest.
At dawn, traversing one of the foothills, they got their first view of the rebel-controlled City of Angels. Smoke drifted away from hundreds of fires across the vast metropolis. The strobes of emergency vehicles flashed from every direction as fire and ambulance crews raced around the dying city.
Humvees and armored half-tracks blocked off intersections at military checkpoints. Dom even spotted several tanks moving slowly in the distance. But more than anything, he noticed the long, dense column of ants moving down the interstate below them—tens of thousands of refugees inching along, heading back into the city.
“Welcome home,” Ronaldo said.
* * *
The breeze smelled like trash, which didn’t help Vinny’s mood any. He was still angry about not being made with the other men, but bitching about it would only delay the process further.
The sour stink of rotting garbage with a potent tinge of ammonia was rank, all right, but at the same time nostalgic of the slums in Naples.
As a kid, he would cut through the alleyways to get to school on time. Seeing the junkies living under tarps had always motivated him to study hard, not screw around, and above all, to not mess with the hard drugs.
Los Angeles, with all its junkies, homeless people, and now refugees, was looking more like the slums of Naples by the day. It felt especially weird to drive through Bel Air smelling piss, sewage, and trash. The affluent community had turned into a refugee camp.
Thousands of heavy-duty tents stood on the yellow grass of the Bel-Air Country Club. Hundreds more were set up inside the basketball arena. A sprawling tent city stretched across the campus and into the surrounding areas.
Vinny studied the perimeter as Doberman drove around the barbed-wire enclosures. Across Los Angeles, Moretti soldiers were heading to other camps, to case them and figure out how best to move their business inside.
In an hour, when the sun went down, the soldiers would move in and lay claim to the territory. The very future of the Moretti family depended on these camps.
“This is going to be harder than my uncle thinks,” Vinny groaned.
“No shit,” said Doberman. He took a right down the next road, driving past the Los Angeles National Military Cemetery. Vinny couldn’t help wondering whether the city would start burying the civilian dead in this sacred place, now that every other cemetery in the city was running out of space.
Doberman accelerated to catch up with the twenty-year-old gray Cadillac ahead of them.
“Fuckin’ Frankie’s got that lead foot,” Doberman muttered. “Not a great idea with all the cops out here.”
“I don’t think the cops are worried about speeders these days.”
“Well, he’s burning gas,” Doberman said. “And he’s an asshole.”
They drove around the perimeter of the camp once more before the Cadillac pulled off into a parking lot. Several ransacked vehicles were propped up on cinder blocks, their windows broken and tires stolen.
The last bit of sunlight vanished on the horizon, and industrial lights powered by generators clicked on at the UCLA stadium. Several other lights came to life across the camp.
“Go time,” Doberman said.
They got out as Frankie and Carmine finished pulling their bags from the Cadillac. Carmine wore a camel-colored coat, torn jeans, and a Dodgers baseball cap. Frankie was dressed in filthy civilian garb that would help the old-school gangster blend in with the masses.
“Plans’ve changed,” Frankie said. “We’ll park here and head in on foot.”
“I make Captain, and I end up looking like a fucking bum,” Carmine groaned.
“Is it safe to leave our vehicles?” Doberman asked. “Someone’s at least gonna try and siphon the gas.”
“That’s why we came with only enough gas to get here and home,” Frankie replied.
“You dumb-ass kids got a lot to learn,” Carmine said with the wag of his head. “Don’t forget, we come from a time when empires were built without cell phones.”
Yeah, and people still got around on donkeys, Vinny wanted to say, but he bit his tongue. Talking back would only piss off the older guys. It didn’t matter that Christopher was his dad. If he showed a lack of respect, they could slap him around, or worse.
“Let’s go, numb nuts,” Carmine said to Doberman.
He glanced at Vinny.
“Don’t look at Vin,” Carmine said. “Get going.” He pushed Doberman toward the street, and they set off across the parking lot on the west side of the campus.
“Tonight, we’re going inside to see how things work,” Frankie said. “If anyone asks, Carmine and I are your uncles, and we’re all from San Fran.”
Carmine chuckled and glanced at Doberman. “No way in hell I’d be related to this birdbrain.”
“A bird’s smarter than a slug,” Doberman said under his breath.
Carmine stopped on the sidewalk at the edge of the parking lot, tilting his head. “What’d you say, you little shit fuck?”
“Come on, guys, let’s just get this shit over with so we can get home at a decent time,” Vinny said, stepping between them. He looked at Carmine’s saggy, scarred features. “Slug” was a pretty good description.
“Vin’s right,” Frankie said. “Let’s do it. I want to get home before the sun comes up.”
Doberman walked away, and Carmine spat on the ground, narrowly missing the younger man’s pants. Together, the group crossed the street, toward a line of refugees.
A week earlier, when the fighting still raged throughout the city, the line had been thousands long. It was shorter now, though still long, and it slogged forward, inch by inch.
Vinny saw people from other cities, and Angelinos who had lost their homes in the bombardments and the fires that followed. Even the rich had abandoned their mansions for clean water and food now that most of them had used up their supplies. The camps were supposed to be safe zones, areas off limits to AMP bombs or Navy missiles.
Several sheriff’s deputies, wearing
brown fatigues and bulletproof vests and armed with automatic rifles, worked the gated entrance ahead. Cops and a group of rebel soldiers were also standing guard, talking to one another as the deputies processed refugees.
Vinny pulled the bandanna up around his face when they got into line. The people here smelled even worse than the streets. Most of them were filthy from traveling long distances, but some wore designer clothes and carried designer bags full of their belongings, which suggested they were Bel Air locals.
As the line crawled forward, Vinny tuned out the sobbing and the smells. This was the reality in America now, and it wasn’t going to change anytime soon.
An hour later, they made it to the front of the line.
A burly deputy motioned Carmine forward.
“How many of you?” the man asked.
“Four total,” Doberman said. He stepped up in front of Carmine to talk to the deputy, whose name tag said he was Nate Press.
“These are my uncles, and this is my cousin. Most of our family was killed in San Francisco, and we came here to stay with my aunt, who …”
The deputy scrutinized Doberman.
“She was killed when Los Alamitos got hit, so here we are for now,” Doberman said.
“Sorry to hear that,” Deputy Press said ruefully. “You got ID?”
They handed over their California driver’s licenses, all with aliases. The deputy looked at each and handed them back.
“Any of you served in the military?” he asked.
“No sir,” Doberman said.
Carmine, Frankie, and Vinny shook their heads.
“Is this all of your belongings?” Press asked.
“Yes sir.”
“Any weapons?”
“No sir,” Doberman said.
“You guys been on foot for how long?”
“Weeks,” Doberman said.
Press gave them all a quick glance, checking their sneakers, which looked the part.
“All right, we have space for you in zone four.” He pointed. “Just outside the stadium. If you’re looking for work, the LAPD and our office have a stand for information. Once you’re processed, you’ll be able to come and go as you please. Use the north exit.”
Sons of War Page 19