Sons of War

by Nicholas Sansbury Smith

  “Not today, we’re not,” Antonio said.

  “Then why are we leaving the house?” Marco asked. “I really liked it there.”

  “It’s not safe anymore,” Raff said.

  Marco bit his lower lip and looked to his mother.

  “Everything’s going to be fine,” Lucia said in her most soothing voice.

  She was always the one to enable him, always the one to coddle him, and it wasn’t what the boy needed. The world they lived in ate the weak and picked its teeth with their bones.

  Antonio had to toughen his son up if he was to have any prayer of surviving what was coming.

  “Oh damn, look at that,” Yellowtail said. He pointed to a field with hundreds of different-colored tents, and not a soul in sight.

  The cops were doing a good job evacuating people and getting them into buildings. Antonio normally hated police, but he had to respect those who had stayed on the job in the face of such danger.

  The Suburban ahead of them swerved to avoid a woman trying to cross the street, but that put it on a collision course with a man on foot. He jumped out of the way just in time.

  “Stupid assholes,” Lino muttered.

  “Take it easy,” Antonio said. “We have time.”

  “Chrissy’s got a lead foot,” Lino said.

  The convoy gunned through the traffic at fifty miles an hour as more vehicles pulled onto the road. Lino glanced in the rearview mirror. When he did it a second time, Antonio said, “What?”

  “I think we might have a tail,” Lino muttered.

  Antonio discreetly checked the side mirror as a red car muscled around another vehicle to get behind the Suburban. Both the driver and the passenger wore tank tops and sunglasses. Tattoos covered their arms, necks, and bald heads.

  They didn’t appear to have any luggage in the back, or anything strapped to the top. These guys weren’t trying to escape the city.

  The sons of bitches had waited until he left the house to strike. His gut tightened as he calmly said, “Floor it, Lino.”

  The Suburban in front of them pulled into the left lane, but when Lino tried to follow, the car ahead of it cut him off.

  “Figlio di gran puttana,” Lino growled.

  The rest of the Moretti convoy moved into denser traffic ahead.

  Antonio turned to the back seat, not wanting to scare his son and wife but seeing no way around it.

  “Lucia, Marco, I want you guys to get down on the floor, okay?”

  “What!” Lucia gasped.

  Marco blinked rapidly. “Why, Dad?”

  “Just do as I say.” Antonio nodded at Yellowtail, who pulled a pistol from his waistband and racked the slide. Raff did the same thing, then helped Lucia and Marco onto the floor.

  “Give me the radio,” Antonio said.

  Lino pulled out his walkie-talkie and handed it to Antonio.

  Before he could call Christopher, the red car behind them picked up speed.

  “Everyone stay down!” Lino shouted.

  He jerked the wheel to the right, blocking the red car from coming up on the shoulder. Metal screeched, and sparks flew along the guardrail.

  The driver eased off and then punched it, pulling into the left lane to flank them.

  “Yellowtail, take them out!” Antonio shouted.

  Yellowtail pointed the pistol out the window, at the tires. But the driver braked again, and both shots missed.

  The passenger raised an Uzi and returned fire, shattering the Suburban’s back window.

  Lino slammed on the brakes as a tan pickup skidded sideways and stopped in front of them. The driver opened fire with a handgun, his bullets spider-webbing the glass and hitting the back seats.

  Rounds blew through Antonio’s headrest. Raff shielded Marco and Lucia with his body while they screamed in terror.

  “Get us out of here!” Antonio shouted at Lino.

  Another flurry of shots slammed into the back of the Suburban. Antonio prayed they would not hit flesh.

  “go!” he shouted.

  Putting the SUV in reverse, Lino backed away from the two vehicles that had stopped on the road.

  Three men jumped out of the pickup, firing assault rifles.

  Antonio could see his wife and son on the back floor now, under Raff, who had cubical shards of safety glass all over his back and head.

  “fuck you!” Yellowtail screamed. He sat up and fired at the man with the Uzi, hitting him twice in the chest. The guy crumpled on the street.

  “go, go, go!” Antonio yelled. He raised his rifle to fire just as a different car slammed into the side of the SUV. His seat belt dug into his chest as the airbag exploded in his face. Smoke and powder filled the vehicle as they skidded to a stop.

  Antonio felt warm blood running from his nose and heard the distant moans and cries from his family. He got a blurred image of Lino slumped against the door, blood streaking from his forehead. The walkie-talkie on the floor crackled next to the M4 Antonio had dropped in the crash.

  As men surrounded their vehicle, he stretched to grab the gun, but his fingertips hit the grip, pushing it out of reach.

  He twisted slightly to see Lucia and Marco moving on the back floor. Yellowtail was there with them now, shielding their bodies with his own. Raff was either dead or unconscious after being tossed against the door.

  Bullets pounded the back door.

  “Stay down,” Antonio managed to say. He unbuckled his seat belt and reached again for his rifle, coughing from the smoke.

  Through the haze, he saw a man approaching the driver’s door. A rifle butt smashed through the glass, and a hand opened the door. The assailant grabbed Lino’s limp body, holding a toothed blade under his chin.

  Antonio finally grabbed the gun just as his door opened. A hand seized him by his suit jacket. A second hand wrested the gun away from him, and an arm wrapped around his neck, tightening until he couldn’t breathe.

  Two more men grabbed Yellowtail from the back seat, pulling him off Marco and Lucia.

  Antonio tried to yell, but the muscular arm cut off his air.

  “Antonio Moretti,” said a deep Spanish-accented voice, “you are one stupid hombre.”

  He watched in horror as his wife and then his son were yanked from the vehicle.

  “You made a mistake trying to come into my territory,” the man said. “Your man told me all about you rat guineas.”

  Something thumped on the dashboard and rolled to the floor. Antonio looked down to see a severed head. The lips and eyes were stitched shut, but he recognized the gray-streaked hair of John Recelli, their missing soldier.

  The arm around his neck loosened, and Antonio twisted to see a man about his own age with tan skin, a mustache, and a cowboy hat. The barrel of a silver .357 Magnum hit Antonio between his eyes.

  “Too bad no one told you Esteban Vega is the new king of Los Angeles,” he said, cracking a handsome smile. “Remember that name; it’s the last you will ever hear. But before I kill you, I’m going to make you watch your family and your men die.”

  Antonio looked over at Lino, who had just regained consciousness. The man holding him captive laughed as he began to saw at Lino’s neck with the serrated blade. But Lino fought back, and the knife’s teeth found his chin instead of his jugular vein.

  “You slippery fuck—!” The shriek of tires cut the Vega soldier off. He vanished in a blur of metal as one of the Moretti BMWs roared up alongside the Suburban, sandwiching him against the door and snapping it off.

  Lino slumped over onto the center console, his eyes locked on Antonio.

  Antonio seized on the distraction and threw an elbow, catching Esteban Vega in the ribs. Gunfire rang out from multiple directions, and rounds pinged off the Suburban.

  Reaching behind him, Antonio pulled out his pistol. The road was clogge
d with vehicles and civilians huddling behind them as stray rounds pinged off metal and whined through the air.

  He looked for Esteban in the chaos and spotted him running for a pickup with two of his men. Raising the pistol, Antonio aimed it at the self-proclaimed king of LA.

  “You’re going to have to do better than that to kill me, you cocksucker!” Antonio yelled. He fired several shots, taking out one of the guards, but Esteban ducked behind the pickup, and his other soldier turned to fire at Antonio, forcing him to take cover.

  Screams and gunfire rang out as Moretti soldiers jumped out of their vehicles and fired on the remaining Vega soldiers.

  Antonio hurried over to his wife and son, huddled on the other side of the Suburban.

  “We’re okay!” she shouted.

  Yellowtail had limped over to the driver’s side and was reaching in to grab Lino.

  “Get them out of here!” Antonio yelled to his men.

  Rush and Christopher put Lucia and Marco in the BMW that had saved them during the attack. The grill guard was bent and bloody where it had slammed into the man who tried to kill Lino.

  “Don Antonio, we’ve got to move!” Rush yelled.

  “I’ll meet you there!”

  Rush ducked into the BMW and sped away with the Moretti queen and crown prince safely inside.

  “Watch our back,” Antonio said to Christopher, who shouldered a rifle while Antonio went around to the driver’s door of the Suburban.

  Yellowtail had his hand pressed against Lino’s chin and the flap of flesh hanging off it. Lino stared at Antonio.

  “Hold on, brother,” Antonio said. He then went to the back to check on Raff. There was a pulse, but he had hit his head hard.

  They pulled him out gently and laid him on the back seat of the remaining Suburban, then did the same with Lino.

  Police sirens blared over the air-raid Klaxons as they drove away from the wrecked vehicles and dead Vega soldiers.

  Antonio took over for Yellowtail, pressing his hand against Lino’s gash. The Vega soldier had sliced into his neck but missed the artery and jugular. If the BMW had hit the man a half second later, Lino would have already bled out.

  As they raced away, he struggled to keep his eyes open, blinking and focusing on his boss. Raff was breathing, but his lungs rattled.

  Speaking in Italian, Antonio told his old friend that everything would be okay, that they would fight many more battles together.

  Antonio looked up to Christopher in the front seat.

  “Where the fuck were you earlier? Vega almost killed my family!”

  “I’m sorry,” Christopher replied. “We got cut off. I turned around as fast as I—”

  “Shit,” Yellowtail said, pulling a bloody hand away from his side. “I think I got hit again.”

  “How bad?” Antonio asked.

  Yellowtail pulled up his shirt. Blood trickled out, and he put a hand down against his love handle. “Going to have another scar, but I don’t think it hit anything vital—just through the fat.”

  “We’re almost there,” Christopher said.

  Lino squirmed on the seat, kicking the door. His lips opened, but Antonio shushed him, saying, “Non parlare, Lino. Non parlare.”

  Christopher weaved in and out of traffic, clipping a car with the right mirror. On an open stretch of road, he floored it, hitting what felt to Antonio like a hundred miles an hour.

  Ten minutes later, he finally saw the Commerce Hotel in the distance.

  “There it is,” Christopher said. He pulled out his walkie-talkie to say they were coming in.

  The Suburban squealed into the parking lot a minute later and pulled up to the front drive, where a dozen Moretti soldiers were already waiting. Two had medical training.

  “Sir, I need you to move,” one of them said to Antonio.

  Suit and hands covered in blood, Antonio staggered away, watching as they carried away two of his most trusted men.

  “Dad!”

  The voice pulled Antonio’s eyes to the lobby, where Lucia and Marco stood behind more Moretti guards. He made his way toward them, wiping his bloody hands on his pant legs. Lucia threw her arms around his neck, her body trembling against his.

  “It’s okay,” he whispered. “We’re safe now.”

  Marco grabbed his sleeve. “Are you okay, Dad?” he asked.

  “I’m fine,” Antonio said. He kissed his wife on the forehead, smearing blood in her wild hair.

  “What about Raff?” Marco asked. He watched wide-eyed as Raff and Lino were carried into the lobby.

  “He’s strong,” Antonio said. “God willing, he will be okay.”

  Marco looked around at the floor filled with slot machines and card tables.

  “What is this place?” he asked.

  Antonio put a hand on his shoulder and said, “This is our new home, son.”

  * * *

  Two hours after the attack on Camp Pendleton, Dom sat huddled with Monica and their mother in the Downey High School auditorium. The gymnasium and most of the classrooms were already full of families, and more were still shuffling in with their meager belongings.

  “How long do we have to stay here?” Monica asked, closing her book and setting it on her lap.

  “I don’t know,” Dom said. “It depends.”

  “On what?”

  Monica glanced over at their mother, but Elena was staring off into space, lost in her thoughts.

  “Mom?” Dom said, reaching out to her, “You okay?”

  Elena snapped out of whatever she was thinking about. “Yes, it’s just … my college roommate and her family live—lived—in Mission San Luis Rey, just south of Pendleton.”

  “They might have made it out …” He didn’t sound convincing, and his mom wiped a tear away. They both knew that her friend’s chances of surviving were slim to none. Even if they had been shielded from the blast, the intense heat would have vaporized them.

  The doors to the auditorium swung open, and Ronaldo walked in, still in his fatigues and carrying his rifle. He motioned to Dom.

  “Mon, why don’t you tell Mom about that sci-fi book you got there?” Dom said.

  Elena took a seat, and Dom moved down the aisle of chairs, past several other families who were sitting and talking quietly.

  He met his father in the hall as more people came in through the building’s side entrance.

  “Hurry up,” said one of several marines standing guard.

  Three of the men worked to seal off the entrance with tarps, wet sheets, and anything else they could find to keep out any radioactive fallout now that nearly everyone was inside.

  “I need to talk to you,” Ronaldo said quietly. They walked halfway across the room until they got to the administrative offices. Tooth and Bettis were inside with Marks and six other marines, listening to a radio.

  “What’s up, Dad?” Dom said.

  Ronaldo stopped outside the door and checked for anyone listening.

  “This wasn’t just Camp Pendleton,” he said.

  Dom held a breath in his chest, waiting for his worst fears to be confirmed.

  “Sacramento, Chicago, Denver, New York, and Seattle were all hit. Elliot, that son of …” Ronaldo closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “The deranged bastard went after the biggest population centers, and some of the capitals, of almost every state under rebel control, including several marine bases.”

  Dom felt his face warming and realized he still hadn’t taken a breath.

  Ronaldo said, “The only good news, if you can call it that, is the bombs were some of the new low-yield nukes that the government just rolled off the assembly line a year before the war. Smaller even than the fifteen-kiloton one we used on Hiroshima.”

  “So that means we’re safe here?”

  “Not exactly,”
Ronaldo said. He let out a low sigh, and his lip curled—something he did when he was nervous and angry. “The fallout from Pendleton is still going to sow death across the state for hundreds of miles. That’s why we’re sealing off everything we can to keep it out of the school. I just want you to know we’re going to be here a while, and I’m counting on you to help your mom and sister however you can, okay?”

  “Of course, Dad. You can count on me.”

  “I know.” Ronaldo put a hand on Dom’s shoulder and leaned in closer. “Even when this is over, it’s going to get worse before it gets better. You saw what it’s like out there.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then you know what we face when we make it out of here. The fight for survival is just starting.” Ronaldo looked back to the office. “Wait here a minute.”

  Dom had hoped the war was almost over and that things would get better soon, so he could focus on being a police officer. But things had just gotten a whole lot worse, and right now his family needed him more than ever.

  The office door opened, and Ronaldo led the other marines out into the hallway.

  “We need your help, Dom,” he said.

  The marines returned to the entrances, where the tarps were going up. People stood on chairs, putting duct tape over the vents.

  “Won’t that cut off our air supply?” Dom asked.

  “We got a team outside setting up a filtration system that we normally use in tents,” Ronaldo replied. “The same kind we had in the shelters in Phoenix. Don’t worry, okay? I just need you to go to the gym and help move supplies.”

  “Okay, dad, no problem.”

  Minutes later, Dom was toting cases of MREs and bottled water into a classroom. The windows were already secure with plastic wrapping and duct tape along the frames.

  Two young enlisted army soldiers carried a stack of boxes inside, talking as they walked.

  “No way in hell this is going to feed all these people,” one grumbled. “We shouldn’t have moved most of our supplies to the other location.”