Final Stand: Last Ditch (Mountain Man Book 5)

by Nathan Jones

  The bloodies were spread out all along the eastern slope in several lines, in a thick fist of charging soldiers along the ridgeline to the south, and another smaller group spreading out onto the western slope to try to encircle them.

  That last group was the most alarming one, with the refugees fleeing right past them, so Tom immediately sent a squad of fighters and all the volunteers to stop them at all costs. As for the rest of the charging enemy, they were already within five hundred yards, and many were already firing up the slope at the fortifications.

  Some of the fighters were shooting back, while their squad leaders yelled for them to hold their fire and wait for the enemy to get closer so they had a better shot. Tom watched the fist of charging soldiers to the south, who had rushed ahead of their buddies and were already at four hundred yards, the bullets flying fast and thick between them and the fighters behind the sandbags, and decided to forget waiting for a good shot.

  “Open fire, people, fire!” he bellowed. “We're outnumbered at least four to one here! Try to actually aim, but I wouldn't worry about conserving ammo! What're we saving it for at this point?”

  Gunfire roared up and down the line as the fighters let loose. Tom suited his own words by rushing to the middle of his section of eastern sandbag wall and dropping down behind it, aiming downslope.

  The dense trees were alive with darting figures in drab Sangue uniforms, popping out to fire or to continue charging upslope. The few meadows and clearings in the woods were dotted with the corpses of those foolish enough to favor speed over cover, and now the tide of soldiers were flowing around those spots, with only the rare few brave or stupid enough to try their luck.

  Tom focused on the leading edge of the charging bloodies and began shooting at darting shapes, as well as at openings between trees where he expected soldiers to appear. He was wrong more often than right, but like he'd told his fighters there was no reason to conserve ammo at this point.

  Sangue's front line faltered, moved ahead, faltered, moved ahead. Getting closer and closer in spite of the blistering fire they were staggering uphill against. And it wasn't all one-sided, either; around him he heard cries of pain as fighters dropped. Not swiftly enough to alarm him, but considering the fact that only his fighters' heads and shoulders were showing, when they did go down they almost never got back up.

  Then a chainsaw roar rose above the deafening rattle of gunshots, and ten feet of sandbags near the southern end of the fortifications exploded as much larger bullets ripped right through them and into the bodies of the fighters behind them.

  A big machine gun, probably .50 caliber.

  It chewed through sandbags, trees, and even rocks to pierce the fighters behind their cover. The helpless men and women could only duck and scramble backwards, praying to be missed by the barrage of bullets. Tom roared for those not being targeted by the machine gun to find it and take down the gunner, but before he could attempt to find it himself he had to duck as well as the sandbags near him exploded in sand as another machine gun opened up on them.

  It would've been a disaster if the bloodies hadn't been firing up a slope, so the angle sent most of the rounds harmlessly into the sky after they pierced the sandbag walls. Even so, they kept the fighters pinned down as the enemy continued rushing up the mountainside.

  Then the grenade launchers joined the fray.

  Tom was only aware of the danger when a handful of fighters twenty feet away, using the cover of a stand of trees, abruptly screamed and went flying in an explosion. More grenades came sailing over the piles of sandbags to fall among fighters, many of whom were still cringing on the ground from those big machine guns, with similarly gruesome results.

  He had to choose, now, whether to call for his people to retreat out of this meat grinder, or to throw caution to the wind and keep firing at the enemy even as they got gunned down en masse. As they were, hiding like this, they'd just keep getting taken out by lucky hits until the bloodies finally reached the fortifications and butchered the survivors.

  They couldn't retreat, because the refugees were still flowing off the ridge to the west. If they ran now, the enemy would just chase them down and kill them as well as their loved ones as they fled.

  That left one option: courage in the face of certain death.

  “Up!” Tom screamed, popping up to begin firing. “Keep shooting!”

  The bloodies were less than a hundred yards away now, charging at full speed without even attempting to use cover. His first shots took out a dozen in quick succession before he had to reload, and others around him had also joined the fray.

  It killed his spirit to see how many went down almost immediately after popping up, the wounds horrific. But the fighters knew what they were fighting for, and they kept firing downslope even as they suffered the return fire.

  Tom emptied half his fresh magazine, then out of the corner of his eye spotted sand flying to his left. At the last moment he dropped flat, screaming for those around him to do the same. Most were too late, collapsing in sprays of gore as the machine gun came back around.

  It was the hardest thing he'd ever done to pop back up after the line of bullets passed. But the thought of his wife and children struggling down the far slope, still perilously close to the brutal carnage around him, made the decision for him.

  He'd barely gotten off a spray of shots that gunned down several bunched bloodies only fifty or so yards away, and was preparing to duck again and load a fresh mag, when his instincts screamed at him to duck as a whistling noise screamed overhead. He barely had time to realize it had come from behind him before a small, fast moving shape slammed into a squad of bloodies charging up the slope below.

  There was an explosion, larger than any grenade or rocket, and most of the soldiers went flying like rag dolls.

  Was that a . . . mortar? Shot by their benefactors below? If so the artilleryman had to be firing blind. And rolling the dice, too, aiming up a steep slope, guessing the width of the ridge, and trying to hit an equally steep far slope at an extreme vertical angle.

  Tom didn't have time to speculate, other than to hope the man didn't miscalculate and send the next shell down right on top of his fighters' heads, as he hastily reloaded and popped back up to continue firing at the approaching enemy.

  Before long another shell whistled by, also fortuitously aimed to slam into a group of bloodies getting close to the ridge. They also went flying, dirt and debris actually thrown far enough to patter down around the fighters behind their sandbags, and the Sangue charge faltered for just a moment.

  Soon another shell followed, quick enough it had to be from a second mortar, or maybe the first artilleryman was just incredibly fast; Tom had no idea, he wasn't exactly an expert on a weapon he'd never seen used before, and only recognized from old war movies. What he did know was this one was also on target.

  That wasn't just luck. The Estadounidenses must've got someone up to where they could see the far slope to feed targeting information back to the mortars. Someone with a good eye for distances.

  Sangue may have been willing to rush an entrenched enemy with the weight of their numbers and heavy weaponry, but in the face of a sustained artillery barrage their charge finally collapsed. Tom saw enemy squads farther back slow down, then abruptly turn and flee, abandoning the thin line of enemies closest to the top of the ridge. Some of those tried to turn and flee too, only to get gunned down by Tom and his fighters, while the rest determinedly maintained their charge.

  Without the weight of numbers behind them, only a handful made it to the top. Those who did only had seconds to celebrate winning their grisly race before also being gunned down.

  Tom wanted to collapse and let himself fall to pieces at what he'd just been through, but there was no time. So he scrambled back from the sandbags and stood, waving his gun overhead. “We've got an opening, people!” he roared. “We might just survive this after all! Grab the wounded and go!”

  His shell-shocked fighters began s
crambling along the sandbag wall, feeling at necks, applying hasty tourniquets and bandages, and dragging away groaning people. Tom left them to it and returned to staring down the slope at the retreating enemy, sending aimed shots into the backs of any who slowed and watching closely to make sure none suddenly turned around and resumed the charge.

  A few more mortar shells fell, apparently at maximum range, catching the tail end of the fleeing enemy. They didn't do much damage, but certainly lit a fire under the rest as they bolted for safety.

  Tom kept firing more and more difficult shots as the enemy retreated out of the range of even his ability to hit a target. He missed more than he should've, distance or no, which probably spoke to his physical and mental state, but he kept up his slow, steady sniping until his trigger clicked on an empty chamber.

  He felt around his combat vest for a spare magazine, and realized he'd used them all up. He was about to go looking for more, even if it meant the hideous necessity of searching his own downed fighters, when a heavy hand slammed down on his shoulder.

  He turned to find Jonas standing, clutching a gaping hole in the outside flesh of his upper leg that could only have come from a .50 caliber bullet. Someone had tied a tourniquet around the leg higher up, but considering the wound it was a miracle the man was still on his feet.

  The militia leader grabbed him by the arm and started pulling him away. “Come on, Trapper,” he growled, swaying almost drunkenly thanks to his wound. “Let's get while the getting's good.”

  Tom dropped his rifle, which wouldn't be doing him much good anyway, and dragged Jonas's arm around his shoulders, half-carrying the man across the ridge and towards safety. He didn't want to see how few fighters were ahead of them, struggling to help wounded get away.

  Too few.

  * * * * *

  The battle in the foothills between Sangue and Estadounidenses eventually ended with a couple dozen Sangue soldiers fleeing their surprise attackers, heading eastwards up the mountain slope. Which was a somewhat unfortunate choice, considering they'd been there in the first place to head off the Camptown refugees coming from that direction.

  “With me,” Brandon told the fighters, rushing ahead of the mass of people behind them to cut the approaching enemies off, using the cover of the thick scrub oak blanketing the slope to get closer.

  With the mysterious new soldiers in hot pursuit, the bloodies were so panicked and focused on the enemy behind that they ran right into Brandon's ambush, barely aware that the new thunder of bullets was coming from above, and far more accurately from that angle, until they saw the men around them beginning to fall.

  Brandon shot the only enemy with the presence of mind to even try to shoot back, hitting him just below the flak jacket while he was still raising his rifle. The soldier screamed and fell, joining the others who'd already been downed and further panicking the few that remained. They scrambled for cover, only to find that with pursuers behind and ambushers above there was none to be had.

  It the most complete slaughter since that first battle in Gerry's Ravine. The fighters didn't lose a single person, nor did the pursuing Estadounidenses, and the enemy was ultimately killed to a man.

  In the almost deafening silence that followed, their benefactors fell back cautiously into defensive positions.

  “Keep to cover!” Brandon called. “We have to hope they're friendly, but let's not take any chances.”

  Considering how handily they'd mopped up the Sangue army, and the fact that the bloodies who'd been chasing the Camptown refugees all this time were still hot on their heels, he fervently hoped they were.

  Brandon slung his rifle and left cover, waving down at the soldiers below. After a few seconds of tense silence a lone man emerged from their line, waving a stained bandanna that could generously be called white over his head.

  “No shooting!” Brandon hissed over his shoulder, in case any of his people were complete morons. You could never tell what a person might do when their blood was up. Waving again, he started down the hill to meet the approaching soldier.

  “I'm looking for Brandon Gerry, with a settlement known as Camptown,” the man called. He had a terse way of speaking, calm and authoritative.

  “Then you're in luck, because that's me,” Brandon called back. “I noticed you have a man named Tanner fighting with you. He and his people make it through okay?”

  The soldier relaxed slightly, climbing the remaining distance up the slope to stand in front of Brandon. “They did, all things considered.” He offered his hand in a firm handshake. “I'm Lieutenant Kristof, of 26th Company, Northern League.”

  Brandon gripped his hand firmly. “Well, Lieutenant, you and your company are a godsend.”

  Kristof smiled thinly; he didn't seem the sentimental type. “We hope to continue being so, sir.” Nodding past Brandon, he continued briskly. “Sangue's going to be coming after us with a vengeance after we outright attacked one of their forces, so we need to get out of here fast. Have your people split into groups of twenty with all haste. I'm afraid you'll have to leave the animals . . . we weren't expecting a group this large. But with the trucks we captured from the bloodies we should have enough room to get all your people to safety.”

  Relief flooded him at that news. Just having the Sangue army blocking their progress westward eliminated was a lifesaver, but the fact that this army was also willing to take them out of this mess was more than he could've hoped for. Leaving the livestock would be a hard blow for the Millers and a few others, but he doubted they'd be complaining much under the circumstances.

  He could admit his throat might've been a bit choked up when he replied. “Thank you, Lieutenant Kristof.”

  “No, Mr. Gerry, thank you. We've heard more than a bit about the war you've been waging against Sangue down here.” The man started past him up the hill, where the refugees where continuing to flood down, almost caught up to Brandon's advance group of fighters. “How about you introduce me to your civilian leaders, and we can start getting your people evacuated? As far as they're concerned, this war is over. We'll make sure Sangue can't threaten them again.”

  Brandon closed his eyes for a moment before hurrying to catch up to Kristof. This was a dream come true for Fiona, all she'd ever wanted. All he'd ever wanted for her. For all his loved ones.

  It almost felt too good to be true. Somehow, in less than a half hour, everything had changed. They'd escaped certain death and were going to safety, under the protection of people who could actually fight Sangue.

  Their war was over.

  Epilogue

  New Start

  Crammed into the back of a truck next to his mom, holding Molly on his lap, Skyler didn't have a chance to see where this Northern League that had rescued the Camptown refugees was taking them. But he did know, from the amount of time the trip took and the speed he guessed they were going, that it had to be at least a few hundred miles.

  Which was fine by him; the farther these guys took him and his family from Sangue, the better.

  The truck was unusually quiet during the drive. The few fighters among their group who'd stayed back to fight, including Trapper seated on his mom's other side, holding her close the entire trip, all had a sort of thousand-yard stare, as if they'd seen a glimpse of hell and were still trapped there.

  The refugees were mostly sleeping in spite of the almost constantly bumpy ride, grateful for the feeling of safety being in the trucks provided. Although whenever they went over a particularly hard bump or stopped for some reason many came awake, staring around wildly. The few, like Skyler, who were awake and not shell-shocked mostly just looked around quietly in the dim lighting, or did their best to doze. A few were fidgeting uncomfortably, obviously needing to go and starting to dread that if the trucks didn't stop soon, they might have to improvise.

  Thankfully, after only a bit longer that felt like an eternity the trucks finally crunched to a halt, this time for good. Skyler heard the sound of doors opening and soldiers calling
out polite directions, as well as relieved shouts from kids who probably bolted for the nearest bush the moment they were free.

  Soon their truck's door opened, revealing an overgrown mountain road with a steep slope on one side and a broad flat on the other. People were streaming out onto the flat, relieved at the chance to stretch their legs after the long, crowded ride.

  Skyler shifted Molly onto his hip as he stood and followed the others out of the truck, looking around as he hopped to the ground. He didn't recognize the area, at all, but wherever they were they were deep in the high mountains. Which didn't surprise him too much; the trip had been more than a little rough for most of the time, lots of bouncing and jostling, so they couldn't have spent very long on paved roads. Not even the heavily weathered, untended roads you saw fifteen years after the Ultimatum.

  Stepping past the trucks, he was able to see a large camp filling the far end of the flat, big enough for a few hundred people. It would be completely swamped by the Camptown refugees, and Skyler felt a moment of worry about how welcome they were really going to be.

  It was a bit of a relief to see a bunch of medics come hurrying from the camp to join the dozen or so who'd been with 26th Company's attack, going over the wounded from both their own soldiers and the Camptown fighters and refugees and organizing them to be carried into the camp for further treatment. The fact that the nurses and surgeons were giving equal care to everyone was a good sign of what they could expect here.

  After the soldiers had directed those who needed to relieve themselves, which was just about everyone, to nearby latrines, the refugees were gathered together to listen to a middle aged man wearing a fancier uniform than the other soldiers. An officer, probably the leader of this army.

  “Okay listen up, folks!” the man called. “I'm Captain Raleigh, commanding officer of the 26th. Welcome to our base camp. We're currently in the mountains of Northern Utah, a ways northwest of Ogden. This is a safe location, and once we've made a few arrangements we'll be happy to move you to an even safer one, in League territory to the north.” He paused to make sure they all understood the significance of his words. “Your troubles are over.”