Divided We Fall (11 page)

Brooks took his eye
from the rifle and looked at Brad. “Lead us out; we have to move.”

“Where to?” Brad
asked, pulling his rifle back to the front. Looking in the direction of the
main gate, Brooks raised his rifle and fired more quick shots. The Primals were
onto them and more were pouring in from the direction of main camp. To the
right was a wide grass field then the trees. Brad saw the other soldiers
gathered behind him. Without suppressed weapons, they were unable to join the
fight. Brad grabbed Roberts by the collar and directed him to the wood line.
Leading the others, the soldier took off jogging and quickly found a trail that
led them into the thicker vegetation amongst the trees.

The team crossed
into the heavy brush, trading stealth for concealment. The cracking of limbs
and leaves was loud, but the heavy ground cover made them nearly impossible to
see. Brad stuffed a hand into his hip pocket and removed his compass. He unwound
the 550 cord holding it shut and flipped it open. He halted them next to a tree
just long enough to get a bearing. No time to retrieve his map, he used the
glowing dials to orient himself on the trail; they could move east and hit the
main roads of the outpost. Brad unwound the cord and hung the compass around
his neck and, using the flat of his hand, he shot a course.

Roberts
acknowledged the order with a nod of his head and stepped off, moving carefully
now. A branch cracked and Brad spun around, pointing his weapon. His eyes
focused on Brooks dropping in behind him. “Wish I would have packed my NODs,”
Brooks whispered. “Whose idea was it to go exploring again?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,
day trip, my ass,” Brad whispered.

Chapter 18

Light reflected off
the ceiling of the watchtower from the flickering of flames, while the sounds
of the dry brush and grass crackled as it burned on the scarred earth below.
Strands of fence wire and posts mixed with the twisted bodies of the Primals.
Flames licked the steel legs of the watchtower, but they were tall enough to
protect its occupants from the heat. A light breeze pushed smoke through the
tower’s windows as the walls rattled with the nearby impact of artillery fire.

Sean took off his
rucksack and glanced over at Chelsea, who was pulling a long wooden footlocker
away from the wall. He was tired; they had been moving for hours now, and much
of it had been fast paced without an opportunity for rest. He sighed and paced
away from the window, dropping to the floor in a crouch. “Anything?” Sean
asked.

Chelsea used her multi-tool
to break the seal off a deep wooden footlocker. She flung the cover open and
pulled out three steel ammo boxes. “I got two cans of .223 and one 9mm,” she
said.

Villegas moved
across the watchtower floor and grabbed one of the cans. He broke the steel
wire keeping it closed, and then took a stack of cardboard boxes before moving
to a corner of the tower to fill his magazines. Chelsea continued to dig
through the footlocker, lifting out a case of MREs and a package of water
bottles. She used her multi-tool to pop the tie on the case of MREs and removed
a tan package from the box. Too dark to read the label, she passed the mystery
meal off to Shane. “See if she’ll eat something,” Chelsea said.

Sean stretched
across the floor and reached for the water, removing a bottle from the
shrink-wrap. “Smart of them to stock these towers with emergency rations.”

Chelsea nodded.
Finding the footlocker now empty, she closed the lid and sat on it, pushing her
feet away and stretching her tired legs. “How far to the next occupied tower?”

Sean stood and
walked to the outer edge of the small space and looked along the perimeter
fence. “Half mile, maybe, might as well be a thousand,” Sean said. He opened a
window, letting in the sounds of battle. “If they didn’t abandon it.”

Chelsea looked up
at him. “One of us should try to get to it; we should send a runner.”

Sean shook his
head. “No, the birds saw us; they’d have called in our position.”

Shane mixed up a
drink mix from the MRE and handed it to Ella. She took the bottle from him and
drank thirstily; he ripped open a foil packet and smelled the meat mixture.
Sticking a spoon into the middle of it, he handed the entire thing off to Ella.
She took the packet and returned a sour glance.

“Just try, okay?”
Shane said. He turned and looked at Sean. “I saw the contingencies; base
security would have closed off the outer perimeters… fell back to the airfield.
It’s going to take time for them to regroup and get us.”

Sean nodded his
head. “For now we’re safe; we’re up high—the steel and block tower legs won’t
succumb to this fire. We can hold out for a day or two if we ration things out.
We stay quiet—the things on the ground will clear out and we can cut through
the woods to main gate, or move to the next tower; either way, that fire is
going to keep us in place for a while.”

“So we just wait?”
Chelsea asked.

Sean stepped back
and closed the window. “We wait.”

“What about those
men?” Chelsea asked.

Sean rested his
weapon across his knees, dropped the magazine, and inserted a fresh one from
his vest. He then leaned the weapon against the wall next to him while he
removed more empties from his gear for reloading. “The way I see it, they struck
out… came up empty handed. They could sit and search the outpost until our
people or the Primals get them. Nevertheless, I would imagine they would go for
a hasty extract. They have to know by now that they screwed the pooch.”

Villegas chuckled.
“I think you’re right, Chief; those boys can get chewed on by the Primals here
or get their asses chewed by the boss at home. Cause nobody is taking our
niñita from us. Right, Ella?” he said, giving the girl a smile.

Ella grinned at
hearing her name and took a bite of the MRE. Shane refilled the bottle and
handed it back to Ella, content in the knowledge that she was safe.

Chapter 19

Joe ran, trying to
keep up with Dan and the other men. Less than thirty minutes prior, the scouts
had returned from the cut. They reported seeing three large trucks and at least
twenty men moving up the road. The trucks were now stopped at the entrance to
the long driveway. Dan jogged down the trail, and then slowed to a walk. He
pointed a hand to a tall embankment that overlooked the driveway. The scouts
nodded, ran to the position, and dropped into the prone behind it.

Dan continued with
Joe trailing close behind him. At the end of the driveway was a tall,
steel-tube cattle gate. However, off to far left and concealed in high grass
and brush, was an earthen bunker. On an opposite angle to the embankment was where
Joe positioned the scouts. The bunker was positioned so that it would flank
anyone who approached the gates. If anything happened, the opposing teams would
be able to lay a deadly crossfire over the head of the driveway. Like two
overlapping funnels, the bunker and embankment held strategic ground over the
approach; anyone coming up the driveway would have their eyes on the gate,
while men on the flanks took aim.

Joe stayed close to
Dan as he made his way to the rear of the bunker. An eight-by-eight structure,
it was a small space with a port window cut out and positioned on a natural
slope on the grounds. Gary stood inside, looking out the window with the second
guard next to him. AR15 rifles had replaced the gate guard’s old shotguns, their
blued barrels pointing out the small window. Dan leaned and looked into the
entrance. “Okay, keep your cool; no shooting unless I say so. But if I give the
word, we go at them hard—give them hell.”

“I got it, Dan,” Gary
said, and the second guard nodded nervously in acknowledgment.

An engine rumbled
below them on the driveway. A splash of water sounded as a large truck drove
through ruts in the muddy approach. Joe looked out, but regardless of the
sound, all he could see was green vegetation. The driveway sat buried in a
thick, twisted maze of trees. The lane was cut by a bulldozer years ago, when
the cabin was first built, with the intention that it would be the only way for
vehicles to get up to the ranch. If the strangers wanted up the mountain, it
would be by foot or up the driveway.

Dan walked away
from the bunker and back to the cattle gate. Joe fell in next to him, holding
the pump shotgun anxiously. “Just relax and try to look tough,” Dan said. The
old man let his arm drop to his hip; he undid the snap on the cowboy holster
and adjusted the 1911.

The sound of the
truck grew louder as it splashed and thumped up the driveway.

“We should have
thrown some logs or something across the driveway, tried to slow them down or
stop them,” Joe said.

“Nope,” Dan reached
into his breast pocket and pulled out a cigar; he bit one end off and used a
match to light it. “This’ll send ’em right where I want ’em. Block the drive
and they spread out like roaches.”

The front end of a
red Dodge Ram broke the cover of the trees. The truck drove just into the
clearing, stopping in a sunny spot of driveway. High grass reached up to the
running boards of the truck. A second vehicle drove in close and at least one
more lagged behind that. Dan stood his ground behind the gate, looking directly
into the tinted glass of the Dodge Ram. He took a long pull on the cigar, blew
smoke rings, and then turned and spit into the grass. Joe looked at Dan in
amazement; with all that was going on, Dan looked bored, as if there were a
hundred and one things he’d rather be attending to.

Dan caught Joe’s
stare. “Poker face, Joe,” he whispered.

One by one, the
truck engines shut off and after a seemingly long wait, the driver’s door
opened on the lead vehicle. A bearded biker-looking man stepped out and opened
a crew cab door for a shorter, fatter man who followed him. His feet sank into
the thick mud, causing him to nearly lose his balance. He let out a string of
profanities before grabbing the other man’s shoulder and moving onto the higher,
more solid edge of the driveway and out of the mud. The passenger doors of the
lead vehicle opened and two more men moved out into the driveway.

Aside from the fat
man, the strangers were dressed similarly in dark blue shop pants and T-shirts.
Fat Man wore corduroy pants and a black leather vest, a stocking cap pulled
down low over his brow. All were armed with long guns of the hunting variety
and had big knives on their belts. Fat Man had a shoulder holster holding a
small black pistol pulled tight over his heaving chest. Upon looking at him,
Joe wondered how the man’s thigh-sized flabby arms could reach the weapon
without help.

The fat man and
bearded driver turned away to discuss something before they looked back at Dan.
Fat Man pulled a hanky from a pocket, wiping sweat from his brow before raising
his hand in a friendly wave. “Hello,” Fat Man called out as he stepped away
from the vehicle. “It’s been a while since we’ve seen a friendly face.” Fat Man
continued on, the bearded man walking close by his side. The other two men
stopped and took up standing positions by the passenger side of the truck. They
left the front door open, thinking they were in cover from the men on the gate.
Joe grinned to himself, recalling Dan’s assignments, knowing the strange men were
now directly lined up with the hidden bunker’s guns.

Dan spoke in a low
voice as he watched the strangers approach the cattle gate. “Keep your eye on
those two by the passenger’s side. If shooting starts, I need to know if they
went down. You recognize anyone yet?”

“I didn’t get a
good look, but I know that voice. The fat man waving is the one they called
Chuck; he’s in charge.”

“Hello,” Fat Man called
out again, still raising his right hand in a greeting.

Dan held his stare
and let them get to within ten paces, then spit into the grass. “That’s close
enough.”

Fat Man stopped,
Beard pulling up close beside him. Their faces changed from mocking grins to
seriousness. Fat Man put his hands in the air, showing Dan his palms. “Whoa
now, we don’t mean you any harm. This is just a neighborly visit.”

Closer now, they
could see the bearded man’s arms were covered in tattoos, and he wore black
leather boots. A bowie knife graced his hip and a large pistol was stuck in the
front of his pants. He carried a Savage scoped rifle with notches cut into the
wood stock. Fat Man showed only the small pistol, his black vest covered with a
random assortment of military patches and a US Marine Corps logo.

Dan let his hand
drop and rest on the grip of the 1911, speaking just loudly enough for the two
men in front of him to hear. “Is that so? Well, what brings you up my mountain,
Chuck?”

The men’s faces
changed again, this time to shock. The bearded man, for the first time,
appeared uneasy. Chuck lowered his hands and put them on his hips; his face
flushed and his forehead showed beads of sweat. “You know my name? So you’ve
heard of me?”

“Bits and pieces,”
Dan said. “So you mind telling me what brings you up here?”

Chuck grinned and
let out a wheezy laugh. “You mind letting us in so we can talk? We’ve got
food.”

“Oh, it’s apparent
you’ve got food, and looks like you’ve been getting more than your share,” Dan
said. Joe cracked a smile at the comment and saw that the bearded man struggled
to maintain a straight face.

“Listen here, now,”
said Chuck, his anger building. He paused and took a deep breath. “I’m in
charge of things now; all I want to do is get to know the folks still running
around here. Take a census, so to speak. Maybe there is something we can do to
help each other, things we could trade?”  

“Not interested,”
Dan replied.

“Maybe we have
something you need.”

“I got everything
we need.”

“Then maybe you got
something we need,” Chuck said, the pitch in his voice changing.

Dan took another
pull on the cigar. Joe looked out and saw that men from the second vehicle had
begun to move forward. He could barely see them at the edge of the driveway but
knew there would be more from the third truck doing the same. If they were
allowed time to spread out, there would be too many to defend against.

“Listen here,” Dan
said. “I’m going against my better judgment—but I’m going to make you a onetime
offer to turn around and get off my mountain. I want you to forget this place
ever existed.”

“Or,” Chuck asked
sarcastically.

Dan smiled, showing
Chuck his teeth. He tapped the cigar and let a long ash drop from the end. “Or
I shoot you in your guts now, and we can let our men settle this.”

Chuck’s jaw dropped.
“What the hell is wrong with you? I came up here to help you, and you treat me
like this?”

Quicker than Joe
could think, Dan drew the 1911 and aimed it at Chuck’s fat belly. The men near
the lead truck took notice of the quick action and stepped forward. Instinctively,
Joe brought up the shotgun and rested his sights on the men by the truck. They
froze and put their hands up backing away, holding their rifles to the side. “I
am about to rescind that offer, Chuck,” Dan said.

Speaking for the
first time, the bearded man raised his hands. “Come on, now, we’ll leave. Come
on, boss,” the man said grabbing at Chuck’s shoulder as he backed away. Chuck
staggered back, defiantly being pulled away by the bearded man. They retreated
to the side of the truck. The men moved to the open doors and stood discussing
something through the open cab of the vehicle.

 “What are we
doing?” Joe asked.

“Stalling… need to
give Amy time to get everyone clear. Get ready,” Dan said.

Chuck stepped away
from the truck as the others stood near the doors. The truck’s door obscured
Chuck’s right side. Joe looked beyond him and could see the men from the rear
vehicles were slipping into the woods on both sides of the driveway. “Dan,” Joe
whispered.

“I see them, you
get a count?” Dan said.

“Twelve, at least,
probably more,” Joe answered

“Hey!” Chuck
shouted from his place by the door. He put up his left hand up and started to
walk back toward the cattle gate. Suddenly, he took a long sidestep and his
right arm came up holding a MAC-9. Chuck squeezed the trigger; the weapon fired
wildly in Chuck’s one-handed grip. Dan dove and tackled Joe to the ground.
Rounds pinged and sparked off the cattle gate. Gunfire erupted from the guard
forces’ hidden positions and the Dodge Ram exploded in the crossfire. As Joe
rolled away, he saw the two strangers on the left side of the truck crumpled in
broken glass. The bearded man lay facedown in the mud. Enemy fire picked up
from deep in the woods; a round snapped over Joe’s head.

He dared lift it
again and saw Chuck waddling into the cover of the trees, running toward the
rest of his group. Joe raised his shotgun and fired, racked the gun and fired
again. His actions drew more fire to their own positions. Dan grabbed him and
led him away, back in the direction of the embankment. Dan dropped into a ditch
then rose up, crawling like a professional, keeping his body low as rounds cut
over their heads.

They moved out of
the ditch just behind the embankment. Joe could hear the rhythmic sounds of the
guards’ Ruger rifles firing. Through the echo of the incoming fire and the zip
and crack of nearby rounds, Dan crawled up behind the embankment. The guards’
faces were pressed to their rifles, firing steadily into the woods when he got
there. “Keep fire on them. Joe and I are going to sneak around to their flank,”
Dan said to the guards on top of the berm.

“We’re gonna
what
?”
Joe gasped.

“Just follow me,”
Dan answered. Stepping off farther to the right and moving away from the
driveway, he used the terrain to stay in cover, keeping high ground between
them and the enemy.

Dan slowed his
pace, and Joe walked slowly forward, keeping his eyes on Dan’s back. They took
several steps onto an overgrown path, and then lowered to a crouch. Dan had his
pistol in front of him, searching the terrain ahead. Joe caught movement from
his peripheral vision as the limbs of a bush moved unnaturally. He turned his
head and looked into the eyes of a young man; blue-eyed and blonde-haired, his
sneer revealed brown, slimy teeth wrapped in badly chapped lips. Joe exhaled
loudly, pointed the barrel, and pulled the trigger.

The shotgun blew a
hole in the man’s sternum; his eyes went wide as his mouth dropped open
searching for air. A second man stepped from behind him and fired a rifle. The
round went wide, air zipping as it passed Joe’s head. Dan pivoted, raised the
1911 and, firing twice, hit the second man just below the ear and temple. Dan
leapt toward the two men and kicked the weapon out of the hands of the first,
who still lay gasping for air on the ground, steam leaving the hole in his
chest. Joe stood over the man, looking down at his wound in shock. The man’s
blue eyes twitched and rolled in their sockets.

“Let’s go,” Dan
said, not looking back as he moved along the trail in the direction the men had
come.

Joe stepped forward
after Dan, and then paused, feeling faint; he dropped to the side of the trail
and vomited. He buried his head in his hands, his watering eyes blurring his
vision. Dan reached down, grabbed him, and pulled him to his feet. “You’ll have
time for that later, let’s go!”

Joe took in a deep
breath and held it then followed Dan close, trying to silence himself and
control his breathing. They cut sharply back into the tall ferns. Moving back
toward the driveway, Joe could barely make out the metallic skins of the
vehicles ahead. He could hear Chuck screaming instructions to his men and the
occasional burst of the MAC-9. Dan froze and pointed ahead; just yards away
behind a thick oak, a man stood looking toward the embankment. He held a rifle
and leaned out, fired a quick shot, then ducked back behind the tree to reload.