Home Fires Burning (Walking in the Rain Book 2) (5 page)

CHAPTER SIX

The Keller property formed a rectangle running north and south with the east and west property lines about double that of the northern and southern ends.  The farmstead itself was located on the southern end and occupied about ten acres given over to the house, outbuildings, garden and crop storage, including a short, stumpy silo.

The windmill I’d first seen coming onto the property provided water for the stock tanks and irrigation for the garden, while a second well was situated next to the house for domestic use.  A Solarjack water pump filled an elevated concrete cistern just off the back porch and the relatively simple circuitry of the dedicated system survived intact.  Of course, most of the more delicate parts being housed in a grounded metal building probably didn’t hurt either.  Nick said he would show me the battery house later, at the end of the tour, so Sid could show me what they had going.

Once we were away from the main farm complex, Nick pointed out the extensive gardens the family maintained and I was beginning to feel better about their long term chances of survival.  We had a garden about this size back home, about an acre total counting those darned potato beds, so I knew these folks could produce a lot of food, if the raiders could be held off long enough for the crops to ripen.  Again, I realized the Keller family needed more shooters.

Unlike the tall, mesh deer fences around the garden, the field fences were nothing special, just your common three strands of barbed wire held up with metal T posts and wooden posts set at the corners for the cross fencing.  Again, this was like home and I knew these barriers might be okay for keeping the cattle out of the corn but gave no defensive advantage to the home team.  A person could be under, over, or through these stretches of barbed wire in no time.

Nick knew this, of course.  He’d said little about his time in the Army but from the way he carried the PTR-91 I knew this was not his first time on patrol.

“What was your MOS, Nick?”

“Started out as 11 Bravo, infantry rifleman, then went to school to be a heavy equipment operator, which meant 12B as a combat engineer.  I ended up down at Ft. Hood when we were between deployments.  No offense, but my wife Leslie hated the place, since it lacked the green we have here.  Made Staff Sergeant and got out after twelve years so I could actually see my son Brady grow up.”

“Okay, just trying to put some pieces together.  Not a big fan of Central Texas myself, but I’ve only been there once.  So, you know how to blow stuff up, too?”

Nick grinned like a little kid.  “You bet.  And I’ll bet you have your merit badge for ANFO already?  Am I right?”

“Sorry, Staff Sergeant, I have read about it but never actually mixed the formula.  Might be something to think about, though.”

We walked on in silence for some time after that, except for Nick pointing out terrain features and showing me some places where a few gates broke the fence line to a neighboring plot of land.  The property to the west belonged to a bank in Fayetteville, Nick said, which earned him a curious look from me.

“Sorry.  The guy went bust trying to raise llamas and sheep, and the bank held the note.  Been vacant for the last three years or so.”

Nick got a thoughtful look on his face and I had to ask what was wrong.  We were standing at a chained gate heading to the other property and he just waved his hand vaguely in the direction of the barely visible farm house next door.  Well, a half mile away, but next door in country folk terms.

“Leslie and I were saving up to make an offer on the place.  Only eighty acres but a nice property and the house looks like it’s still in good shape.  Move out of our apartment and make a go of it part –time while I kept working in town.”

“Oh” was all I could say.  I thought, incorrectly, that Nick had moved back to the farm after he finished his hitch in the Army.  I guess sometimes I still think like a kid too.  That did give me an idea though.

“Who owns the property on the other side of the llama farm?”

“Oh, that’s Mr. Laretto.  He raises short horn Herefords and does a little farming.  Mostly hay and some corn I think since he uses it for feed.  What are you thinking?”

“That we don’t need a vacant plot between the two farms.  That just gives raiders a place to infiltrate both your properties.  But I don’t know how to fix that.”

Nick seemed to be deep in thought again.

“Maybe I do.  We can talk about it later.  Let’s get this done and I’ll show you the stands we are using for watch.”

We walked quietly for another twenty minutes until I could see the fence line running along the back of the property.  More properly, this was a tree line.  The back field, the one currently planted in clover, bordered a heavily wooded area that Nick explained was owned by a timber company. 

The forest actually seemed to encroach on the field and I saw this was a case of the canny farmers leaving a few trees behind to shade their cattle when the field was used as a pasture.  We did the same thing at home.  The trees cooled off the cattle in summer and kept them from heading across the fence in search of shade.  This little strip of property was not cultivated, and the sacrifice was offset by not having to build a larger, sturdier fence along the back edge of the farm.

As we drew closer to the back boundary Nick pointed to a shortleaf pine that had a split in the upper trunk about ten feet up.  This left a Y shaped space and when I looked closely I could see boards laid across the bottom, making a platform.

“Nice,” I said, pointing, “a tree house.”

  Nick started to answer, but a sharp bang coupled with an explosion centered in my chest cut him off.

“Shit,” I mumbled as I hit the ground, falling forward first to my knees and then onto my belly.  This caused the burning pain in my midsection to explode again.

I heard a second bang, followed by a staccato boom that made my ears throb.  That sounded like 308, so I figured Nick was providing some covering fire.  Moving my arms hurt, a lot, but I managed to unsling my rifle and inch forward until the pine gave me some cover.  Glancing around for a second, I saw Nick laying in a similar fashion, using a nearby tree trunk to shield himself as he reloaded a fresh magazine into the PRT-91.  He chambered a round but held his fire.

“You hit?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“How bad?”

“How should I know?  Never been shot before.  You get anything?”

“Saw movement when he fired that second round.  Just gave him a little something to think about.  We gotta get you back to the house.” 

“Nah, I think the plate stopped it.  Still hurts pretty good.  Like I got kicked by a mule in the chest.  Don’t think I’m bleeding though.” It hurt to talk, but Nick needed to know my condition.  We couldn’t go back, not until we knew the sniper was either gone or neutralized.

Nick got on his handheld and called the house.  He got his brother Mark and one of the farm hands, Bruce Collins, headed our way.  They’d already heard the shooting and were halfway here on ATVs.

“Negative, Team Four.  Go X-Ray and loop.  We are right in front of the old fort.  Unknown Opfor.”

I listened and learned.  We didn’t have four teams, but whoever might be eavesdropping on our communications didn’t know that.  I guessed ‘X-ray’ meant by foot and of course ‘loop’ meant flank the position right in front of what had to be the tree house fort.  Lastly, we didn’t know how many bad guys were out there.

So, I lay there and tried to learn how to breathe through my ears.  Every time I took a breath otherwise, I could feel the pain burn across the center of my chest.  So much for impressing the new boss.  First day on the job and I get myself shot.  Stupid.

I would have to learn to do better.  See better.  Something.  I thought on that as we waited to hear from Mark’s team. 

CHAPTER SEVEN

Turns out, I ended up luckier than I had any right to be.  The sniper dinged me in the trauma plate, or “chicken plate” as Mark described it, and knocked the wind out of me but left no broken bones.  That was good news for me, and the hapless sniper got more bad news when one of Nick’s suppressing rounds actually hit its mark and tore a chunk out of his left arm from elbow to shoulder.

Mark found the sniper curled up in a ball next to his rifle, still trying to staunch the wound.  Bruce stood overwatch while Mark performed a quick patch job.  I didn’t witness the first aid rendered, but I heard it involved duct tape and a lot of cursing.

As soon as we received the all clear, Nick unstrapped me from my mag carrier rig and got down to my vest.  Sure enough, I had a splash of lead dinged on the heavy metal insert over my chest.  Getting the vest off was a hard, painful process even with just pulling the Velcro tabs, but I found I could breathe ten times better without the weight.

“That thing saved your life.  Mark said the shooter had a tricked out SKS with a 4x scope and bipod.  He was obviously going for a heart shot.”

“Fucker,” I muttered, heaving myself up into a sitting position and regretting the move.  I started coughing, which really got the spasms going.

“Arms are numb,” I announced, feeling a little woozy.

“Yeah, that can happen.  We need to get you back to Aunt Cass and have her take a look at you.  Could still have broken ribs.  Where’d you get the vest?  That’s a Level IIIa with a Level IV insert.”

“Took it off a guy I killed back in Harrison.  He didn’t need it anymore.”

“Headshot?”

“No, armhole.  I just got lucky.  Didn’t know he had a vest at the time.”

“Yep, twice lucky then.”

Bruce came rolling up with a four wheel ATV at that moment and I allowed Nick to give me a hand getting mounted behind the driver.  I started to ask for my rifle and gear but Nick just shook his head and asked Bruce to take me to the Doc.

The ride back was agony but I didn’t let out a peep.  I’d been hurt worse, hell, I’d carry that scar on the back of my head from the rest stop until I died, but still this was testing my boundaries.  You see guys get shot on TV and shrug it off without a thought but even with a vest, the kinetic force had to go somewhere.  I was just fortunate the sniper wasn’t shooting a 30-06 or he might have holed the plate.  Then my pain would have been over, permanently.

Of course, Amy was there waiting on the back porch when Bruce ferried me back to the main house.  I don’t know who told her I’d been shot but her face was a mixture of shock and concern as I tottered off the back of the ATV and up the steps.

“How bad?”

“I’m fine, but my bullet proof vest needs a new plate.  Guy just shot me.  No reason.  I never even saw him.”  Speaking hurt so I was trying to keep my word count down.  I spoke through gritted teeth and Amy could tell I was in pain.

“Did you get him?”

“Nick.  Bringing him back, I think.”

“I should have been there,” Amy gushed, and tears began to fall.  Her delicate features, drawn tight by what I now knew to be borderline malnutrition, began to darken with anger and despair.

“Love,” I whispered, “look at me.”

Amy’s eyes met mine and I saw her shock at my use of the word.  Until now, I had tried to evade her attention in the emotional area but now I was admitting my own feelings, uncertain as they remained.  I am no expert on love or women, Lord knows, but to me Amy was still too young and emotionally fragile for anything more, but I would no longer conceal how I felt in return.

“There was nothing you could have done.  The shot came from the woods, and was completely random.  This was like a drive-by.  Maybe the locals have a gang and that’s how you get in.  I read where some gangs have an initiation where you shoot a complete stranger for no reason.  Supposed to show how hardcore you are.”

As Amy paused to think on my words, Cass McWorter swept in to take charge of me.  We had been introduced, briefly, the day before but all I knew was she was somehow related to the Keller family.  She was a tall, spare woman with pretty grey eyes and a ready smile, and all business this morning as she led me into her makeshift clinic set up in one of the basement rooms.

“Are you a doctor?” I asked as we entered the small, windowless room.  Illumination came from LED light fixtures clustered on the ceiling and along the walls.  She took a moment to turn up the power and bring all the lights to full brightness.  I had to squint.

“No, but I’m all you got.  Fifteen years as an RN, and spent my time in a big city ER.  Now, let’s get that shirt off and see what we got under the hood.”

Eventually Cass got me stripped down to my shorts and after carefully probing the truly massive bruise blossoming nearly nipple to nipple, she pronounced no broken ribs. 

“Everything okay, Doc?” I asked, carefully slipping my undershirt back over my head.  My arms still tingled and the motion made my chest knot in agony.  Doc McWorter assured me the tingling was nothing unusual given the trauma and should fade shortly.  As for the pain, well, she gave me a Tylenol with codeine and another pill, which she said was some type of anti- inflammatory.