Regeneration (Mad Swine Book 3) (23 page)

Joshua stood behind the cart still
for a moment, probably trying to figure out what he’d done to me.
Finally, he dropped the handle of the T-bar and moved to the side
of the cart and started to wrangle with a bale of hay. We worked in
silence for the next several minutes as we prepped this fighting
position. We’d fallen into a rhythm now, first setting up the bales
of hay, then reinforcing them with bags of feed all around to keep
them in place.

When we finished the position, we
both sat on the edge of the hole, taking a much needed break. The
bales of hay were easily 90-100 pounds each and the bags of feed
were probably about the same. Working on the farm for the last
three months, my body had grown accustomed to the work, but it was
still hard, and my body still had its limits. We’d been at this for
more than an hour already and I could feel my arms getting shaky
and the dull ache in my lower back told me I’d be sore
tomorrow.

If there is a
tomorrow
, I thought.

After taking a long drink from a
gallon jug of water, Joshua passed it over to me. I hadn’t realized
how thirsty I was until I put my lips to the jug and started to
chug the cold water, probably spilling as much as I took in.

“I’m sorry about what I said about
your parents,” Joshua said suddenly.

“Thanks,” I said.

“Ian said sometimes I don’t know when
to shut up. I guess he was right.”

“Yep,” I said.

He was quiet again for a minute and
then fished something out of the chest pocket of his overalls. From
a white linen napkin, Joshua produced a small loaf of banana nut
bread that Mrs. Cleona had baked this morning. Splitting it in
half, he handed the larger portion over to me. It wasn’t warm, but
it smelled fantastic and tasted even better.

I pinched off a piece of the loaf and
tossed it into my mouth. With the toe of my boot, I kicked at one
of the bales of hay. To Joshua I asked, “Do you think this will
stop a bullet?”

He looked at it for a moment, as
though he were sizing it up. “When my pa taught me to shoot the bow
and arrow, we used hay as backstops. Sometimes the arrow went
through, but mostly not. I guess it depends on the bullet and how
far away is the shooter.”

“You know how to shoot a bow and
arrow?” I asked.

“Aye. I can take a squirrel at 20
yards if the wind is right.”

“That’s so cool. Will you teach
me?”

“Sure, mate. I’ll have you hitting
apples at 10 yards in no time.”

Leaning back, enjoying every morsel
of Mrs. Cleona’s baked goods, chatting about shooting arrows, we
were just two teens hanging out. In that moment, as an outsider
looking at us, you never would have guessed that soon we’d be
fighting for our lives in a war against evil men and women. Moments
of normalness interrupted by terror, violence and death. But this
was the world we lived in now.

* * *

At midday, Joshua and I helped run
lunches—slabs of oven baked ham on thick slices of homemade bread
slathered with mustard—out to the fighting positions, each occupied
now by two- or three-person teams. When I first stood on the front
porch and looked out at the concentric fighting positions, I was
quite amazed. From the field, as we set up each position, we
couldn’t see the big picture, the grandness of it all. It was like
nothing I’d ever seen. In all, there were thirty fighting
positions, row after row, each at five-yard intervals, forming half
circles around the main house.

I didn’t see Lara much that morning
as she was busy planning our defenses, assigning leaders to squads
and setting them at strategic points around the farm where they’d
be most effective against what she could only imagine was a far
superior group. She’d been on the go since the caravan showed up.
We expected her to appear at any moment ordering us to go to Mrs.
Cleona and the children.

Sitting at the picnic table just
outside the kitchen, far back from the fighting positions, Joshua
and I ate our ham sandwiches and washed them down with sweet
lemonade. We’d reinforced three sides of the table with bales of
hay and feed, in hopes we could retreat here during the fighting,
out of the way, but still close enough to watch and join the fight
if needed. Joshua was in the middle of talking about his favorite
comic books when Ian appeared, casting a shadow over us.

“Come with me, lads,” he said,
turning quickly and striding off in the direction of the ranch
quarters.

Joshua and I exchanged a look then we
both bolted up and tore after Ian, excited but unsure what he
wanted with us. We followed him around the back of the main house,
through Mrs. Cleona’s garden (taking care to stay on the stone
path). In the empty field beyond, Ian led us to a couple bales of
hay upon which lay a compound bow and a small rifle. Out beyond,
about twenty yards, more bales of hay were stacked two tall and
four wide. On each was a silhouette target.

“We’re going to need all hands on
this one, lads, so better get some practice,” Ian said. He knelt
down next to the bale upon which sat the small rifle. “Have you
ever fired a rifle, Wesley?”

“No sir,” I said, feeling a slight
blush in my cheeks.

“That’s fine, lad, we’ll get you
battle ready in no time at all.”

“Can I start?” Joshua asked.

“Sure,” Ian said. To me he said,
“Joshua learned the bow when he was a wee lad. He still has some
learning to do, but he knows enough to take a man at this
distance.”

In awe, I watched as Joshua picked up
the bow and notched an arrow. The compound bow looked like an odd
contraption with pulleys and strings, unlike any bow I’d seen
before. Locking back his right elbow, he closed his left eye, and
took care to control his breathing. When he was sighted in, he took
one last breath and held it for a moment, before finally loosing
the arrow. It travelled down range so fast I could not track it
with my eye. One moment the arrow was locked into the bow and the
next it poked out of the silhouette.

“Right in the gut,” Joshua said
proudly and smiled.

“Nice shot, brother,” Ian said. He
turned to me and said, “Let’s get you going.”

While Joshua practiced on his bow,
Ian talked to me about the rifle—a Ruger 10/22. He showed me how to
load the magazines and insert the magazine into the rifle. There
were four magazines, each holding 25 rounds of ammunition. After
inserting the magazine, he showed me how to charge the rifle and to
shoulder it and sight down the barrel.

I was worried that the gun would be
heavy and awkward when I aimed, but the Ruger was quite light and
the length of pull was perfect. With my right eye, I looked down
the sights, lining up the orange fiber optic front post between the
rear sight. Down range, I aimed at the center mass of the
silhouette. My arm felt shaky and each time I breathed, the sight
moved off target.

Behind me, Ian said, “Okay, now once
you have your bead, you take a breath and hold it, so you don’t
wander off target. Then you slowly press the trigger until the
rifle fires.”

“Will it hurt?” I asked.

“No a bit,” he said. “This one
doesn’t kick much. You’ll barely notice she bucked.”

Swallowing, I got back on target and
held my breath. Slowly I squeezed the trigger, trying not to
flinch. The report was much softer than expected and was more of a
sharp snap. It didn’t sound like other guns I’d heard fired. Ian
was right when he said she didn’t kick. I didn’t feel the gun snap
against my shoulder, as I had expected. In fact, it barely
moved.

“A little high and to the right, but
very good,” Ian said.

“Nice shot!” Joshua said. He set his
bow down for the moment and was watching me. “Go, try another. See
if you can get a head shot.”

“I’ll try,” I said.

I had a bit more confidence now,
knowing what to expect. Still with the rifle shouldered, I aimed
down the sight again. Aiming for the neck, I held my breath and
squeezed the trigger. I heard the snapping sound and felt the rifle
buck just a tad. When I looked at the target down range, there was
a white hole on the silhouette right where his left eye would have
been if it were a person.

“Looks like you’re a natural, lad,”
Ian said.

Excited by the praise, I went back at
it, gaining more confidence with each shot. I was learning to judge
where to aim if I wanted the round to land in a certain spot. I
fired all twenty-five rounds of the first magazine, them most of
the rounds in the second magazine while Ian watched. When he felt I
could handle it on my own—reiterating sternly that this was not a
toy and that I needed to be careful and make sure I engaged the
safety after firing and never to point it at anything I did not
intend to kill—he was off to whatever duties the ladies assigned
him.

After a while, we took a break while
Joshua retrieved his arrows from down range. He was really good
with the bow. I didn’t know if he really could hit a squirrel at
twenty yards, but he sure could hit a target at that range. I
examined my target before setting up a new one. With the exception
of two strays, all of the 100 rounds I shot were in the rings, most
in the center mass, neck and head. I suppose that was pretty good,
because Joshua whistled when he saw my target and said I’d killed
it one hundred times over.

With the targets replaced, Joshua
helped me with reloading the four magazines. Ian left a box of
Federal .22lr bullets and it was still half-full. My plan was to
practice shooting another 100 rounds, but before I even finished
loading my first magazine, Ian was calling for us. Matt and the
others had finally arrived.

* * *

I saw him only briefly shortly after
he first arrived. He hugged me and whispered that he missed me, and
we would talk more later. Before I could apologize for the way I
acted, or before I could tell him how happy I was to see him, he
was whisked away to the command post so he could be brought up to
speed. Most of what you read next is based partly on what I saw,
but mostly on testimony of other eyewitnesses who I spoke to after
the battle. As for Matt, I only saw him one more time that day.

* * *

“They’ll probably come during the
night. That’s what I would do,” Matt said.

Gathered around the table with all of
the leaders, there wasn’t much room down in the cellar. Many of the
men and women in the room were new faces, but he addressed them
all, as though they were his own.

“More than likely, they’re already
outside our perimeter, staging for a battle. They likely have
superior numbers and experienced fighters. But we know they are
coming, we have the advantage of defense, strong fighting
positions, and excellent interlocking fields of fire.”

Directing their attention to the
large map of their positions Sam created, Matt continued, “We
expect they’ll make a direct assault with their point of entry
here, through the main gates. With prepared explosives and an
assault squad, we will ambush them here, pushing back their first
probe, which will likely be a scout group. After engagement, the
squad will fall back to fighting positions and our snipers will
engage the next wave.

“Assuming they have any brains,
they’ll halt their advance and start looking for weakness on our
flanks. They’ll try to envelope us. We don’t have enough
explosives, so we’re going to rely on our rifles and carbines to
halt any attempts to exploit our flanks. Do not let them draw you
out of your defensive area. You stay in your positions and defend.
If there is any chance of being overrun, we will shift resources
from alternate positions to assist.

“I want everyone to study the map
carefully and know where all the fighting positions are located,
know your fields of fire and know your fall back positions. As you
know, in war, things don’t always go as planned. If we have to
retreat, we do it in a controlled manner and we cover each other.
There are several points of fall back, with the main house being
the Alamo. If they take the main house, they take the farm. And
they will not take this farm, right?”

“Right!” they shouted, a host of
voices in unison.

“Come morning, we will be the ones
still standing. And this farm will remain in our control. Of that I
have no doubt. This is our home. This is our family. This is our
future and we will fight till our last breath to keep what is
ours!”

A murmur went around the crowded room
as the men and women broke into nervous conversation, charged by
Matt’s words. For more than an hour they studied the maps, each man
and woman learning the layout, making visual markers, and getting
acquainted with their defensive positions. After a while, under
Matt’s direction, they ran drills, playing out various scenarios,
including supporting flank movements.

From their support position, Wesley
and Joshua watched, wondering when they would be sent away to stay
with Mrs. Cleona. But as it turned out, they were soon engaged in a
firefight the likes of which they’d never seen before or after.

* * *

Through her scope, Crystal watched
the group of men and women as they formed up, filing from the rear
of three pick-up trucks that parked across the main road in an
attempt to cover their movements. She counted twenty-three in all,
each armed with various weapons, some of which she recognized—like
the AK-47 and AR-15—and many which she didn’t. A tall man with long
silver hair and thick beard talked animatedly to the group. Clearly
in charge, Crystal made note to take him out first, should he
survive the initial ambush.

After a few minutes, the platoon
started to move down the center of the main road. They were not
coordinated or organized, which suddenly made Crystal feel more
optimistic about this whole fucked up situation. As they neared the
choke point of the ambush, she set down her rifle, and from her
perch atop the main barn, she signaled down to Randy, alerting him
that the platoon would soon be entering the kill zone.