Protecting Our Home

by Colton Lively

  They could hear shouts from cabin one, and then more gunfire from the east as Mira tried to pin down Angelo in the doorway. He fired back but was twisted the wrong way and couldn’t move his wounded leg enough to turn. Two of Mira’s rounds impacted the doorframe by his head, and he found something strange happening; he dropped the sidearm, and his hands found their way into the air.

  But Burridge was not the quitting type. Generations of bigotry and entitlement had conveyed him to this place, and here he would make his stand against the liberals, the Commies, the soft-hearted idiots who’d destroy everything good about America if they could. That his team had taken casualties—how many, he still wasn’t sure—was a testament to the importance of their mission; these homesteaders had to be expelled and hemmed back like an invasive species so that something decent and honorable could grow in their place.

  Pain, blood loss, and fatigue sapped him, but he was determined to take the fight all the way. One of the buildings was on fire, to the north, and he regretted that his grenades had ignited roof timbers and insulation, but they’d given him little choice. The same was true of the two kids upstairs; they were stubborn little fuckers, and he’d have to smoke them out.

  Burridge spotted Angelo’s gesture of submission but assumed it was part of a ruse to bring in and isolate the woman from cabin five who was causing such trouble outside. Thus emboldened, he rushed the stairs, emptying his AR-15 into banisters, stairs, walls, and he hoped, the two defenders. Scattered by the sudden fusillade, the two fled into the upper story, shouting for help.

  Cabin one was now an inferno. The roof acted as a conduit for tongues of flame, which quickly reached the kitchens and then threatened the large bags of rice and flour in the pantry. Ceiling beams began to give way next, sending showers of sparks and debris into the flaming maw beneath. Every dining table was on fire, and smoke poured from the front windows, up into the night.

  But someone was approaching the cabin, determined to get through and check for survivors. Cobb set aside his shotgun for the first time tonight, took a deep breath, and headed into the flames. It was impossible inside the cabin, a wall of heat that immediately began robbing him of forearm hair and what remained on his head. The air was incinerating, like breathing liquid flame. But there was a familiar shape under one of the tables, and he had to get there.

  Gunshots continued from cabin two, where Max and Bryce were holding off Burridge. The regional C-in-C for the ethnostate was injured, exhausted, and running out of ammo, but this was his fight, and he’d finish it. The two kids wouldn’t cooperate, switching out and reloading for each other, ducking back around the corner when Burridge aimed. There was a dark smear of blood on the ground from Burridge’s wounded knee, and the leg was refusing to take any real weight. He could have tried to press on up the stairs but collapsing halfway up would have ended the assault with his death; the kids were decent shots, patiently trained.

  “Scott?”

  He paused, wary of the enemy’s ruses. “Who’s there?”

  “Name’s Cody Russell. You’re on my property,” Cody felt it proper to say, upfront. “Your men are wounded and need help,” he said, deliberately understating Burridge’s problems; with his back truly to the wall, there was no telling what he’d do, but if he could be given a reasonable way out…

  “Go spit, goddamned hippy,” he rasped. “Gonna burn this whole fuckin’ place down if you don’t surrender right now.” He aimed three rounds up the stairs, but none came near the two boys.

  “Scott?” said Cody again. “Look out the side window in the kitchen. You’ll see three of your guys.”

  “I ain’t doing shit,” Burridge retorted.

  “We want you to know where you stand,” Cody said.

  “Stand?” Burridge said, though his leg was painful enough that he couldn’t. “I’m telling you where I stand, right now. On my property. This is our home now, and you dumbass peaceniks can find yourselves a new dope-smoking commune somewhere else.”

  It was faintly risible; a wounded man, surrounded on three sides—back, front, and stairs—was declaring victory and demanding the homesteaders both accept the loss and voluntarily vanquish themselves. “Oh, yeah?” said Cody. “What say I fight you for it?”

  A pained chuckle. “We been fighting for two hours! Ain’t you noticed?”

  “Nah, a real fight. Bare-knuckle. None of this technology or grenade launchers or fuckin’ Nazi machine guns. Just you and me,” Cody said, daring to approach the front door and peer inside.

  Burridge was slumped by the bottom of the stairs, still trying to aim for Max and Bryce, but the two canny teenagers were ahead of him each time.

  “Come on, Scott, let’s see what you’re made of, eh?”

  “I got a better idea,” he said. “How’s about every single one of you pile into that truck and fuck off outta here. Or else, I’ll start throwing incendiary and HE grenades around until this whole place looks like that other cabin.”

  A large beam collapsed in cabin one, and this gave the roof permission to do as gravity insisted and begin to collapse down into the dining hall noisily. Somebody was still shouting from within the flames. Penny, Hope, and Fawn went dashing for buckets of water, but they could do nothing to delay the inevitable.

  With the threat to the north now gone, Mary felt safe enough to escort Emma away from cabin three, where she’d completed her vengeance against Paleface. But the fire only redoubled her worry. “Where’s Jacob?” She set off to check the cabins and the outhouses and was partway through when a figure seemed to take shape within the flames overwhelming cabin one, gaining definition as it advanced and then reached the door in the form of a blackened, steaming Ezra Cobb.

  In his arms was a crumpled, coughing Jacob, who, in turn, was cradling the meager electronics of his radio set. Both had painful fire in their lungs and had suffered burns, but they were both alive. Cobb arrived on his knees in front of the burning cabin, setting Jacob down and turning him into the recovery position. Someone tried to take his radio away, but he coughed his objection and began trying again to reach Gabriel.

  In cabin two, negotiations had stalled. Burridge would rather die than accept defeat, it seemed. Emma acted as a liaison, running back from Mira’s position to the east, where she’d assembled their prisoners.

  “We got someone called Skip, who got shot through the upper chest. He’s losing blood,” Cody explained. “Then there’s Tyvey, I think they called him. He’s dead. Mira blew the crap out of him with a Claymore on her welcome mat.”

  “Fuckin’ savages!” Burridge growled.

  “The dude with the ginger beard took one through the forehead and other places. He ain’t coming back. But I honestly don’t know about the alabaster guy upstairs. Seems like my daughter kinda went to town on him. And whoever was probing from the north, they’re gone, too.”

  “You’re lying, and you’re gonna pay!” Burridge made to stand and aim at the front door, but neither happened, and he slumped back again. He tried loosing a round for effect, but the weapon gave only an ignominious click.

  That was their cue; Max and Bryce charged down the stairs, guns trained on Burridge, screaming at him to freeze in place. “Race traitors!” the Nazi screamed, beginning a bizarre stream of invective. “You know what’s right, but you’re too fuckin’ scared. We gotta take the country back!”

  Cody grabbed Burridge by his ammo pouches and hauled him to his feet. “Do you have any idea what’s going on here? The EMP, the chaos, the need for us all to work together? Why is it always the opposite way with you people, huh?” he said, the anger of combat transforming into words now. “It’s always about division, about forcing one group or another away from you. Why is that, huh? What makes you hate so much?”

  “More reasons than you could understand,” he replied. “‘Cause I’ve seen the promised land, brothers and sisters! I’ve seen what we could become, once we return to purity and good government.”

  “You mean, an al
l-white government,” Cody clarified.

  “Hell, yes, I do!” he said, warming to his theme. “We won the Second World War, then things started to slip, and by the sixties, it was all going to hell. But we can get it back! We can be great, even greater than before!”

  But this was the wrong crowd for a fascist pep talk. “Shut your mouth,” Cody instructed, “head outside, and put up your guard.”

  “Hah! Soon as I do, one of your hippy buddies is gonna shoot me.”

  “I promise they won’t.”

  “A promise? From a Commie like you?”

  Anger and confusion met in Cody’s expression. “I’m a fuckin’ welder, you jackass! I’m an NRA member, a gun club regular, and I renovate old trucks. Any of those sound like unamerican activities to you?”

  “You became unamerican when you refused to share your property with the ethnostate. We don’t take kindly to that kind of thing.”

  “If the dude with the chest wound outside doesn’t get some help pretty soon, there won’t be a we to do anything at all. And you,” he said to the motionless, wounded Angelo. “What the fuck’s your story, huh? You gonna come outside and take a whoopin’ with this guy? Or should I tell Mira to put you out of your misery?”

  He was beyond thought, in a strange land of uncertainty and pain. “Dude, I have no fuckin’ idea what is going on. These guys said they wanted the MG for training, so I showed up, and now…”

  “Cody? It’s Jacob.” Mary was calling and family always came first.

  “Is he okay?” Cody asked, rushing with her toward the little knot of people illuminated by the flames from cabin one.

  “Yeah, but he’s…”

  Cody saw at once. Desperate and crying, Jacob was performing CPR on Ezra Cobb. “He was okay, he was breathing,” the boy was saying, “but then he stopped and just fell right here.”

  The news worsened as Bryce finished checking the other cabins. “Cabot’s in a bad way. Took a rifle butt to the back of the head, and he’s real dizzy and seeing things. I told him to stay still. And… I’m sorry, Bethany’s dead.”

  “No…” Mary gasped.

  “Two rounds through her back from the MG, while she was sheltering upstairs in four. The place is shredded.”

  “God keep her… How’s Henry?” asked Mary, facing too many crises at once.

  “Alive, and he’ll be okay. Reckons the scar will make him irresistible to women. But Charlie got banged up, too,” he added. “Got lots of cuts around his face, says he can’t see right.”

  Burridge overheard this litany with a certain satisfaction. Dawn was moments away, and the raid was over, and all parted Burridge from a humiliating failure was the knowledge they’d dealt out plenty of hurt. “Sounds like you need to evacuate your people, Mr. Russell,” he said. “No time to lose. Better make it everybody, eh?”

  Combat was one thing, but Bethany had died trying to take cover from a murderous death machine, even as she grieved for her partner. The injustice ignited something in Cody, a determination to wipe that self-satisfied expression off Burridge’s face. For good.

  “Yield, and you live. Make me yield, and this place is all yours. Fight me long enough,” Cody warned, stripping off his sweat-grayed shirt, “and I just might do everyone a favor and end you.”

  It began; the others stepped quickly back to create a circle, just like they had in high school. Burridge was stocky and very strong, and as his leg wound limited his speed of movement. He rooted himself to the spot and became a swinging machine, reaching for Cody whenever he came into range. He threw punches like he’d been trained, conserving strength and shifting weight to favor his good leg, always wary of being forced to defend and step back. Cody made contact, his knuckles impacting Burridge’s eyebrow, but he ducked the worst of the blow and countered hard to Cody’s midriff.

  The air punched out of him, Cody backed off, using his opponent’s immobility to give him time. But Burridge saw the chance and press it home, limping forward to regain contact and shoving Cody to the floor where he wheezed worryingly and shielded himself from kicks and stomps with his forearms. A stout kick of his own found Burridge’s bullet wound, and he howled almost as loud as the MG, while Cody rushed at him and used Burridge’s imbalance to knock him over. It was like felling a tree, thick and substantial; Cody tried to connect with a haymaker while Burridge was on his back, but he thumped one of the 40mm grenades stored in the Nazi’s battle vest instead, and recoiled in pain, his hand throbbing.

  Burridge found his footing again and snarled at Cody. “Better get packed up, everybody. You ain’t got long left to call this place yours.” He advanced on Cody again, ducking like a boxer, jabbing at him, but Cody was quick and avoided most of the hurt. Burridge gave one attempt too much and was in danger of toppling, but Cody couldn’t shove him fast enough, and the two ended up grappling, clawing at each other’s throats and eyes, reduced to the most basic of impulses. Two good impacts forced Burridge back onto his weak foot; it gave way under him, and Cody sprang on him at once, his boot in his opponent’s groin and fists flailing at his face.

  But Burridge seemed built to take punishment and then counter-attack. His upper-body strength was enough to lever Cody away, kicking out at him, and he caught a boot in the solar plexus, which drained him again. Crumpling, Cody raised his arms to defend himself, trying to rise from his knees, but Burridge was advancing with a look of finality.

  The sky came alive suddenly. It was a roar, a bolt from the blue, a black-and-yellow apparition scorching low over the trees. The sound of an ancient aircraft engine running at maximum revs was a supreme distraction, and Burridge had no choice but to turn and assess this potential threat. There were only seconds, and Cody used all of them, quickly staggering to his feet and launching himself at Burridge. Off-balance, the Nazi fell heavily, and everyone in the camp heard a snap as some bone or other gave way.

  The roar receded as Gabriel began a circuit of the homestead, following every letter of his directions from Jacob. Moments before everything got consumed by fire, he’d gotten the message away and received Gabriel’s resolute reply—children were in danger, and of course, he would fly there and render whatever assistance was possible.

  The fight was no longer fair. Pinning Burridge down with his weight, Cody rattled the man’s skull with heavy blows until his eyes glazed over. One more haymaker, the kind apt to smash those delicate bones around the nose and eye socket, finally put him down.

  But there was no celebration, not now; Cobb lay deathly still, despite the best efforts of Jacob, and then Maddy, to restart his breathing. Somebody had found Charlie and guided him to the others, where Maddy and Emma tried to soothe his cuts and assess the damage to his eye. They would help their assailants too, of course, but the homesteaders’ needs came first.

  “Gabriel, this is Russell Homestead, are you still with us?” said Jacob over the radio, still fighting back the tears of grief and terror.

  “With you at eight hundred, continuing my turn. You need another pass?”

  “We’re all good,” he said. “Safe now. My Dad took care of business.”

  “That’s some pa you got, Mr. Russell!” said the pilot. “I always make sure I’ve got God as my co-pilot, but I reckon he was smiling down on you guys tonight, too.”

  “That’s an affirmative on both, Gabriel. For now, this is Russell Homestead, thanking you for everything. Over and out.”

  Epilogue

  The members of the camp spent days amid a wash of emotions, caught between the practical needs of the homestead and the very different needs of the wounded, scarred, and traumatized. They would bury their friends, one by one—Del, and then his poor partner, Bethany, and finally old Ezra Cobb—with as much dignity as the situation allowed. Separately, and with fond solemnity, the Russell family held a memorial service for the unique and brave Archie Klein-Erikson, whose bad luck it had been to stand under a rain of danger.

  The cooling embers of cabin one steamed and smoked for fifty
hours, shrouding the camp in the acrid stench of loss and failure. But Henry was bright and defiant, and Charlie was embracing his new visage, one that was rather more storied and intriguing than before. He sat for hours with Fern, who held fluffy remnants of her favorite stuffed toy; it had covered her head during the assault, but an MG round had come straight through; the toy was torn apart, but the bullet missed her skull by an inch. She couldn’t sleep, but Emma and Charlie together coached her through the first stages: describing the events, labeling them for what they were, and crying as much as she needed to.

  Five days after the attack, with funerals sadly completed and goodbyes said, two people approached the camp on bicycles. Patrolling by the gate, Max met them, recognized the circumstances, and waved them in.

  “You get a call on the radio?” Max asked them.

  “From a pilot, up at the aerodrome. He said some kid patched together a ham radio set and told the pilot some kinda story about… I don’t know, Nazis and machine guns?”

  “Yeah. You’ll see.” Max brought the two police officers through to the camp proper, where they witnessed the magnitude of the engagement.

  Each remaining cabin was densely riddled with gunfire, as though some mutant beast had savaged them in search of food. Cody introduced himself, then took them to meet the slowly-recovering Cabot, his head bandaged and eyes still a little glazed. Finally, they were shown the bodies of the men who had come to destroy the camp, and then, their prisoners: Burridge, his face bruised almost to the point of mutilation; Angelo, still unable to walk and in constant pain; Paleface, neutered and fixed in a terrified fetal position which seemed permanent, and Skip, unconscious and clinging on, his chest perforated by gunfire.