“Yeah.” Lauren sighed. “I didn’t think so.”
The muzzle of her AK-47 leading the way, Lauren darted ahead through the snowy orchard, mostly in a crawl. As expected, Cyrus edged closely behind, moving when she moved, stopping when she stopped, and before long the pair arrived at the driveway’s intersection with the main road.
Lauren took cover behind one of the ancient oaks marking the gated entrance to the farm, and instructed her companion to lie down. The dog heeded her command this time, much to her surprise. She turned away from him and glanced right, then left. As unplowed and undisturbed as the driveway she’d paralleled to get here, US 33 was a washout. It appeared now only as an ample, meandering disruption between the trees in either direction, blanketed by drifts of frozen white powder.
Then a new problem became evident. Lauren could now hear gunshots both before and behind her. Some even seemed to originate from her flanks. She ducked lower, inched closer to the oak and plotted the scene, dismayed that she might’ve inadvertently positioned herself and Bernie’s dog in a deadly crossfire. She spent a long moment contemplating which direction to go next and outlined what would serve as her safest path back to the house and away from danger.
But before Lauren could arrive at a conclusion, Cyrus alerted. His ears pricked; then he rose to his feet, barked and made the decision on her behalf. The young Lab jetted off along the orchard’s tree line after something he had either seen, heard, or caught wind of.
Still utilizing the oak and surrounding snow for cover and concealment, Lauren rotated right and brought the AK to her cheek, glancing through the aperture of the magnified optic Santa had supplied to see where the pup was headed. A moment later, amidst a cloud of kicked-up snow, she saw what the fuss was about.
Huddled together approximately fifty yards distant, in what looked to be an arbitrarily hand-dug entrenchment in the snow, were Dave Graham, Santa, Woo Tang and Sanchez. And another man was sitting with them whom Lauren didn’t recognize.
Amidst the ongoing sporadic gunfire, she studied their behavior, aided by her optic’s magnification, and took notice of something uncharacteristic. Aside from the stranger, for whom Lauren had no comparative basis, the rest appeared wholly out of formation, perhaps even a hundred klicks slight of being so.
While Dave spoke with terribly tired eyes and loosely animated hands with the stranger, Sanchez and Santa were taking turns aimlessly firing their rifles over the snowbank cover on which they were sluggishly reclining. They were goofing off, smiling at each other and even laughing at times. Woo Tang’s expression was indiscernible; he was either feeling out of sorts or dead to the world.
Lauren lowered her rifle, exhaling through her nostrils as her expression clouded with disdain. “I must have caught them at a bad time.”
Shaking her head in disgust, she chanced another look through her optic, choosing this time to single out Dave Graham. He was the unit commander, after all. The pillar of the group, the one ultimately responsible. The upstanding gentleman, eternal defender of the defenseless. The former US Army first sergeant and company leader with the impeccable service record who never quite made it to officer, the whys and wherefores having never been disclosed. Mister Special Forces veteran, Point Blank Range instructor, protector and upholder of the Constitution of the former United States of America himself.
Today, that man looked downright knackered, a run-of-the-mill rendering of the Dave Graham Lauren knew. And the discussion he was entertaining with the stranger appeared to take precedence, for some inexplicable reason, over the ensuing gun battle, or whatever this was.
Insofar as Lauren was concerned, this was completely out of character for Dave and his men. She had never seen them this far gone before; it contradicted everything they stood for and believed in. Somewhere out there, a hostile force was shooting at them—sending lethal volleys of rounds toward a house occupied by defenseless friendlies. And Dave and his men were taking it in stride, doing next to nothing about it, barely batting an eyelid.
Lauren didn’t know what was off beam with them or what was serving as a reason for nonaction, but felt determined to find out. She kept her profile as low as she could, broke cover, and crawled through the snowpack to the entrenchment. She made entry, pouncing on them abruptly as each man reeled back in surprise.
Sanchez was aghast and put a hand to his chest. “Aye de mi! Scared the shit out of me, chica.”
“Guess you’re lucky I’m not the enemy, then.” Lauren tugged the Marine’s hand to where his rifle lay nearby. “Lose something?”
Sanchez palmed the M4’s grip. “Hey, stop screwing around. What’s your deal?”
“My deal?” Lauren studied the group. “Would any of you care to clue me in on what the hell is going on?”
Santa coughed and cleared his throat. “Sounds like a smidgen of a firefight to me.” He nudged Woo Tang. “Wouldn’t you agree, squiddy?”
Woo Tang shrugged. “I find I can offer no disagreement.”
Lauren shook her head back and forth, her misperception mounting. “Well, do we know who’s shooting at us?”
Dave Graham finally spoke, jutting his thumb over the snowbank. “Them.”
“Brilliant. And who would them be?”
“Oh, well, them would be our mortal enemies,” said the stranger seated beside Dave, with long, stringy, straight hair. “The Snyder clan, out of Harman. A hopeless bunch of usurpers, thieves, turncoats and jerks of the foulest degree.”
Lauren squinted at the man.
“I sense some confusion there, so let me explain. It’s a sordid relationship…kind of like a modern-day Hatfield-McCoy affair.” He reached to pet Cyrus, but the dog scuttled away. “Guess he don’t like how good I smell. Whatever. Anyway, this here’s what happens when two sets of folks come to blows over…well, I suppose we’ll call it irreconcilable differences. Them boys drew a line in the sand with us about a century and a half ago, and not a whole lot’s changed since then.”
An errant bullet smacked the snow near the trench’s edge, showering the group in a fine coating of powder.
Lauren ducked instinctively and brushed the snow from her face. “Right. And is that some up-country way of saying that what’s happening now is because of some…long-standing feud?”
“Yepper,” the long-haired stranger said colloquially, accompanied by an equally colloquial nod. “That’s what I’m telling you.” He turned to Dave, nudging him with his elbow. “She’s a smart one, ain’t she?”
Dave nodded indifferently. “That she is.”
“Mighty cute too,” added the stranger.
Dave scooted closer to Lauren, holding out a rather shaky introductory hand. “Janey, meet Lazarus. He’s the…reigning high priestess of the Sons of the Second, the militia I told you about that protects these parts.”
“And that’s ’cause it’s the only militia anywhere around these parts,” the newly introduced added. “And high priestess? Really, Graham? That’s charming.”
“Your name’s Lazarus?” asked Lauren.
“Yepper. That it is. Pleasure to meet you.”
“And that’s your real name?”
“Absolutely, why? Is Janey yours?”
Lauren huffed and turned her attention away, gesturing to the ongoing sporadic pops of gunfire. “Dave, this is insane. We have to do something about this…there are bullets flying all over the place back there. This isn’t any way to live.”
Before Dave could respond, Lazarus chimed in, “Hang on a second…hop down off that high horse of yours, city girl. There’s no need in making a fuss out of it. Out here in the country, this type of thing just sort of happens every so often. Stay a while, you’ll get used to it.”
“And how…every so often does this…type of thing just sort of happen?” Lauren challenged, mocking his diction.
“Eh…come to think of it, it’s been a while since we’ve exchanged niceties,” replied Lazarus, rubbing his chin. “This one popped off over a little arg
ument. Before that, we’d been enjoyin’ a long-lasting ceasefire. But the boys were up kind of late last night, and things got a little riled up, and insults started getting tossed back and forth. Next thing you know, one of ’em pulled a gun and shot another. And usually, when one gun goes off, another goes off not long after. Kind of like the circle of life and such.”
“Right.” Lauren monitored the man’s shifty eyes closely. Her negative opinion of him in mid-development, she turned away and sent her concern back to the others. “Why do you guys look like you collectively crawled out from under a random rock this morning?”
No one spoke for a moment as the shots continued to ring out overhead.
“It’s called fatigue, Janey,” Dave moaned. “It’s an occupational hazard for all-nighters, and just plain staying up too damn late.”
“What were you guys doing besides sleeping? If it’s okay for me to ask.”
Dave shrugged. “Enjoying a measure of highly craved R and R. And being…festive.”
“Festive?” Lauren darted her eyes around. “Are you guys drunk?”
The men all shared a barrage of uncommon looks.
Woo Tang sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I think what you are witnessing in this moment are the unpleasant aftereffects of drunk.”
Lauren’s mouth fell open. She cut her eyes at him. “Jae!”
He shrugged. “Lauren Russell, though I do, in fact, feel horrible, both internally and externally, I can offer no apology for the damage imposed. We are all grown men and warriors alike, and all men and warriors the same necessitate leisure time. It sponsors morale.” From there, he coughed himself into a gagging fit.
Lauren rolled her eyes and ran her fingers through her hair. “Unbelievable. You guys are unbelievable.”
“Come on now, what did you expect?” Sanchez queried. “Era La Nochevieja, chica.”
“What?”
“New Year’s,” Santa filled in curtly, his eyes half-shut. “Or New Year’s Eve, rather.”
“Fuckin’ A,” Sanchez said. “Haven’t you ever burned the midnight oil and grooved all night long before a new year rolls in?”
“No.” Lauren snapped her fingers, beckoning Cyrus. “I haven’t.”
“Really? It’s a blast. Lots of drinking, dancing…Hawaiian shirts, pigs roasting…”
“And Spam,” Santa inserted.
“Shit yeah,” Sanchez hooted. “I fuckin’ love Spam.” He wearily considered Lauren with his handsome eyes. “So why haven’t you?”
“Um, probably because I’m only eighteen, Sanchez.”
The Marine snickered. “Well, you’ve missed out, then.”
“Yeah, I can see that. So far, I’m real impressed.” She glowered all through an elongated pause. “And I suppose this would be our New Year’s resolution…giggling and acting stupid, taking potshots at the jerks shooting at us along with random catnaps to nurse our headaches. A real innovative, asinine strategy for the unit. Well done, Dave. I’m hereby rendered speechless.”
Dave peered over at her from the corner of a bloodshot eye. “Just what exactly do you fancy we do about it, Janey? Hop on the radio and call in an airstrike?”
The others chuckled while Lauren only bristled. “Don’t be ridiculous. What I fancy…is for all of you to somehow resurrect yourselves and find some way to put a stop to it. Expeditiously, if it isn’t asking too much.” She pointed down the driveway in the direction of the house, her eyes alight. “There are over seventy kids back there, all huddled in a basement, too scared to come out.”
“I’m aware of that—and that’s good,” Dave said. “The cellar’s the safest place for them for the time being until whatever this is dies down.”
Lauren scowled. “Dave, stray bullets are hitting the house. One even smacked the siding next to my bedroom window. Woke me up out of a dead sleep.”
Dave raised a shrewd brow. “And conversely, I was not aware of that,” he said, changing his tune. He regarded their long-haired companion. “What the actual fuck, Lazarus? This dispute of yours doesn’t involve those folks. Why are those shitwits shelling the house?”
“I don’t know. They shouldn’t be,” Lazarus said. “I mean…they’ve never done anything like that before. They must really be ticked off this time.”
“Ticked off, livid, or blood boiling, that’s no cause to send fire toward civilians,” remarked Santa with a pointed finger. “Especially them kids back there.”
“I realize that and I agree with you fully,” the long-haired militiaman said. “But they could also be doing so because of the presence of y’all’s army-variety trucks parked in the driveway. Could’ve easily given them the wrong idea…probably think we’ve hired ourselves some mercenaries, a private army or something. Won’t know for sure until I talk to them.”
“Talk to them?” Lauren snapped.
Lazarus shrugged. “Yepper. You see, the leaders have these roundtables every few months or so. Helps scale back hostilities and keep the peace.”
She pointed over the snowbank. “Want to give it a try now?”
He ducked suddenly when a shot smacked the snow inches above his head. “Nah. I’m thinking it might be better to wait.”
Lauren sighed and cradled her AK, staring coldly at Dave and the others.
After a time, Dave stirred and inhaled a deep breath. “All right, boys, front and center. Janey’s not happy with us, and for good reason. Let’s get a move on.” He slapped Santa on the shoulder, sent a fist into Sanchez’s arm, and tapped Woo Tang with his finger. “Let’s shut this shit down before somebody gets hurt.”
With a puzzled look, Lazarus reached for Dave’s arm. “Whoa, wait a second there, Graham. Exactly what are you planning to do? You can’t just go out there and get in the middle; it’s not your place.”
“It wasn’t our place until they selected those kind folks back there as targets,” Dave barked. “That’s unwarranted collateral damage, Lazarus.” He moved to his knees, adjusted his gear and reached for his rifle. “Santa, I take it you saw to bringing along some heavier-than-routine ordnance?”
Lazarus’s eyes grew wide. “Heavier-than-routine ordnance? Graham, wait.”
Santa rubbed his eyes. “Damn skippy,” he said, yawning. “There’s some under-barrel forty mike-mikes and one heavy-as-the-dickens mark nineteen sitting in one of them five-tons. And there should be a Gustaf bazooka buried in there somewhere, too. I think.”
Lauren’s eyes broadened and glistened.
“I got the light fifty tucked behind the seat of the transport I rode in,” Sanchez added. “I’ll drag it out if someone finds me some vitamin I and something to stuff in my ears.”
“Use your socks, taco. Weapons check in five.” Dave rotated to Lauren. “Janey, I need you to amscray. Take the mutt with you; ready the household for something a touch more overstated.”
“Overstated?” she repeated timidly.
“That’s a roger.”
Lauren nodded hesitantly, deducing the connotation. “Okay, and thank you. I’m sorry you guys don’t feel well.”
“Your empathy is both acknowledged and appreciated,” muttered the typically infallible Woo Tang. “But we earned it.”
Lazarus slid into the middle, doing his best to make his presence clear. “Don’t ignore me, Graham. I need to know exactly what you’re planning to do here. Mutually assured destruction has kept us from all-out war for decades. Using artillery on them is only going to escalate this, and believe you me, they’ll find a way to retaliate. I swear to you, there’s going to be backlash for this.”
“Have ye no fear, Lazarus,” Dave said satirically. “For verily I say unto you, I have called upon my faithful disciples to go forth and deliver a sufficient response unto our aggressors.”
The militia leader looked at Dave sideways.
“Secure your concern,” Dave said. “We’re not going to hurt anyone—deliberately, anyway. We’re just going to put the fear of God into them.”
“Th
e fear of God?” Lazarus responded. “What does that mean?”
Dave’s tone turned gruff. “It means we’re going to engage in some posturing…a tactically induced cease-fire using bigger, louder, meaner guns. If we send just enough boom in their general direction, I hypothesize they’ll err on the side of prudence and de-escalate this nonsense. In other words, if we posture hard enough, they’ll roll over and submit like good little dogs.”
Lazarus didn’t seem convinced. “Fine. If you say so. Just…don’t let it get out of hand. Please.”
Santa chuckled. “Listen to him. You do realize who you’re schmoozing with, right? That there is former US Army top kick David R. Graham, getting-out-of-hand’s patron saint.”
Chapter 5
Lauren hoisted Lily, the young girl she’d rescued during the Christmas Eve assault, into her arms and ascended the cellar stairs on the heels of Bernie, Ruth and a panting, tail-wagging Cyrus. Her brother, Daniel, followed, trailed by several parallel rows of wide-eyed, yawning young persons, all of whom had been hunkered belowground for safety.
Lauren glided into the living room, spun Lily around a few times, then sat down on the couch, arranging the cackling girl on her lap.
Daniel took a seat beside them. Peering around the room, he waved at familiar faces as they filed past the entrance. “Do you think it’s over?” he pondered as the front door was heard creaking open. “Is it safe to go back to our rooms?”
“It’s over,” Lauren said.
Her arms not quite long enough to enfold her, Lily latched onto Lauren and nuzzled her head under Lauren’s chin amidst near-silent whispers.
“Sorry, honey. I couldn’t hear you. What was that?”
The youngster repeated herself in a matching whisper.
“She says those noises scared her,” her brother filled in. “Lily never liked loud noises. But they never bothered me. When Mommy and Daddy took us to see fireworks on the Fourth of July, I liked it, but Lily didn’t. The noises made her cry a lot.”
“That’s understandable. Not everyone is a fan of abrupt sounds,” Lauren said. “I was the same way when I was a kid, Lily. But you want to know what used to scare me to death?”
Indivisible Page 6
