Copperheads - 12

by Joe Nobody

  Poking his head above the next rise, Bishop spotted the first villager. Actually, it was the dust cloud kicked up by the man shooting at his team that gave away the Mexican’s position.

  Waving Grim back to the lower ground, the Texan studied the terrain ahead, looking to ensure that they had indeed managed to find the end of their foe’s line.

  There are about 10 of them, he thought. They’re not disciplined soldiers. They’ll bunch up. Safety in numbers. Trouble likes company.

  The calculation of how much territory the approaching force would cover took Bishop only a second. There was a reasonably good chance he and Grim had managed to flank their opponents.

  After flashing the older man a quick series of hand signals, the duo backed slowly away and then rushed off at an angle that would bring them into the group of attackers at a right angle.

  Both of the Alliance men knew that in combat, it is difficult enough to maintain an alert, concentrated diligence to one’s front. When the lead is flying, all of a fighter’s senses are primed and focused in the known direction of the enemy. Are they counterattacking? Are they retreating? Where is my next target? Am I already in somebody’s sights?

  This was the reason why flanking maneuvers were one of the most devastating of all military tactics.

  When faced with an enemy on two fronts, the human tendency for flight gains momentum over any desire to fight. Now death is coming from two directions. There are twice as many variables to process.

  For the vast majority, having a foe at your front while being attacked from the side was overwhelming. Generals and great leaders called the results “being rolled,” or “rolling up the enemy’s line.”

  Less than two minutes had passed before Bishop and Grim were sure they’d found the right spot to hit the villagers from the side.

  “Freak their shit,” Bishop whispered. “We want them to run, not die.”

  It was clear that Grim didn’t like firing warning shots, but nodded his understanding.

  In unison, the two Alliance shooters rose from their trench, Bishop’s carbine sending a stream of blistering fire into the dirt around the local.

  The man reacted a little faster than either man from Texas anticipated, pausing only a second before rolling to his side and snap-firing a couple of return shots. Then, much to Bishop’s relief, he scrambled upright and ran.

  Bishop and Grim slammed into the villagers’ line, pushing back one, then two, and finally three of the men who were firing at their friends.

  Kevin’s big rifle had already baffled and confused the locals, one of his heavy bullets seeming to impact every time they had tried to advance. Now, with intense fire coming from the south, absolute bedlam swept through their ranks.

  Bishop and Grim’s fire was coordinated, accurate, and intentionally non-lethal. Yet, from the villagers’ perspective, it seemed as though an entire infantry platoon was hitting them from the south.

  As the fourth escaping local reached a full run, Bishop keyed his microphone. “Make for the boat! Now! We’ve opened the route, but they may regroup quickly. Go! Go! Go!”

  The two Alliance men found good positions and set up to provide a blocking force until the team passed them by on the way to Hannah’s boat.

  It was only seconds before Bishop could hear a decline in Butter and Terri’s rate of fire. Less than a minute passed before the Texan saw his wife’s hair flying in the wind, and she scurried down the gully. There was no time for words.

  Looking at Grim, Bishop ordered, “Go with them. Get that damn boat running and let Butter and Kevin keep them at bay. I’ll hang back and be the rear guard just in case our friends get frisky.”

  Grim didn’t like it and started to protest. Bishop’s expression, however, made it clear any debate was a fruitless waste of precious time.

  Watching Grim rise and rush off to join the rest of the team, Bishop returned to the business of scanning for any locals whose bravery managed to override their common sense.

  He didn’t have to wait long.

  The large group of reinforcements evidently interpreted the Alliance team’s all-out rush for the boat as a retreat. Emboldened by seeing their foes pick up and run, they decided to pursue with all haste.

  Bishop was surprised when at least 10 individuals rushed the gulley, hot on the heels of his fleeing team members.

  The hunters were just as shocked when the Texan’s carbine opened fire.

  Bodies were scrambling, diving, and bounding in all directions as Bishop’s rounds raised a wall of sand and grit to their front.

  One man went down, howling in pain as he ran directly into Bishop’s line of fire. Another, older assaulter twisted his ankle, howling in agony as he fell. All the while, the Texan was backing away, his weapon spitting bullets to buy time for his friends.

  It took the villagers almost two minutes to regroup. Perhaps it was anger at one of their own going down or pride and honor overriding any sense of self-preservation.

  This time, they advanced with caution, heads poking over rocks, weapons up and ready. They moved with short, quick jumps, scrambling from rock to rock, cover to cover.

  Bishop, however, was no longer there.

  Hearing their comrades take up the fight encouraged the locals who had been rolled up by the Alliance team’s flanking maneuver. They stopped running and turned, rushing back to join the fray. Now Bishop was about to receive a dose of his own medicine – fighting in two directions at the same time.

  “We’re on the boat,” Grim’s welcome report crackled over the radio. “Get your ass back here, boss.”

  “On my way,” Bishop breathlessly responded.

  In the distance, Bishop heard the big vessel’s engines thunder to life, the sound generating a wave of relief through his core. Terri and his men were safe. Any thoughts of providing a rear guard vacated his mind. In a flash, his boots were pounding for the shore.

  Reaching the flat stretch of sand next to the reservoir, the Texan was surprised to see Butter and Kevin still in the water while Grim and his wife watched from the bridge.

  The houseboat’s engine roared, water boiling to the surface from the vessel’s stern.

  It took Bishop a few steps to realize the boat was aground – stuck in the mud at the lake’s edge. As his boot splashed into the shallow water, he watched as Butter and Kevin put their backs into the massive hull, straining to push her out into deeper water while Grim gunned the engines for all they were worth.

  The boat didn’t budge.

  A few seconds later, Bishop joined his men, muscles straining with gritted teeth as he threw his weight into the struggle to free their ride home.

  A bullet propelled a geyser of water skyward beside Kevin’s leg, another forcing shards of fiberglass into Bishop’s cheek as the pursuers caught up.

  Terri proved her gumption yet again, grabbing her rifle and returning fire in order to buy them time. Again and again, her weapon gave the chasing villagers something to think about.

  She heard Grim’s yell before she actually felt the boat move, for a moment thinking the old timer had taken a bullet. It quickly dawned, however, that he was shouting in celebration as the houseboat lurched backward, free from the mire.

  Dropping her rifle, Terri rushed for the steps leading down to the deck. She was there when Kevin came splashing around the hull, extending a hand for help climbing aboard.

  Next came Butter, the big kid grinning as his boot found the bottom rung of the swim ladder.

  For a moment, Terri’s heart stopped when Bishop didn’t appear. Grim had stopped applying power, but the huge vessel’s momentum was now forcing it away from the shore. Where was Bishop?

  More bullets now peppered the water, a few cracking into the boat with heavy thumps and whacks. Still no Bishop.

  She was turning to scream for help when a small wave of water rolled from the surface, drenching her above the waist. Behind the mini-tsunami were her husband’s smiling face and cupped hands.

&nb
sp; After pulling him aboard and finding no wounds, a fleeting sense of anger overrode her relief. “What was that all about, big boy? I am worried sick about you and you spout out of the water and splash me like we had just been playing ‘Marco Polo’ in the city pool?”

  The SAINT team leader flashed her a boyish grin and replied, “I always thought you’d look hot as hell in a wet T-shirt. Now seemed like as good a time as any to test that theory.”

  Chapter 4

  The nightmare tormented her.

  She was on the verandah, feet gently pushing to keep the old swing in motion. It wasn’t a conscious effort, more of a habit she’d developed since she had been old enough to climb onto the faded, white slats of painted pine and grip the lengths of chain that suspended the prized perch. Her toes barely touched the ground, such was her youth.

  Air conditioning was unheard of at the time in Central Mexico. The sway of the porch swing was often the only place where a little girl could feel the cooling brush of air against her cheek. It was a refuge of sorts, providing sanctuary no matter how suffocating the blanket of hot, thick air inside the hacienda.

  The view from the swing was inspiring.

  Rolling green hills of neatly planted rows stood and fell for as far as the eye could see, creating a patchwork of emerald, jade, and mantis.

  From a very early age, she had understood that the colors represented security, wealth, and privilege. Avocados, limes, peppers, and maize created the hues, all of which would soon morph into a more profitable shade of green – money.

  People in brightly dyed shirts and wide-brimmed, white straw hats shared the countryside. Their tiny, ant-sized bodies moving here and there, sometimes harvesting, sometimes planting, always engaged in the chores demanded by her father’s agricultural empire.

  Little Bella Dona watched it all, rocking back and forth, enjoying the breeze against her skin. The landscape felt well-worn and comfortable, a scene relatively unchanged for almost a hundred years.

  The tranquil vision of her dream blurred momentarily, the passage of time reaffirmed by her feet now easily reaching the worn planks of the porch. She was older now, a teen who was beginning to understand more of the world.

  A man joined her on the verandah, his uniform resplendent with patches and medals awarded for military achievements. Her brother … off to yet another posting. Despite Mexico being at peace with the world, a war raged internally. Bella didn’t understand violence, couldn’t grasp the existence of the cartels that flourished outside the protective bubble of her plantation world. Her father forbade all discussion of the topic. Dialog on that subject in her presence would have drawn a harsh reprimand.

  Again, the crisp image blurred. When it cleared, she was a young woman contemplating the world before her while unwinding in the rhythm of the swing.

  The workers were closer now, gathered around the big house with heads low, humble hands clasped in remorse. There was a spotless hearse at the head of the massive, circular driveway, the courtyard overflowing with family and friends garbed in black and dabbing misty eyes with brilliant white handkerchiefs. Muted sounds of sobbing and that special hush of voices trying to show respect drifted on the soft breeze. Her father’s funeral. The passing of the plantation to yet another generation.

  As always, Bella Dona’s nocturnal visions began rushing at an ever increasing pace. Now, the sage hills were cast in a different light. Gone was the innocent beholding of a child’s mind. In its stead responsibility, fiscal concerns, and the keen eye of a manager. Were the limes getting enough moisture? Was that a brown patch in the avocado field?

  The dream-people looked at her differently now. There was a smidge of fear in their eyes. The hint of respect. A pinch of trepidation. She was authority. The one in charge. And she liked it. The air, however, still felt cool on her cheeks as the swing swayed back and forth.

  Then a darkness appeared on the horizon. It was far more daunting than any storm.

  Rain was always welcome. It cooled the air, nourished the soil, and turned the hills green. But this was something more … foreboding … evil … massive.

  Bella Dona knew what was coming but was powerless to stop it. The horrific images of her sleep were as inevitable as the rising sun. Coursing faster and faster, they were streaming by now. Harsh. Loud. The dream was changing into a nightmare, and she was helpless to do anything but watch and endure.

  Next, thunder roared, followed by her brother’s voice shrieking in a frantic pitch. She knew that no storm clouds were responsible for the rumblings, fully understood that her sibling’s cries were of life and death. A battle was raging. Tanks, cannon, artillery, and bombs made the ground shake under the porch. Men screamed, prayed, and withered in pain. They were dying by the scores, their throats filled with agony, competing with the concussion of explosions and walls of fire and hot metal.

  The precious emerald fields were replaced with rolling waves of white-hot flame, machines of war, and the crimson of blood. Aircraft roared overhead. Helicopters banked, hovered, and darted, all the while breathing a dragon’s fire of missiles and machine guns from their bellies.

  At first, a trickle of red appeared beside the porch, soon building to a stream. In just moments, a river of purple blood was flowing beside her refuge, its copper smell fouling the breeze. Arms, legs, torsos, and the heads of men and women soon polluted the runoff, the appendages bobbing like flotsam as the crimson torrent passed by.

  Some recess of Bella’s mind realized that no battle had taken place at the plantation. The food riots and anarchy had erupted in large urban areas like Mexico City and nearby Monterrey. Millions had died in the brutality, overwhelming the military in a matter of days. Once the government had evaporated, the starving, desperate throngs had turned on each other. Yet, her dream was accurate in a way – her brother had succumbed to the violence.

  When the nightmare again refocused, the river of blood and human debris had vanished, leaving the lush green of the plantation’s hills a barren wasteland of brown stalks and lifeless vegetation. For the first time during the entire nocturnal affair, Bella Dona felt the dampness of a tear rolling down her cheek.

  Her land was barren, desolate, and dead. The main house, what the locals called El Castillo, or Castle, sat in the midst of a wasteland.

  Bella Dona’s dream vision changed perspectives. Now she was no longer on the porch, but floating over the land, fixated on the only home she had ever known. Like a brilliant white diamond floating in a pool of tainted mud, the castle towered in stark contrast to its surroundings.

  The heavenly view again became blurred. When it cleared, she was back on the porch, rocking in a gentle sway.

  The lifeless, dry-brown stalks of corn began to change, swelling and jerking with the transition. She couldn’t close her eyes or look away as the painful, agonizing process continued. Her heart was beating as fast as the images flashing through her mind.

  The dead stalks became stick figures, with arms and legs. Bone-thin and tormented, faces began to form as the old roots extracted themselves from the ground and began to stumble toward El Castillo and its queen who could do nothing more than sit and rock on the porch.

  As they drew closer, the monsters became people. Grotesque, misshapen human beings struggled toward the castle, each step seeming to draw more life from their already taxed existence.

  Thin from starvation, weak from malnutrition, they continued marching toward Bella Dona’s swaying perch. “Help us,” they moaned. “Feed us. You are the lady of this land. Lead us out of this misery.”

  The horde stopped at the edge of the porch, stick-like arms swaying in time with the swing, pleading for food … any morsel … any mercy from the hunger that racked their souls.

  Bella Dona shouted at them, “Plant the fields! They are fertile and will grow more than you can consume.”

  The throng wouldn’t listen, waving their boney arms in unison with her swing and crying for her to feed them.

  “Plant the fie
lds, you fools!” she screamed. “Use your backs and feed yourselves!”

  “We can’t,” they whined. “We don’t know how. Fill our stomachs! You are the lady of this house. Feed us! We will do anything!”

  She became angry, frustrated at their inability to help themselves. “You are like helpless children!” she yelled. She rose from the swing and then was in the barn. The throng surrounded her, still begging to be fed. She took a hoe and rake from the wall, determined to show them how to plant the seeds.

  She stomped to the field, dug a hole and held out a handful of yellow kernels. “These are seeds!” she shouted over their miserable pleas. “You throw them into the ground where they will grow and then fill your bellies!”

  Tossing them into the earth, she prepared to cover the planting but was pushed aside as the starving mass dove for the corn. “Stay back!” she commanded. “Don’t eat the seeds! You won’t have anything to plant.”

  They didn’t listen. Now they were fighting, shoving, clawing, and surging against each other in a desperate scramble to unearth the seeds. Bella Dona lifted the hoe, preparing to strike. She had to keep them back … had to let the crop grow and mature or no one would ever eat again.

  Like always before, Bella Dona woke at that moment, her chest heaving to draw air as her heart hammered inside her chest.

  Lying on her back, she stared with wide eyes at the lofty ceiling of the master suite. After only a few moments, the nightmare’s rush began to waiver.

  Bella Dona quickly gathered her composure. It was easier now, the dream having reoccurred so many times in the past. After a few moments, she rose to sit on the edge of the massive bed, the floor cool on the bottom of her feet. A gentle sigh and rustle reminded the plantation’s mistress that she wasn’t alone.

  Glancing at the raven-black head of hair splayed over the pillowcase, Bella tried to remember the young girl’s name. The plantation’s matriarch scanned the girl’s exposed, high breasts, noting their rise and fall in the depths of slumber. “You were willing enough last night, but inexperienced,” the older woman whispered. “You have potential, and certainly there is no substitute for youth. I have to wonder, though – were you motivated to please me or to avoid toiling in the fields?”