Copperheads - 12

by Joe Nobody

  She began creating a mental framework of her escape and journey, using the same outlining methods she taught Julio to use when writing a long paper. She would need water, some food, a spare set of clothing, and a map. She then added a rucksack, or basket to carry her traveling supplies.

  It then dawned on April that her plan was deeply flawed. She had no vessel to carry water, as the plantation always provided hydration to its workers via pump wells and young men carrying large buckets on their shoulders. There was no way to cache or carry food, the kitchens serving as much as a person could eat, but no more. A map was impossible.

  May.

  Even if she could manage an escape, she couldn’t leave her sister behind. “You ran away once,” she whispered. “Look at all of the trouble that has caused. No, you can’t just up and leave.”

  Remorse welled up inside April. She was completely dependent on Castro and Bella Dona for even the most basic of human needs. Her mere survival was in the hands of others. She had become completely dependent on the ‘utopian’ machine that was the plantation. She was no longer a functioning individual capable of free will and independent action.

  Anger soon began to morph into frustration. There was no place to go, no appeal or higher authority. “You want to come by and celebrate?” she hissed, remembering Castro’s words. “You consider that a reward?”

  As she made her way up the main aisle of #11, she noticed a man with a tool belt standing outside of her quarters. He seemed perplexed. “I was instructed to install this door, but there’s no wall to hang it from. I will have to build a wall or forget about the door.”

  “I’ll gladly take a wall,” she stated, thinking her day might finally be getting better.

  “I will get permission. It may take a few days. Nothing moves quickly around here.”

  As the man turned to leave, April realized that he had left the large, wooden door partially blocking her entrance. “Sir! Sir, could you please take this door with you?”

  “I can’t,” he stated with a shrug. “I have to leave it here.”

  “Well, can you at least move it somewhere else so I can get to my bed?”

  Blinking once, then twice, he said, “I could, but then why would I? If you want to move it, go ahead, be my guest. I will be fed this evening whether or not you like where I left the door.”

  He then pivoted and walked away, leaving April steaming mad. She shouted in Spanish, “What is your problem, asshole? Why are you being such a jerk?”

  “Because I wasn’t born a pretty, gringo woman who the boss likes to fuck. My wife and I sleep out in the open, just like everyone else. So shut up, Yankee bitch, and enjoy your privacy. I’ve been around here a long time, and I’ve never seen Castro use a woman for more than a year. How long has he been doing you?”

  April was furious. Now, not only was the heavy, wooden obstacle blocking her entry, she would probably be moved to the bottom of the carpenter’s list.

  Sighing, and squeezing through the narrow opening, her frustration grew. “The problem with this place is that there is no motivation to perform,” she grumbled. “Like it or not, there’s no accountability, no annual reviews or salary increases. The carpenter was right; he will eat the same tonight whether or not he accomplished what he was instructed to do.”

  Realizing that it was near time to go and visit her sister, April began to brush her hair in the small section of a broken mirror she had found in the trash heap. She remembered Julio’s repeating of her own words, “It will get better.”

  Setting down the brush, she had her doubts. Julio’s parents had gossiped that Lady Bella Dona was building an army, and she had seen some sort of tank pulling out of the workshop. Were those rumors true?

  Her mind then jumped to the hundreds of working laborers sweating in the fields. “There isn’t any diesel fuel or spare parts to fix the tractors,” the bosses always said. Yet, she had seen a tracked vehicle that by itself could pull a plow or tow a huge wagon of grain. Why was the plantation wasting such a valuable commodity?

  Putting away her things, April decided she wouldn’t mention what she had seen to May. Castro had warned her, and she would heed his words. Espionage was a capital offense.

  Butter stared at the old concrete ceiling, trying to make shapes out of the stains and discoloration.

  His mind then drifted away from the cramped confinement of his cell, wondering for a moment what Grim and Kevin were doing. He would miss Kevin the most.

  “At least the beatings have stopped,” he whispered to the dank, concrete walls. “At least you don’t have to endure more pain.”

  Adjusting his massive frame, he grunted at the putrid mattress that served as his bedding. For two days, he wouldn’t venture near the thing, the smell of urine and feces grossing him out. Now, he didn’t even notice the stench. It beat trying to sleep on the cold, cement floor.

  Other than the legless-bunk, the only other fixture in the room was a bucket that served as a toilet. Once a day, for 15 minutes, he was allowed to carry it outside to a trench where he emptied his waste. Encumbered with heavy, iron shackles that cut into his thick limbs and under the scrutiny of at least 10 guards, the excursion was Butter’s only contact with the outside world. Had they come for him yet today? What day was it anyway? Why didn’t they just kill him and get it over with?

  At least the beatings had stopped.

  He could feel his body beginning to heal. Salt, what little was in the watery gruel that he was served, no longer burned his mouth. He could see clearly out of one eye now, the other not feeling as puffy and inflamed but was still swollen shut.

  Butter began tightening his muscles and limbs, one by one, doing an inventory to check the status of his injuries. Had he done that yet, today? Or was that yesterday? He couldn’t remember. It didn’t matter.

  Every now and then, he could hear voices. Once, he would have sworn it was Mr. Bishop. “He’s come to rescue me,” the big kid had thought. For an hour, he had stared hard at the thick, wooden door, waiting for his teammates to barge in.

  When his cell door hadn’t burst open, Butter hadn’t been disappointed. Eventually, hope began to flicker, and remorse became his master. “What do you expect?” he had eventually chided himself. “You violated orders. You disobeyed Mr. Bishop. Why would he come rescue such a loathsome example of humanity? Why would any of your teammates even care? You put all of them, the mission, and the truckers in danger. Why were you so stupid?”

  May.

  For the hundredth time, he wished he could take it all back. Now, replaying the events in his head, he realized how ignorant he had been. He had made a mistake and then gotten into more trouble by trying to correct it.

  His tortured brain conjured up an image of his old friend and mentor, Slim. “When you find yourself in a hole,” the tough cowboy had advised, “Stop digging.” Yet, he hadn’t followed that sage counsel. He’d continued down the wrong path, getting himself deeper and deeper into trouble.

  At least the beatings had stopped.

  May.

  Despite his physical pain and tortured mental state, he could forgive her. The SAINT team was like his family. He’d always imagined Kevin and Slim as his brothers, Grim the mean, old uncle that secretly loved them all but was afraid to admit it, and Mr. Bishop as the father figure. He would gladly give his life for any of them, just like May.

  If his loved ones had been taken against their will, would he have acted any differently than May? Wouldn’t he lie, cheat, and yes, even kill, to set Kevin free? Or Grim? Or Mr. Bishop? He knew he would – he had already done as much in defending Slim. It was difficult to hate May given the realization. Besides, if his limited understanding of Spanish was accurate, she was going to be hung as well, at least according to a conversation between the guards he’d overheard.

  Reaching up with the arm that hurt the least, Butter felt his throat, wondering what the noose would feel like with all of his weight pulling on the rope. A tear rolled down the big
kid’s cheek, leaving a trail of slightly cleaner skin in its wake.

  “At least I won’t have to face Mr. Bishop after I’m gone,” he declared to the empty cell. “It will be a relief not to lay here and rehash all my regrets.”

  Grim turned a page in his notebook and began to scratch another diagram with his pencil.

  Beside him, Kevin whispered, “You called it, sir. They are changing their sentries, right on schedule.”

  Nodding with a smile, the senior man finished his sketch and then scribbled a few notes. “Let’s get back to our lines,” he responded, flipping the small pad closed.

  With Grim in the lead, the two Alliance men began backing slowly down the hill. Below them, just over 300 meters away, they could identify the outline of the semi-trailers illuminated by the numerous campfires.

  Slinking from rock to bush to gully, the two experienced fighters took their time descending back to friendly lines. The local militia wasn’t entirely without skills, and more than once, they had sent out a random patrol.

  Kevin saw his partner drop suddenly, Grim going prone with amazing speed. Less than half a second later, the younger man was eating dirt as well. Neither of the Alliance members dared breathe or make even the slightest sound.

  The four-man patrol was less than 20 feet away, the sound of an occasional footstep the only sign of their passing. Still, it had been enough to give Grim enough warning to avoid being discovered. After a minute, he gradually raised his head and scanned the area, eventually signaling Kevin that the area was clear.

  “They’re getting better,” Kevin whispered once he was sure the team had passed.

  “A little,” Grim replied. “Bishop would have their ass for making that much noise. They’re still far from first class, and frankly, that might be the only thing that saves our asses.”

  Just over 100 meters from the outermost truck, Grim changed directions again. Kevin knew instinctively that it wasn’t a Mexican patrol this time but one of their own.

  It wasn’t the first time Grim had worked extra hard to avoid friendlies. “We are being watched every minute of every day, and our foe has the high ground,” the elder trooper had explained. “If those people up there see our sentries challenge someone, they’re going to know we are violating the rules and going outside the camp. So we avoid everyone, friend or foe.”

  It made sense to Kevin, another one of the seemingly endless lessons he was learning by working with such an experienced man as Grim. Between Bishop and his second in command, he felt like he was attending the University of Survival, majoring in Covert Activities. He loved it.

  “Besides,” Grim had added with a smirk. “If we get around them and into our own camp without being detected, look at all the fun we can have rubbing it the guards’ faces. Trying to catch us will keep them sharp.”

  The remainder of their egress passed without incident, Kevin relieved to return to the friendly confines of the encampment.

  “So what did we learn tonight, my young friend?” Grim asked as he began removing his equipment.

  Kevin had to think about it for a bit, “We confirmed several things, but I don’t know of anything new.”

  Chuckling, Grim pulled his notebook and began reviewing the evening’s observations. “We learned a lot tonight, Kevin. Enough, I hope, to get at least some of these truckers back home to their families.”

  The questioning look on the younger man’s face made Grim sigh. “We can now be certain of exactly when they have a shift change. We know how and when their supplies are delivered, and we can be absolutely positive which of the two armored vehicles houses their commander.”

  “But, sir, we already knew most of that, didn’t we?”

  Grim shook his head, trying to be patient with his teammate. “Look, Kevin, if you see a midnight change of the guard once, you were just in the right place at the right time to make an initial observation. If you confirm it at the exact same time twice, that can still be random circumstance. When you see it the third time, that is actionable intelligence. As the old adage goes, the third time is the charm.”

  After storing their packs, the two men continued toward the center of what the truckers had taken to calling, “The Diesel Riviera.”

  Indeed, the way Grim had ordered the trailers positioned was like the streets of a small town, complete with blocks and intersections. This was true for all but the innermost area, which was a narrow rectangle. Here was where the secret business of preparing for battle was being conducted, away from the prying eyes on the hillsides.

  The preparations had been difficult at best. Not only was Grim trying to construct a plan with nearly zero resources, few weapons, and mostly untrained personnel, he had to do so without giving the militia surrounding them the slightest hint that something was amiss.

  Any supplies they scavenged from the abandoned village had to be smuggled in at night. Any assembly had to be restricted to the confines of the “Freightliner Square.”

  It was frustrating work, fraught with peril.

  “Bishop and Terri are supposed to return in two more days,” Grim informed his hastily assigned commanders. “We have to be ready tomorrow, just in case they come in a little early.”

  “And if they don’t show up?” asked one of the deputies.

  “Oh, they’ll be here,” Grim answered with confidence. “Of that, you can be sure. What we can’t count on is that they’ll be bringing help.”

  “What are going to do if they don’t have the military with them?” asked another driver.

  “Then we’re going to head home emptyhanded and pray that we don’t have too many flat tires from driving over the piles of scrap metal that used to be armored vehicles.”

  Grim’s bravado drew a round of laughter from the gathered men, the seasoned warrior’s self-confidence and experience making them all feel better.

  Deep inside, however, Grim was full of doubt. He had a couple of belt-fed weapons, a few carbines in the hands of experienced men, and a bunch of shotguns wielded by out of shape civilians who may or may not be able to fight.

  He and Kevin had counted just over 600 men in the surrounding hills, as well as 6 heavy machine gun emplacements and 2 APCs. Not all of those gun barrels were pointed at the Texans, however. It was clear that many of the garrison surrounding them were facing north, almost as if they expected an invasion.

  The Mexican forces appeared to be reasonably well disciplined, but already Grim had found several weaknesses with their deployment, positioning, and leadership.

  Their patrols were as predictable as the rest of their schedule. The hill to the north always enjoyed lunch first, followed by the men to their south. Both groups changed their sentries and the men staffing the cannons on top of the APCs at the exact same time every day.

  While all of these observations were the sign of an inexperienced military unit, it was what they did with their best weapon system that gave Grim a badly-need boost of optimism. They did not move their armor from position to position, instead choosing to sandbag the two tracked machines into a fixed emplacement. “That is one of the stupidest things I’ve ever seen,” Grim told Kevin as he watched a platoon of men filling hundreds of bags. “Those are tracked units. They are designed to move … and move quickly while spitting death. Why on earth would anyone anchor them down? It doesn’t make any sense. They should be keeping us guessing, wonder where their big guns are going to be next.”

  Kevin had to agree. While the Mexican forces had selected an excellent tactical location for the heavy units, he was going to give their crews hell with his sniper rifle if it came to a fight. He already had the range zeroed in.

  Grim continued to tour Freightliner Square, cracking a joke here, thanking someone for their extra effort there, and once stopping to make a suggestion. As he watched his boss move from group to group, Kevin was amazed at the transition. Who knew the always-griping, stubborn old-timer had such leadership capabilities?

  It was inspiring, Kevin decided. �
��And we’re going to need every ounce of it if we are going to get out of here alive.”

  Castro was at his desk, using some foul smelling liquid while cleaning a weapon on the scarred wooden surface.

  “A trophy,” he announced after looking up to see April passing through the threshold. “This is a fine carbine with an unusual design and excellent optics. It belonged to the Alliance prisoner, but now it’s mine,” he boasted.

  “I didn’t think firearms were allowed near the Castle?” she asked innocently. “Is the threat from the Alliance so dire that the law has been changed?”

  “Only for a select few,” he responded. “Even the emperor had his well-armed, private guard. Our leader is showing good judgement by allowing a few loyal servants access to superior firepower.”

  April started to question him further but then reconsidered. According to what she had been told, Bella Dona had long ago outlawed any armed security forces within five kilometers of the Castle. “It is like Rome,” the matriarch was quoted as saying. “No Roman general would ever bring his forces into the capital city. It was a sign of disrespect, or worse, treason. We shall model our operation here at the plantation just like the longest lasting empire the world has ever seen. It worked for nearly 1500 hundred years for them. Why would we change a thing?”

  Now, here in Castro’s office, Rome had evidently fallen to the barbarians.

  “Let me see inside your basket,” Castro ordered. “You know the drill. I must perform a detailed search before anyone is allowed access to the prisoner.”

  Detailed search, my foot, April thought. You just want to feel my boobs and ass.

  Castro began by opening the small basket hooked on April’s arm. After finding nothing but food inside, he then reached to search her person.

  The young woman suffered through the indignity as his hands explored and groped her body. Long ago, she had realized that Castro’s acts had nothing to do with sexual gratification. No, like so many sexual sadists, he merely used violation as a weapon to leverage his power over her. If he wanted, he could have commanded her to undress and submit on the spot, but he didn’t. There was, however, no lust or need for a physical release within the man, only a sickening hunger for dominance and submission.