Copperheads - 12

by Joe Nobody

  Instead of the beefy security types barging in, Butter noticed a smaller, frail shape outlined by the lantern light in the hall. A timid, female voice whispered, “Hello? Are you in here?”

  What kind of trick or torture is this? Butter thought, lying absolutely still as if he was asleep. Through slotted eyes, he observed April peek inside, holding a lantern in one hand, something dark in the other.

  “Are you okay?” she asked, once the light had found his face. “Can you walk? I have your gun.”

  Butter looked to see his carbine in her hand and immediately rolled off his mattress. It took him less than a minute to check the weapon, his mind still screaming at the impossibility of it all and wondering if his captors were playing some sort of cruel joke.

  His weapon was perfect, as were the full magazines April carried in a bag. Never before had he held anything that felt as wonderful as that rifle. “Where are the guards?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. I heard the gunfire from the hills and came here to make sure May was okay. There isn’t anyone around,” she stammered.

  “Where is May?”

  April pointed at the cell across the hall and held up the ring of keys. “I knew where Castro kept these and your gun. Can you get us out of here?”

  “I don’t know, but I can try,” Butter responded. “Let’s get your sister out of here.”

  It took May twice as long to believe her eyes and her sister’s words. The fact that Butter was hovering in the doorway holding his carbine finally persuaded the weakened girl.

  “There’s another gun,” April thought to say as the trio entered the front office. Butter hastily rummaged through Castro’s stash, looking for anything of value. Luck was with him, and he recovered an old .38 police special and his .45 automatic. He handed the revolver to May while he stored his blaster into his waistband.

  A few moments later, they were out the door and rushing for the shadows.

  Butter had never breathed sweeter air.

  Never one to fully trust subordinates, Castro had never fostered a strong middle management team. Those few individuals who did have some level of competence had been assigned to guard the convoy. Once the Alliance mounted its attack, the plantation’s security forces accelerated from mere alarm to pure hysteria. Castro’s men had been scrambling to find their leader among the sounds of the firefight, the few static-filled radio transmissions that had been broadcast from the militia, and the pulsing glow of flames on the horizon.

  The headman himself wasn’t in a much better frame of mind.

  Castro had been on edge when the ruckus of the battle first reached the sitting room. Bishop had watched his captive’s eyes as they nervously darted back and forth, the Texan ready for any attempt at escape.

  The enforcer’s situation had grown even more desperate when the firefight had suddenly stalled. Bishop spotted his captive’s hands shaking, a thick layer of perspiration now forming on Castro’s skin. “The cavalry is coming,” Bishop whispered to torture the man. “The Alliance isn’t very happy with you and the lady of the house. You should have taken the deal.”

  “Fuck you,” snarled the prisoner. “We are ready. I will enjoy pissing on your graves.”

  Before Bishop could respond, one of the room’s hidden doors squeaked open, the face of a timid guard poking through the opening as if he was hesitant to interrupt.

  The man’s eyes opened wide when he realized Terri and Bishop were holding the guns. Before he could withdraw, Bishop’s pistol roared, the sentry dead before he hit the floor.

  “Our little secret is out,” the Texan remarked to his wife. “If Grim doesn’t arrive shortly, things are going to get a little dicey.”

  Terri shrugged, never taking her eyes off Bella Dona. “Grim will be here. But if not, then she gets the first bullet.”

  The fact that there was only one route in and out of the plantation was a two-edged sword. While Grim didn’t need to worry about anyone outmaneuvering him using a side road, the facility’s security forces knew exactly where he was going.

  Bishop had reported a series of irrigation canals crisscrossing the fields. “There are pedestrian crossings all over the place, but only one series of bridges that will support trucks. That’s where they’re going to try and stop you. That’s where the choke point is. Be careful,” he advised.

  Now, rolling toward the plantation with his column of shot-up trucks, Grim was growing more concerned with each passing minute. It was taking them too long, their progress slowed by the uneven surface, narrow passes, and washed out pavement.

  Riding in the lead pickup, the convoy commander finally reached for the microphone and keyed the talk button. “Prepare to stop ahead. We’re approaching a flat area. I want to unload the bikes.”

  “We’re going too slowly … giving the other side time to set up an ambush or barricade the bridges. We need to send out scouts,” Grim whispered.

  It was a difficult call.

  On one hand, the grizzled old veteran wanted to hit hard and fast. Every minute he delayed reaching the objective gave the defenders more time to prepare. Bishop, Terri, and Butter were there, most likely under siege and waiting desperately to be rescued.

  Yet, rushing head first into a kill zone would be the end of them all.

  Even worse than being ambushed was the possibility of being sandwiched between two enemy forces. Grim had no doubt the militia they had just left behind was trying desperately to regroup. How long would it take before they and their armored vehicle were giving chase?

  If he had to, Grim would turn and fight. Their chances were better facing one foe, either ahead or behind, than trying to fight in two directions at once.

  Ultimately, Grim’s decision was based on the experience of his men. These were truck drivers and officers of the law, not infantry or assault troops. While he didn’t question their bravery or grit, there was only so much they could do.

  Three minutes later, the long stripe of trucks was idling as the two motorcycles were rolled off one of the empty trailers. Turning to Sheriff Watts’ most trusted officer he instructed, “Scout the bridge ahead first. If it is defended, then come back to report to me while your buddy finds us some way to flank the bridge. Is that clear, Cord?”

  The two riders, both deputies, nodded their understanding and then roared off.

  “We’re going to stay right here for a few minutes,” Grim informed the rest of the convoy over the radio. “I’m not going to roll into another ambush or get pinned down while those guys we left back there hit us from the rear.”

  Butter and his two female cohorts were huddled in the corner of an unused barn. May was weak, from both physical abuse and her self-imposed hunger strike. Finally, after managing to put some distance between themselves and the detention center, Butter had called for a 10-minute rest.

  While the girls regrouped, Butter kept a watchful eye on their surroundings. They were far from being out of trouble, the area still thick with numerous large structures and dozens of security men.

  As he rose to get the girls moving again, the sound of cloth scraping against the barn’s wall made the big man freeze. Someone was out there. Someone was moving.

  Butter’s training took over, the big man moving his carbine to his back as he lifted a nearby length of pipe. Dropping into a combat stance, he prepared to dispatch whoever was approaching. It would have to be done silently. A gunshot would bring every guard within a kilometer running.

  The moonlight glowed in the space between the old barn’s wall-planks, Butter’s aroused senses detecting the night shadow of someone gradually making their way toward the opening.

  Without a sound, the big man raised the pipe like a baseball slugger readying to swing for the fences.

  A shape appeared in the entrance, and Butter sprang. As the pipe started to descend, something in Butter’s brain stopped the assault at the last possible moment. The person standing in the doorway wasn’t a man or a woman. It was a child.

 
The two of them stood staring at each other in the moonlight for several seconds, the child absolutely terrified by the image of a giant holding a club over his head.

  Butter, realizing he had almost killed a small boy, was trying desperately to gather his wits.

  “You … you … are you the gringo from Tejas?” the kid finally managed to stutter in Spanish.

  Not understanding the language, Butter didn’t know exactly how to respond. As he slowly lowered the pipe, April appeared at his side. Staring at the child, she said, “Julio? Julio, what are you doing here?”

  A flicker of recognition brightened the boy’s face as he rushed toward April’s waist. After a reassuring hug from his teacher, the lad peered up at her and said, “Everyone in our barracks has heard the fighting and shouting. My father and the other men are arguing over what to do. My mom is so scared, I decided to sneak out and see for myself. I come out at night all the time. It’s the only chance I ever have to be alone and think about writing.”

  With a reassuring pat on the head, April explained, “I think the Texans are coming to rescue their friend. If everyone stays in the barracks, they should be safe.”

  Julio glanced between April and Butter, a question forming behind the young boy’s eyes. “Will you take me with you, sir? Will you take my family back to Tejas?”

  Butter was checking the direction of his moral compass … trying to decide the best way to respond when the sound of a diesel motor reached the barn. Pushing everyone back into the shadows, Butter raised his weapon and again was preparing to fight.

  A few moments later, it became clear to the big man that his carbine wasn’t going to be much good. The path was filled when first one, then several more armored vehicles roared by. All in all, Butter counted a dozen of the war machines.

  “Where in the hell did those come from?” he asked April.

  “They’ve been working on them in the big maintenance barn for months,” Julio responded in English. “My dad said they found them at a deserted military base. The trucks from the United States brought enough parts to repair them.”

  While he hadn’t been privy to the Alliance’s plan, Butter had a pretty good idea of what was happening in the hills above the plantation. A battle had been waged, and it didn’t matter if it were tanks from Fort Hood or some other Alliance force trying to take control of the valley – those armored personnel carriers that had just rolled past the barn were going to be a problem.

  Butter also understood that the column was heading for the bridges. It didn’t take a tactical genius to figure out that those war machines were going to cause a lot of Alliance troops to go home in a body bags.

  Julio saw his own opportunity, jockeying for an opportunity to leave the plantation. “Señor, please take my family out with you. My father and the other men in our barracks will fight with you. I swear it. So will the men in the building next to ours. We can help you. Please, sir, take us with you.”

  It was almost too much for Butter to comprehend. May was barely able to walk, and he still didn’t trust April. He didn’t know what was going on with the Alliance or the convoy. All of this was compounded by the fact that he wasn’t even near 100%, his body and mind still suffering from the beatings and poor quality nutrition. After all, the plantation’s finest cuisine had not been reserved for the man who was expected to swing by a rope anyway.

  “I don’t think your father and his friends can do much against tanks,” April said, trying to intervene after sensing the big man’s uncertainty. “I think all of the workers would be safer if they stayed in their barracks and waited until the Texans arrived.”

  “But I know where the armory is!” Julio spouted, upping the ante. “A lot of the workers were in the old Mexican Army. They have had training. They know what to do! If they had guns, they would fight! I know it!”

  “Armory?” Butter asked, his attention perked.

  “With your gun,” the boy continued, pointing at Butter’s carbine, “You could shoot the guards, and then the men from my barracks could fight. Please, Señor. I beg you. If we stay here, we will surely die. We must leave this place.”

  May’s groaning interrupted the hushed conversation. “She’s dehydrated and weak,” April stated, rushing to comfort her sister.

  “Don’t get me wrong. I understand, but we have got to keep the noise down,” Butter countered. “If somebody hears her, we’re going to have the entire security force coming down on our heads.”

  “Take her back to my barracks,” Julio suggested. “You can meet my father. You will see that he is a brave man. We can help.”

  After exchanging looks with April, Butter agreed, “I can’t come up with a better plan. Let’s go before someone figures out we’ve escaped.”

  With May hefted onto Butter’s shoulder, Julio led them out of the barn and along a zigzagging route back to building #19.

  Nearly identical to the layout of April’s home barracks, the group entered to find a sea of frightened faces huddled in small groups.

  “Julio, what have you done?” a male voice called from the masses.

  “This is my teacher,” the boy answered with an unwavering voice. “The giant gringo from the jail and her sister have escaped. It is their friends fighting Castro. They need our help.”

  A lantern appeared, held out by a middle-aged man who focused immediately on Butter’s carbine and the pistol in his waistband. “What do you want?” he asked the big kid in passable English.

  “I want to go home,” Butter responded honestly. “Your son said that a lot of you wanted the same thing.”

  A murmur arose from the throng, half of the voices frightened by stranger’s punishable words, but many expressing support. The father’s words silenced them all, “We all want to leave this place, but Castro’s men have weapons; we do not. They are young and strong; we are old and worn down.”

  “He can kill the guards at the armory,” Julio spouted, “There are dozens of weapons housed inside. You could all have guns. This is our opportunity at life … at freedom.”

  The child’s treacherous suggestion set off another round of whispered debate, many of the gathered residents inhaling sharply with fear. Even speaking of such things could bring down the enforcers and result in the skin being whipped off the offender’s back.

  For his part, Julio’s father didn’t speak, instead turning his lantern to study the faces of several other males in the room. Butter spotted many of the men nod their support. “It may be our only chance,” whispered one of the older slaves.

  “How many will come?” the father probed loud and clear. “Step forward if you will fight. Go back to your bedsheets if you are too frightened or feeble.”

  Initially, April was stunned at the number of men and women who came forward. A moment later, she understood. There was excitement, plenty of fear, and another emotion she hadn’t seen in a long, long time. The lantern’s dim glow exposed hope in the faces of the people around her, a beaming optimism that the teacher hadn’t experienced since the apocalypse.

  “Okay,” Butter nodded. “Where is this armory?”

  “This way,” Julio declared with glee.

  Chapter 13

  The motorcycle’s reflector gave Grim the first hint that the scout had returned. “Stopping here,” he broadcast to the truckers behind him. “Maintain your spacing.”

  A few seconds later, Grim was out of the pickup and jogging to hear a report.

  “Bad news, sir,” Cord began. “The main bridge is a mile up the road, and I spotted at least one of those damn armored cars rolling toward the crossing. There’s already a bunch of infantry all around the other side of the ditch.”

  “Shit!” the convoy commander erupted. “Any chance we can get across before their heavy weapons arrive?”

  “Maybe … if we hurry … I don’t know how long it will take them to get into position.”

  Thinking to rush back to the pickup’s radio and order the convoy to make a mad dash for the bridge,
Grim was halted by the arrival of the second scout. “That APC and about 100 men are coming up behind us fast. They’re less than two miles back and hell bent for a piece of our ass.”

  “Damn it!” Grim exploded a second time in less than a minute. His worst nightmare was coming true. He and his charges were going to be stuck between a rock and a very hard place. “We have to get across,” he snarled, turning to run for the truck and its radio. “No other option.”

  “Let’s go!” he began shouting into the mic the moment he bounded into the cab. “All out. Full speed ahead! We have to get across that bridge before the bad guys get there. Move! Move! Move!”

  Spacing no longer mattered, the pickups spitting dirt as their wheels spun in acceleration. “Use your headlights,” he ordered into the radio. “They already know where we were. We need to make some time.”

  Illumination facilitated the convoy’s speed, the long line of 18-wheelers now rolling down the uneven lane toward the valley below. Grim ordered the machine gun-equipped pickups to the front of the line, hoping they could slow the defenders who sought to block the bridge.

  “We need room to maneuver,” he whispered. “We need buildings to hide behind,” he continued, the list of things necessary for their survival growing by the second. “We need God’s help,” he finally surmised.

  While runners dashed to the neighboring barracks to spread the word, Julio and his father led dozens of men through a large field of avocados and over a hill. As Butter and his new friends negotiated the neat rows of crops, more and more people joined them, seemingly approaching from all directions.

  After nearly two kilometers of hiking, they finally arrived at their destination. There, isolated on three sides by irrigation ditches, was a stout-looking concrete block building.

  Butter studied the complex, noting the razor wire and high fence surrounding the facility. There was a heavy gate across the dirt path leading to the only entrance. The Texan could identify two tall guard towers, as well as a sandbagged nest on the roof. The place reminded him of a federal prison.