by Joe Nobody
“I guess we take the fight to the bridge then. Let’s get moving.”
Butter recognized the men who had helped him storm the armory, nominating Julio’s father as his second in command. It took less than a minute to explain where they were going, and why.
Soon orders were being shouted to the masses, the verbal instructions repeated until they reached the edge of the ever-expanding mob.
“We are ready,” replied Julio, Sr.
“Let’s move,” Butter decided, waving his hand toward the sound of the battle.
It took them nearly 10 minutes at a fast jog before they could see the match raging at the bridge. In the brilliant flashes of gunfire, Butter recognized the semis just across the water. “What the hell are they doing here?”
It was clear that they had been heading toward the plantation, which confused Butter even more. What he did know was that somebody had ordered them into defensive positions. That meant Grim or Bishop was still in command.
It was also pretty obvious that the convoy from Texas was getting its ass kicked. Butter spotted the tracked armor arrayed against the trucks, along with hundreds of plantation militia.
Waving over his insurgency counterpart, Butter took a knee and drew a quick diagram in the dirt. “Take as many men as you can and sneak along the water’s edge. Hit them from the side. I will take the rest as they arrive and hit them from the rear.”
A moment later, the Mexican was up and shouting orders to dozens of eager faces. While Butter could see fear in their eyes, there was something else as well. These were men overflowing with years of repressed anger and hatred, and it was all about to boil over.
More and more of the endless line of armed men arrived after Julio had left, Butter waving them to assemble between two rows of shabby barracks. When at least 200 were gathered, he shouted, “Let’s do it. Follow me!”
It was the first time the kid from Texas had ever led men into battle, but his SAINT training and months of working with Bishop and Grim were now paying dividends.
“My gosh, we’ve got a serious vacuum on the leadership side,” Butter whispered to no one as they hustled to engage. “These men deserve someone who won’t falter. They need someone to rally around. It has to be me.”
Only once did he turn to glance over his shoulder, emboldened by the sea of brave faces that were still there, following him into the breach of hell.
Over a slight embankment rolled the wave of slave soldiers, following the tall gringo. Butter spotted one of the French machines ahead, the vehicle surrounded by dozens of infantry, all of them firing at the trucks across the water.
Snapping up his carbine, Butter sprayed eight shots into a cluster of militiamen and then immediately emptied his magazine into the man operating the APC’s cannon. Before he could switch magazines, his troops opened fire with devastating effect.
Hundreds of former slaves hit the militia’s rear, screaming ferocious battle cries and shooting at anything that moved. The militia forces were stunned, many of them unsure who was behind them. They fell by the dozens, victims of confusion and poor training.
In a matter of seconds, the slaves were among them, small clusters of close quarters battle breaking out all along the water’s edge.
Just then, Julio’s forces struck like a sledgehammer against the militia’s right flank, propelling a wall of deadly lead into an already beleaguered foe. Butter could feel the battle’s momentum swinging their way. If they could knock out the armor, it would be over quickly.
He was also well aware that taking out those APCs was the key to keeping their casualties low. Spying the nearest tracked cannon, the big man charged like a rampaging bull.
Two militiamen appeared through the grey smoke that now drifted across the field in choking clouds, both of them moving to intercept Butter’s bold advance. The Alliance man dropped his first adversary only a few steps away, his momentum carrying him into the second before he could adjust his aim.
Butter’s shoulder slammed into the remaining man, knocking the Texan off balance and sending both of the combatants rolling over the ground.
Regaining his feet first, Butter tried to bring his rifle into play but was too slow. The steel of an arching machete blade flashed in the light, the big kid barely managing to block the vicious stroke with his barrel.
As the local fighter coiled for a second swing, Butter’s massive fist sailed through the air, landing square on his foe’s jaw with bone crushing force.
Staggering, the Mexican backed away, trying to regroup.
Butter moved like a big cat, closing the gap between them in less than a heartbeat. Again, the native raised his blade to slash at the behemoth towering over him.
Butter caught the man’s wrist on the down stroke, stopping the machete cold in midair.
Twisting hard on his foe’s limb, Butter stepped into the man while pulling hard. When he felt the opponent’s weight shift, the Texan rammed his shoulder into the man’s solar plexus and lifted with both arms.
It was a scene no witness would ever forget, a giant holding the kicking, squirming militiaman high above his head, roaring with the intensity of combat, charging at the APC.
Straining with every ounce of his mass, Butter launched his human cargo at the armored war machine. The machete wielder slammed into the side of the steel plating with a sickening thud, instantly going limp as he slid to the ground.
Butter scrambled to the top of the machine, bringing his carbine around and into the fight. Another grey-shirt appeared at the front of the APC, managing a single shot before the Texan snap fired two rounds into the enemy’s chest.
Bending to the armored deck, Butter pulled open the main hatch and loosed a deadly spray of high-velocity death at the interior. The cannon went silent.
Two more militia charged the Texan, his form clearly visible given his perch on top of the APC. Butter killed both of them, countless hours of range time paying dividends of instinctive accuracy and lightning-fast target acquisition.
As the firefight raged all along the irrigation ditch, Butter’s presence atop the APC became a beacon to his men. Like the flags that had been used on the battlefield since prehistoric times, his easily visible presence became a waypoint for the slave army. He was the rally point, the unit’s colors, and a reassuring sign that his side was still in the fight.
So intense was the fighting, magazines were soon emptied, bolts and slides locking into battery with empty breeches. Like so many battles, the fight degraded into a primitive, whirling fur ball of violence complete with blades, rifle butts, and fists. The enemy was too close to reload. There wasn’t the time or the space to chamber a round. The two sides were so intermingled, it was impossible to use gunpowder and high-velocity lead without the risk of friendly fire killing one of their own.
Again and again, the militia tried to remove Butter from the APC, many of the plantation’s officers understanding the meaning of his presence and how it served to embolden the rebellious slaves.
Like a child playing king of the mountain, Butter was a whirling storm of punches and kicks, slicing with his blade or grappling bones until they snapped. He was insane with bloodlust, impervious to pain and determined to maintain his position atop the war machine. Countless times machete steel whizzed past his body, a few of the lucky attacks managing a shallow cut or glancing blow. None of it seemed to have any effect.
More than once the big kid had two or three men hanging off his limbs in a desperate attempt to dislodge him. Butter used every trick, hold, and ounce of his strength to dispatch his adversaries.
Two militiamen managed to get behind the frenzied gringo, both readying their deadly blades as their target was busy snapping the neck of another man.
Butter noticed the movement over his shoulder and pivoted as the duo sprang for the kill. For a brief moment, the Texan thought he would finally fall. Blocking one of the militiamen’s stroke left the big man’s right side was exposed, an opening the other combatant pressed.
Just as Butter winced in anticipation of his foe’s knife slicing through his rib cage, the machete wielder’s chest exploded, showering the Texan with a spray of gristle and hot blood.
Following the life-saving shot’s trajectory with his eyes, Butter wanted to thank the shooter with a nod. He found nothing but water and open fields in the direction the bullet had traveled. Finally letting his eyes travel further, the Texan could detect the outline of semi-trailers illuminated by the trucks that were burning. “Kevin?” he wondered for a moment. “Thanks, buddy, if that was you.”
“Grim, you better get up here. Something’s happening to our front.”
What now? Grim winced at hearing the transmission. “I’m kind of busy down here, kid.”
“You’ll want to see this, sir.”
“Hell fire and damnation,” Grim cursed, as he scampered for Kevin’s sniper perch. “This can’t be good.”
A minute later, he was climbing up to the top of Kevin’s trailer, belly crawling along the top to avoid the heavy fire rounds zipping and buzzing overhead.
Finally reaching the kid’s sandbagged “hole,” Grim flung himself over the edge and demanded, “Okay, what’s so all-mighty important.”
“Look,” Kevin said pointing toward the distant irrigation ditch. “Butter and a bunch of ragtag looking guys are taking out the APCs and militia.”
“What?” Grim snapped, raising a pair of binoculars to verify Kevin’s unbelievable report.
Sure enough, the old warrior spotted several skirmishes in progress.
“Check out the APC closest to the bridge. That’s Butter. I just knocked a guy off his back.”
“Holy mother of God,” Grim whispered, “If that big, dumb kid isn’t a sight for sore eyes.”
Without wasting another second, Grim turned to his sharpshooter and said, “I want all but a few men to turn and face those shitbirds riding our ass. That includes you and that long-distance dialer you’re holding. Go back to Cord’s truck. I want both of you reaching out and touching someone. Got it?”
“Yes, sir,” Kevin grinned.
A moment later, Grim was transmitting orders that had all but a handful of his men moving to the convoy’s rear. If Butter could keep those assholes on the other side of the irrigation ditch busy, his shooters could hold their own against the smaller force behind them. “We actually might survive this clusterfuck,” he grumbled.
The dead and wounded began to pile up around Butter’s perch, the carpet of bodies making it difficult for friend or foe to climb onto the Texan’s personal slice of the battlefield. The steel plates and sides were slick with blood and human gore. Those who did manage to achieve the armored deck were soon addressed, adding to the bleeding, withering heap of flesh beside the tracks.
During a brief lull, Butter found himself with a moment to scan his surroundings. Four of the APCs were burning, five others, including the one beneath his boots, were no longer firing their deadly cannons. That left three more that still survived.
Butter peered down into the open hatch at his feet, the dead face of the former commander staring back up at him with lifeless eyes. “I wonder if this gun is big enough to kill one of its own kind?”
Kicking the dead body out of his way, Butter dropped down into the hatch to study the cannon’s controls. They were nearly identical to the M2 machine gun he’d fired at Foot Bliss. Was it really that easy?
A pair of buttons near the butterfly trigger were labeled with right and left arrows, another level printed with up and down indicators.
With a touch of a button, the motorized turret rotated left. Another test sent the cannon up, and then down. Butter smiled for the first time in over a week.
Spinning the gun, he took aim at the closest operational APC. The sights were very similar to the irons on his carbine. After taking aim, he pressed the trigger.
The big gun barked much louder than Butter expected. Again, he fired, this time making sure to see if the round landed high or low.
Within seconds, men were fleeing from the targeted APC, a small column of smoke rising from the rear engine compartment. Shortly thereafter, flames licked the hatch, followed almost immediately by a massive explosion that thrust pieces of the doomed machine soaring into the night. “Damn,” Butter whispered. “I gotta get me one of these.”
Making sure to close the panel behind them, Bishop had forced Castro down the slick stone steps. Bella Dona followed, with Terri the last to descend. Ten steps down, they reached a damp, foul-smelling, brick floor. The torchlight exposed a low tunnel leading off into the blackness.
“My gosh!” Terri grumbled. “You’d think with all the dough these guys spent building this place, they would have included a secret passage that could have accommodated more than a Hobbit.”
There wasn’t any option but to crawl through the claustrophobic tube, the effort reminding Bishop of the time he visited a cave in the Texas Hill Country.
Not long after they began their subterranean journey, water dripped from the ceiling, and the occasional tree root made the space even tighter. Still, the old structure had been well constructed, maintaining its integrity for many decades.
Their journey passed in silence, all ears focused on the muffled sounds of battle, the occasional rumble or explosion managing to penetrate the earth around them.
An intense detonation shook the ground, sending a shower of earth and mortar from the roof. Castro, in the lead, hesitated, coughing the grit from his lungs.
“Keep moving,” Bishop grumbled from behind. “It’s tight enough in here without us having to crawl over your dead body.”
After scrambling through the spooky confines for several minutes, Bishop noticed that the tunnel was beginning to ascend. It was only a slight, barely noticeable, upward grade, but it helped calm his nagging fear of being trapped underground.
Castro’s lead torch soon indicated a wall, and for a moment, Bishop worried that they had encountered a dead end. The enforcer knew the secret, however, and pushed hard against one edge.
The barrier moved on old hinges, swinging outward like a door. Sticking his head through the opening, Castro disappeared through the opening.
Bishop was so distracted with finally being out of the crushing passageway, he didn’t see Castro waiting in ambush. Just as the Texan’s head cleared the opening, the plantation henchman struck.
Only cat-like reflexes saved Bishop’s life, his last-second move of ducking back into the underground structure allowing the Texan to absorb a glancing blow. Still, it hurt like hell, bells ringing inside his head.
Leveling his pistol to send a round Castro’s way, Bishop paused before pulling the trigger. He didn’t know what was on the other side of the hatch, didn’t want to announce their presence with a gunshot. Besides, firing a pistol in the tight confines of the underground shaft would leave him completely deaf for several hours.
Ducking his head quickly out and back, Bishop didn’t see Castro. “Shit!” he barked over his shoulder to Terri. “He’s making a run for it! Stay here with the lady. I’ll go find his ass.”
Bishop lunged through the primitive entry, finding himself in some sort of small root cellar. He spied a ladder in the corner and began climbing.
Nearing the top rung, Bishop could make out a trapdoor blocking his passage. Expecting Castro to be on the other side, Bishop pushed cautiously against the hatch, finding himself peering out at an old barn. The plantation’s head enforcer was nowhere to be seen.
Climbing out into the night air, Bishop took a moment to scan his surroundings. Gunfire still raged down by the water, but the pitch of the battle had clearly declined. “Grim, I hope you’re still with me buddy. Hang on; I’m working on getting you out of this mess.”
The Texan heard a scrape, a sound like cloth being pulled across wood. There you are, he thought. Let’s play a little game of hide and seek.
Castro, given the revolt that just occurred on the Castle’s front verandah, had apparen
tly hidden inside the barn versus taking the chance of running for the protection of his own men. Bishop didn’t blame him.
Yet, the escape tunnel had deposited them outside of a huge facility. There’s only one way to do this, he thought. Walk around until he either tries to jump me, or I find him first. From Bishop’s point of view, both options sucked.
The Texan’s natural instinct pointed him toward the huge barn’s open end to his right. On that side, there was freedom, the great outdoors, the best possible escape. Instead, Bishop turned the opposite direction, thinking to draw Castro out and retake his hostage without attracting any unwanted attention. Besides, if Bella Dona’s brother had made it outside, the chances of finding him in the wide-open spaces were greatly reduced.
He ventured slowly along the barn’s outer wall, choosing his footfalls with great diligence. Stopping often to listen, the Texan was confident that his field craft was far more practiced than Castro’s.
The shed was a large rectangle, nearly 50 yards on each side. The further Bishop traveled from the door, the darker it became. Old farm machinery was stored here, a rusting plow there, some sort of dilapidated sprayer alongside. The place smelled of used engine oil and musty earth.
Bishop had to admit, Castro had no shortage of hiding places. Between the lack of light and the piles of junk laying around, the Texan could have walked right past the man and not known he was there.
As much as he wanted to retake the vile hatchet man, Bishop recognized that Bella Dona was the key to their escape. His thoughts returned to Terri, probably still in the root cellar with the plantation’s mistress. He needed to get back to her. He would settle with Castro later.
Bishop pivoted, his mind now working on the next step after rejoining his wife. A sound registered in his mind … a movement of air … someone had inhaled. A bolt of lightning shot through his right arm as something hard came from the darkness. The pain was unbelievable, his hand no longer able to hold the pistol.
It was pure instinct that caused Bishop to duck as the axe handle whizzed over his head, so close the wood actually brushed hair. Castrol growled, pissed that he had missed and resetting for another blow.
