Deadfall

by L. Douglas Hogan

  “Clint, you have won the rite of passage. Welcome to the Red Circle and to the Enclave.”

  Fourteen

  GRUNT LIVES MATTER

  Darrick and Marcus were busy loading a Russian GAZ 3308 with FEMA supplies. The truck had plenty of room for the haul to square the deal with the Pontybridge crew. More so, even. They were able to acquire not just enough food and clean water to last a few days, but a few months if properly rationed. The truck was stacked from front to back at least shoulder high.

  “What a score,” Marcus said.

  “Yeah, we need to hurry if we’re going to get this out of here before those guys come back,” Darrick replied.

  “I hear ya.”

  “I’m guessing none of those guys called for help. If they had, then I’m guessing they don’t care.”

  Marcus took a hard look at all of the supplies as he thought out his response to Darrick’s comment. Each item was marked with a Property of Federal Emergency Management Agency stamp. “My guess is no. I can’t see them giving this stuff up. It’s a hoard. They must’ve been hitting a ton of FEMA camps to get all this stuff.”

  Darrick filled the last available spot near the rear of the truck with a box of MREs. Each Meal, Ready-to-Eat box contained twelve meal packages. There were at least a hundred boxes packed into the supply truck, along with containers of water and blankets. “We have a new problem,” Darrick said, leaving the dialogue open for Marcus to make an inquiry.

  Marcus sighed. “What now?”

  “We have the truck filled. We left our horses at the river’s bank. We need to drive this truck through that Russian checkpoint Steven told us about. So I’m open to suggestions.”

  “Well, he said there’s never more than five or six sentries posted at the gate. I’m sure our dead Russian friends wouldn’t mind if we borrowed their uniforms.”

  “Your suggestion is to wear Russian military uniforms and try our luck at just passing through the checkpoint?”

  “There’s no other way around. We have to go over that bridge. So we either go over aggressively or peacefully.”

  Darrick knew Marcus was making a valid point. Either way was going to be risky. They’d chase them for sure if they just blasted through the gate. But if they could fool the sentries that they were just running supplies, maybe they’d let them through. On the other hand, if they were to speak to them and find out that they didn’t know a lick of Russian, they’d be discovered and die anyway. “I’m in. Let’s try it and hope for the best,” Darrick said, conceding to Marcus’s idea.

  “Oh, I almost forgot. I found something earlier when I was ransacking some dude’s office,” Marcus said excitedly, reaching into the cargo pocket of his pants. He pulled out several maps and laid them on the tailgate of the truck. One map interested Marcus more than the others. He unfolded it and spread it out. “It’s a map of the United States,” he said, “and it’s divided into twelve sections.”

  Darrick took a closer look. “Regions?”

  “Yeah, look,” he said, pointing at the map’s legend. “There’s nothing here indicating much, but there’s drawings and markings all over this thing.”

  “Yeah, I see that, but it’s all Russian.”

  “The map’s not Russian, though. Don’t you remember all that FEMA training we had to sit through in the Corps?”

  “I do now.”

  “This is a FEMA map by regions. North Carolina, South Carolina, Georgia, and Tennessee are Region Four.”

  “Our world just got a whole lot more complicated.”

  No sooner than Marcus had made his point, the sounds of vehicles were heard as they turned around a col of a forested mountain. “Shh, shh,” Darrick said, trying to silence his friend. “Do you hear that?”

  Marcus rushed to put the maps away. “I hear it and it’s close.”

  “Let’s go,” Darrick said. “It’s time to bail.”

  Darrick threw up the tailgate of the truck, and each of them ran around to the cab of the truck, tossed their rifles in, then climbed in themselves. “I guess we’re forfeiting the Russian uniform idea,” Marcus bantered.

  Darrick investigated the rearview mirror of the driver’s side door. It was weird to be operating from the left side, but that didn’t stop him from seeing the convoy rapidly approaching. He floored the gas pedal, hoping to bolt away as fast as possible, but the Russian truck wasn’t designed for speed. The bulk of the FEMA resources weighed them down exponentially.

  Major Horowitz and his Marines were speeding down the highway as fast as their vehicle’s speed restraints would allow them to go. It wasn’t much more than fifty miles per hour.

  “Those towers!” he shouted to his driver. “That’s the warehouse and that’s a Russian supply truck leaving with our stuff.”

  Horowitz turned to his gunner in the turret of his Humvee and yelled up, “Open fire.”

  “Open fire, aye, sir,” the Marine shouted back, unleashing a torrent of .50-caliber bullets. The chain-fed machine gun was more than adequate to stop the truck. As it turned out, the distance wasn’t so much of an issue as the shooting while speeding down the road was. The gunner kept on it, but the large GAZ 3308 truck kept booking down the road.

  Darrick was simultaneously driving and watching his mirror. The distinct sound of large BMG .50-caliber rounds was hitting the truck. “They’re firing on us, Marcus.”

  Rat-tat-tat was occasionally heard as the rounds impacted the cargo hold of the truck, penetrating deep into the freight. Darrick kept looking back until the mirror was blown off. “They’re gaining on us,” Darrick shouted. The truck’s engine was so loud that they practically had to scream to get their words across. Each BMG round that hit the truck reverberated a deep bass drumlike feeling.

  “At this point, does it even matter if we even make it through the gate?” Marcus yelled.

  “There’s the gate. We’re about to find out,” Darrick answered.

  Marcus turned his attention from the mirror on his door to the road before them. Two Russians were clearly making their way out of a guard shack to meet them on the road. When they realized the truck wasn’t slowing down, they pointed their rifles at them.

  “Duck,” Darrick shouted.

  Each of them lowered their heads below the dashboard as bullets penetrated the windshield. They crashed through the gate. The Russians jumped out of the way just shy of being run over.

  “Did you see that?” Horowitz asked his driver.

  “I saw it, sir. Those pinkos were shooting at the truck as it drove through their checkpoint.”

  Horowitz turned his attention back to his gunner. “I think there’s more to that GAZ than meets the eye. Light up those guards, Corporal. I want that checkpoint turned to rubble.”

  “Aye, sir,” the gunner said, emptying his machine gun at the Russians who were taking cover behind two concrete barricades. Two more Russians were hiding behind the guard shack when the sound of a second machine gunner joined in on the action. It wasn’t long before the two Russians behind the shack were trying to crawl to safety. The shack offered no cover against such powerful ammunition. Both were killed as the convoy passed through the checkpoint. All that was left was the two who’d taken cover behind the concrete barriers. The militia took care of them. Before Horowitz’s convoy was all the way through, all four Russians were dead.

  “We’ve got another problem,” Darrick said, drawing Marcus’s attention away.

  “What now?”

  Darrick didn’t have to answer the question. The truck veered off the road. He knew their tires had been shot out. Darrick and Marcus jumped out of the GAZ with rifles in hand and took up defensive positions in front of the truck. They might have made a break for it, but the .50-caliber rounds would cut them down fast. They knew it’d be best to take their chances and fight back.

  A brief moment passed and it was a strange silence.

  Why aren’t they attacking? each of them thought as they waited.

  Darrick pee
ked his head out from the side of the truck. “They’re just sitting there on this side of the checkpoint.”

  Marcus looked out from his side of the truck. “Is it me, or do they look like friendlies?”

  “It looks like a motorcade of older civilian cars and trucks and some Humvees.” Darrick stood up and stepped out from his hiding place.

  “What are you doing?” Marcus asked. “You’re gonna get yourself dead.”

  “If they’re with us, they won’t shoot. If they’re not, they’ll miss.”

  Darrick’s harebrained idea was working. Nobody took the shot.

  “Young,” Major Horowitz yelled, exiting the Humvee when it came to a full stop.

  “Here, sir,” Young replied, slamming his door shut.

  “Binos,” his commander yelled. Horowitz’s stance was stoic and confident. He never took his eyes off the man standing there next to the Russian GAZ. Who was he? What was he doing? Horowitz was resolute. He wanted answers.

  When Horowitz heard Young making his approach, he held out his right hand. Young obediently placed the binoculars square into Horowitz’s palm. Looking through the binos, he could see a man standing there just as stoic and confident as he was, almost defiantly. Hiding in front of the GAZ, Horowitz could see another man’s feet beneath the truck. “Young, send a fireteam down there to ascertain the situation.”

  “Aye, sir,” Young replied. “Want me to take the translator just in case?”

  “Wouldn’t hurt. Have him speak first. I want to see the reaction on our friend’s face. It’ll tell me where his loyalties lie.”

  “There’s two men walking this way,” Darrick said.

  “This is such a bad idea.”

  “Relax, they’re not Russians. If anything, it’s our boys with civilian support.”

  “If you’re wrong, we’re dead.”

  “We weren’t going to make it out of this situation if they were Russians, anyway. We both know those guns would have cut us down before we reached the wood line.” Darrick never looked at Marcus as the dialogue moved forward. He kept his eyes on the approaching men. The approach seemed like an eternity. As the two men got closer, Darrick could see the man in the front appeared to be unarmed. The man behind him was definitely a Marine. “Okay, sit still. I got this,” Darrick said, moving forward to meet the envoys.

  The unarmed man spoke first. “Imya i data rozhdeniya, soldat.”

  Darrick had no idea what the man said, and it made him feel uncomfortable. He began to doubt his own judgment. The feeling was a reminder of the man he was trying not to be: the Darrick from the homestead. The Darrick whose foolish decisions cost his brother’s life. He wasn’t the man he used to be. The explosion in Iraq had taken something from him that he had been unable to re-collect. Confidence, maybe. The hospitals said he suffered concussions, but the prognosis was good. For Darrick, his fight started after Iraq, trying to rediscover himself was more difficult combat.

  He ignored the Russian’s words.

  The Marine behind the Russian jabbed him in the back of the shoulder with his M4 service rifle.

  The Russian shouted again. “Imya i data rozhdeniya, soldat. Seychas!”

  Darrick said nothing. That was when the Marine’s radio came to life. “Give me something, Staff Sergeant.”

  Young nodded, but didn’t reply, refusing to give away the leadership status of his commander. “Explain yourself, mister. We were trying to light you up because we thought you were Russians making off with our supplies.”

  Darrick was elated to hear the Marine speak English. He answer the man’s question with a question of his own. “What unit do you belong to, Marine?”

  Young heard this question a lot. It’d been asked in various forms, but almost always from a fellow Marine. “One-Two,” he replied, watching the stranger for an expression. A rustling from the front of the truck was heard as Marcus stood up and came out of hiding.

  “Did he say One-Two?” Marcus asked.

  “We served together in One-Two,” Darrick said to the Marine, pointing to Marcus and back at himself.

  Young lowered his rifle. “You want to give me something to tell Major Horowitz?”

  “Horowitz? No way! Horowitz was our company commander back in the day. Tell him you found Corporal Darrick Mitchell and Corporal Marcus Guy.”

  “Sergeant Marcus Guy,” Marcus interrupted. “I picked up sergeant before I EAS’d,” he added. “I haven’t had a chance to talk to you about that,” he said to Darrick. “Things have been – awkward.”

  “And what of the truck?” Young interrupted.

  “It’s a long story,” Darrick answered.

  “Give me something,” Young demanded.

  “My wife is very sick. She has cancer and I was promised medicine for supplies by a group up that way, at Pontybridge.”

  “I doubt you’ll get to keep the goods, Mitchell, but we’ll let Major Horowitz decide that.”

  “He’ll have to decide fast, because there’s a unit of Russians that’s going to be back soon. When they get here, they’re not going to be happy, seeing how we killed their tower guards.”

  “Well then, we’d better get moving.”

  The four men wasted no time heading back to Major Horowitz’s position. Darrick and Marcus were on a special mission that required speed. To each of them every moment not heading in the direction of Tonya was a wasted moment. Darrick wasn’t going to waste another second. As soon as he reached Major Horowitz, he extended his hand. The major remembered his face, but not his name.

  “You’ll have to forgive my frankness, Major, but my wife is very sick. I know your men need these supplies, so do we. There’s a group of survivors just down the road a ways that promised me medicine if we could pull off this heist. We were doing well until we ran into a group of hard chargers,” Darrick said. His point was taken, but not well received by the battle-hardened commander.

  “What’s your name, son?” Major Horowitz asked.

  “Mitchell, sir.”

  “Ah, yes. I remember you.” Horowitz turned to Marcus. “And you are?”

  “Sergeant Marcus Guy, sir.”

  “Well, you both look like you’ve integrated well back into civilian life. You look like a couple of ladies. Nothing about you says regulation.”

  “Sir, the medicine,” Darrick said.

  “How much did you promise for the medicine?”

  “The deal was a truckload, sir.”

  “Seems a bit much, don’t you think? You’re even acting like a civilian puke. You’ve lost every ounce of good judgment! You’re no better than Jody.”

  The Jody comment was intended to be an insult to Darrick. Jody was a military jargon word for a civilian character often sang about in cadences. Basically, calling Darrick a lowlife. “I need to know, sir. Yes or no?”

  “The answer’s no, Mitchell. Look around. We’re trying to renovate hell, and I have men who can donate to the cause. We need those supplies more than you. I’m open to sharing a little, but not that haul. I’m sorry, Mitchell, but you were given a bad hand. You either need to fold or lie to me and give me something more to work with.”

  Frustration gripped Darrick and Marcus. They felt like little children standing before the major.

  Something more – something… Darrick kept repeating in his mind. Guns, he thought. “Guns,” he blurted out. “Lots of guns.”

  “I’m listening,” Major Horowitz replied.

  “What if I told you I knew where to get a lot of guns.”

  “I’d say it’s worth a fight,” Horowitz said, his shoulders pulled back.

  Marcus knew exactly where Darrick was going with the offer. Back to Pontybridge.

  “It’ll be a fight, Major. There’s a group stalking us that forced us out of our home and off our homestead. They shouldn’t be too far out from Pontybridge. If you can get us back there, we can set up an ambush.”

  Darrick could tell Horowitz wasn’t too much into the idea. It almost looked like h
e was teetering on it. He just needed a push. “Major, if we stay here, we’re going to be fighting anyway. The Russians deployed off in that direction not long ago. Once they realize their perimeter security isn’t responding or reporting back, they’ll be turning around, if they haven’t already.”

  Major Horowitz rubbed his chin. “Okay, Mitchell. If we get the firepower you’re leading us to believe exists, we’ll have more than enough to stomp those pinkos and get you your medicine. Pontybridge will comply, or they’ll wish they hadn’t.”

  Mitchell extended his hand and Horowitz shook it. Both his and Marcus’s.

  “Grab a seat, men,” the major said, pointing to the row of civilians in the back of the convoy.

  Darrick and Marcus shouldered their M4s and headed for a random truck. They were all older model vehicles, each of them built generations ago. There was no modern-aged technology equipped on them. Even their exhaust systems were loud and smelly.

  It wasn’t the smell or the sound that stopped Darrick in his tracks. Marcus noticed Darrick was no longer by his side. Marcus stopped and looked back at Darrick. “What is it?”

  Darrick was staring at one of the flatbed trucks.

  It was Tommie Dean Ross, Darrick’s brother-in-law.

  Darrick caught his eye. Tommie stood up from where he was in the bed of the truck and jumped out over the side. “Darrick?”

  Darrick and Tommie came together and embraced.

  “What are you doing here?” Tommie asked. “And where’s Tonya? Is she alright? Please tell me she’s alright!”

  “Tonya’s sick, Tommie. That’s why I’m here.”

  “Sick? Sick how?”

  “She never told you?”

  “Told me what?”

  “She has an advanced stage of ovarian cancer.”

  “Where is she?”

  “She’s at Pontybridge,” Darrick answered, unaware that Tonya, Carissa, and Andy had left during the invasion. “I’ve convinced Major Horowitz to take us there.”