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by M B Wood

  "Hey, hey, hang on," Fred said. "I gotta pick out my clothes. I wanna be dressed right. Gotta look good, y'know."

  #

  After bathing, the sun warmed the day and Taylor found he could not stop yawning. The night had caught up with him.

  "Mr. MacPherson, if you want to take a nap, I'll stand guard," Albert said. "I'll wake you if anything happens.”

  "Great, thanks," Taylor said and crawled into the sleeping bag in the small A-frame tent.

  Taylor woke in the afternoon to the smell of garlic and spices. He joined Maria by the campfire that burned hot and smoke-free. Two pots sat on a metal grate. "Smells wonderful, what’s cookin?"

  "Pasta." Maria offered a brief smile. "But no wine. Franny, go roust those men of mine. It's time to eat."

  "Yes, Maria." Franny's motions were stiff, awkward.

  "How's she doing?" Taylor asked.

  "Not so good." Maria shrugged. "Better, but not good. It was terrible what happened. She's a good woman. Losing her husband before her very eyes. Sant'Andon', save us." Maria rolled her eyes and slipped the spaghetti into the boiling water.

  #

  Taylor ate until his stomach hurt. The sauce had been thick and flavorful. "Maria, that was delicious.”

  "Non che male, Maria." Fred used a Neapolitan phrase that meant 'not too bad.' He patted her buttocks and kissed her on the neck. "You make the best food in the whole world."

  "Fred." She pushed him away. "Behave."

  Later, around the fire, Taylor and Fred discussed their situation. They now had supplies, but still needed shelter. It wasn’t comforting that all stations on the car radios only produced static.

  #

  Albert came running from his lookout station. He’d been on duty at the southernmost point of the hill that overlooked the road where it crossed over the river. "Dad, Dad," he said. "There're men on the road. They have a dog."

  "Where?" Taylor and Fred asked in unison.

  "By the bridge." Albert pointed.

  From the top of the hill, they saw two men with a beagle that had its nose to the ground, tail wagging. They were at the gate where their van had stopped. After two minutes, the men left.

  #

  In the morning, high flat clouds the color of old concrete paved the sky. A cold breeze blew in from the north. It seemed like overnight the maple trees had acquired a yellow-green tinge with red that came when they blossomed.

  Several hours later, Albert returned. "Dad, Dad," he called. "There’re men on Cedar Point Road, they’re carrying guns." He was almost out of breath.

  "How many men?" Taylor asked.

  "I don't know." Albert squinted his eyes. "Maybe fifteen."

  From the edge of the hill, Taylor could see three tri-axle trucks and a large sport utility vehicle parked along the road. A large, dark haired man with a mustache appeared to be in charge. A short, stocky man held the same beagle that sniffed at something on the road. The dog led them up the road, past the gate toward Mastick Road. After a few moments of hand waving and shouting, the men got back into the trucks and followed the SUV up the hill.

  Ten minutes later, Taylor heard the distinctive popcorn-popping sound from the west. "Uh-oh.” He straightened up from his task. “That's gunfire." Memories of the thugs who’d attacked him in his home came back.

  Please, Lord, he thought, no more.

  "Look." Albert pointed. A column of dense black smoke rose from the direction of Mastick Road.

  It’s happening again, Taylor thought. This time, we have to be ready. He got the guns from the Jeep. "In case we have hostile visitors." He gave Chris a shotgun and a box of deer slug ammo. "Use them carefully.”

  Chris nodded as she loaded the shotgun.

  "Here." Taylor handed Fred the MAC-10 submachine gun. "We don't have much ammo for this." He saw Franny’s eyes on him. "You want a gun?" he asked. God, this has to be awful for her.

  "I don't know." Franny sighed. "I just don't want anything bad to happen again." She clasped her hands. “I’d like to help.”

  "You can,” Taylor said. “Will you?" He held his breath. Maybe I can reach her. Maybe she still cares.

  "I'll try." She bit her lower lip.

  "Good." From under the front seat of the Jeep, Taylor retrieved a small rifle with a plastic stock. "This is an automatic version of a Ruger 10-22. Was kind of illegal.” He shrugged. “Still, it’s effective.”

  Franny's eyes widened, and she frowned.

  "Sorry, it's a lightweight submachine-gun that fires .22 caliber ammo. It doesn't have much of a kick." He showed her how to put in the magazine and how to use it. “Got it?"

  "I think I’ve got it." She handled the gun gingerly.

  "Albert," Taylor called. "Can you handle a shotgun?"

  "I know how. Uncle Stosh showed me." Albert jumped up and down with excitement. "He did, didn't he, Chris?"

  "Well, yes." Chris sounded hesitant.

  "But?" Taylor watched her carefully.

  "Well, he shot some targets, but he never went hunting with us," Chris said. "Dad thought he talked too much."

  "Aw, Chris." Albert pouted. "Did you have to say that?"

  Taylor hesitated before he said, "Well, okay, take this shotgun. I want you as backup. Chris’ll show you how to use it." He saw Chris nod approval.

  "Way cool." Albert's eyes got big as he took the shotgun.

  "We need cover." Fred eyes settled on the trunks of fallen pine trees. "They’ll work."

  Using the Jeep, he dragged logs to the edge of the hill and stacked them into barricades overlooking the trail from Cedar Point Road. It would stop a column coming up the trail, and would offer some cover against a broad attack up the hillside.

  #

  Three hours later, Albert ran down from the lookout point. "Dad, Dad, Mr. MacPherson. The trucks are back. They came down Cedar Point Road. They're at the gate to our trail.”

  From the top of the hill, Taylor saw vehicles on the road. A slender man cowered on the ground alongside a truck. A large, mustachioed man kicked him then grabbed his hair, pulling him to his feet. The large man seized the slender man at the neck and shook him several times before releasing his hold. The slender man pointed to the gate that led to the trail and moments later he gestured toward the hill.

  Taylor flinched. Now what? he thought.

  Men with rifles, shotguns and handguns spilled out of the trucks. The mustachioed man waved his hand, shooing the men into a line. Once formed up, they entered the trail.

  Taylor’s heart beat faster. "Listen," he said. "They’re coming, and they’re armed. Take your positions and stay out of sight. Hold your fire until you hear me yell 'NOW.'”

  They nodded agreement, even Franny.

  "Maria, you and the children watch the back path up the hill. If anyone tries to come in that way, warn us. Okay?"

  Maria's lips moved silently as she fingered her rosary.

  "Don't be heroes. That'll get you killed. Fire only in short bursts. Understand? God bless us and preserve us."

  Taylor watched the men move along the trail in the bright sunlight before they disappeared into the dark shadows of the trees. Pale faces flashed from time to time when someone looked toward the hill. They approached without any sound.

  They reappeared at the base of the hill. The beagle, tail wagging, had its nose buried among the leaves. The mustachioed man kneeled briefly to look at the ground. He rose and pointed up the hill. Taylor heard a clatter. It was guns being cocked. He saw the men line up with their slender prisoner at the front.

  Taylor swore silently. He held up his hand so his small band would hold their fire. There’re more of them than I expected. He cocked his gun and sighted it in on the man who gave the orders. His heart began to pound, and his mouth felt like sawdust.

  #

  Mark always felt better after he jumped someone and kicked ass. He laughed. Those doofuses on Mastick Road never knew what hit them. So what if we had to waste a butt-head who didn't have enough sen
se to quit when out-gunned? Too bad. When his boys took turns on a woman, it made him want a piece of ass--one that was young and tight, especially young. It’s time to get a replacement for that little bitch. She just ain't young enough.

  Mark learned from the prisoners there was a family with a young chick in the park.

  "Hey, dork." He kicked the young man. "On your feet. Where's the babe?" He dragged him to his feet by his hair then grabbed his shirt at the neck and shook him.

  The lanky teenager had raw, oozing blisters on his face. "I don't know." He began to tremble.

  "Gimme a cigarette," Mark said. "His memory needs help."

  "No, please don't. Maybe on the hill. They said they was staying on the hill in the park." He pointed to a gate almost hidden behind a thicket of dogwood. "It’s up that way."

  "You sure?" Mark played with the unlit cigarette.

  "Yes, sir." The young man's lower lip trembled.

  "Luken, you an’ the men on the rear truck, stay here," he said. "The rest, line up and move out." He pointed to the hill.

  At the place where the trail became steep, the dog stopped to sniff something in the leaves. "What is it?" Mark asked.

  "I don't know for sure," the tracker said. "Something liquid. Kinda looks like spaghetti sauce."

  "Shit," Mark said. "It's those buttheads who robbed me." He eyed the hill. All was quiet except for crows cawing in the treetops. "I'm gonna surprise this bunch, too," he said. "Put those horse farm dip-shits up front." He chambered a round into his gun and pointed toward the hill. "Move it," he said. "An' keep your mouths shut."

  The trail’s steepness slowed their pace.

  Mark heard a voice shout, "Now!"

  Why, he thought. That's what I say when...

  At that instant, a small caliber high-velocity bullet punched a tiny hole in Mark's forehead. When the deformed, tumbling bullet exited from the back of his skull, it carried a storm of blood and bone fragments that sprayed a crimson halo onto the silvery-gray bark of the maple tree behind him.

  #

  As the lead person reached the top of the hill, about twenty yards away, Taylor shouted, "Now."

  His Colt rifle banged loudly. A shotgun boomed several times. The MAC-10 made a giant ripping sound. The .22 rifle pop-popped away, almost toy-like.

  The man with the mustache staggered and collapsed. He slid down the hill among a flurry of leaves until he slammed into the bole of a tree where he stopped, unmoving. The rest of the gang dropped to the ground. Gun barrels rose to return fire.

  Taylor emptied his mag at the intruders and paused. Screams filled the air. I hope that’s none of my people. He leaned back and as he inserted a fresh magazine into his gun, he glanced up. Above, a pale blue cloud of smoke drifted through branches back-lit by a pale luminous green from the emerging leaves.

  The shotgun on Taylor’s left fell silent. As he stretched around a tree to see if anything had happened to Chris, bark splintered just above his head. He jerked back. More wood fragments exploded from the tree where his head had just been.

  Taylor crawled along the ground to another opening behind the log barricade.

  Down slope, a kneeling man pointed a rifle at him.

  Taylor ducked. Splinters flew from the opening. "Damn." He returned to his original position and peeked out. As he did, a shotgun boomed on his left and the man with the carbine shook like a rag doll and slumped backwards.

  Taylor fired. The man's body jerked and was still. Angry, he fired his gun at the barely visible bodies among the trees and fallen branches on the hillside until he emptied the mag.

  "Stop shooting," called a voice from below. "Cease-fire."

  Moans and cries filled the woods.

  Taylor sat up, back against the tree. "Shut up and listen," he yelled. "Take your dead and wounded, and get out. Leave your weapons behind, all of them."

  "Hey, man," a voice called back. "We need our guns. You know what it's like out there."

  "Do as I say if you want to live. That's my only offer."

  "Aw, man, you--"

  "Shut up," Taylor shouted. He snapped a fresh mag into his rifle and chambered a round. He fired once. The gun's boom echoed through the now-silent woods. "Take it or die. No weapons. Now move it."

  The gang members called back and forth. "All right," one yelled. “Hold your fire.”

  "Throw down your guns and stand up," Taylor called. “Hands on your heads and face downhill. You." He pointed at the man furthest down slope. "You, in the red shirt. Pick up the man next to you and get out of here. Now."

  "Four of us are prisoners," called a man close to the top of the hill. "Don't make us go with them. Please."

  "Everyone who’s a prisoner, put both hands straight up." Taylor yelled.

  Four individuals raised their arms.

  "You, in the camo outfit, grab the man on the ground next to you and get out of here," Taylor called. "All of you, right now."

  One by one, he ordered the gang to carry off its dead and wounded. Three men struggled off the hill with the last body.

  Four remained.

  "Albert," Taylor said. "Go get the guns. We'll cover you." He knew the men holding their arms in the air were getting tired. If they tried something, they would be at a disadvantage.

  Albert made four trips down the hill to collect guns. When he could find no more, Taylor sent him to the lookout point to watch the road. He beckoned to Chris who had a trickle of blood on the left side of her face. "Cover me."

  "Sure, no problem." Chris's hands were steady.

  "All right," Taylor said. "You, in the blue coat, come here." He pointed to the slender man who’d been in front when the gang came up the hill. Taylor patted him down for weapons but found none. "What's your name and where’re you from?" He realized the slender man was just a teenager.

  "Frank Colagrossi. I live on Mastick Road." His face was battered and pocked with burns. "They captured me today.” He choked out the words, “They killed my dad."

  "Sit over there." Taylor pointed to a log in front of the grim-faced Chris. Her gun followed him. "Next.”

  An older man, tall and rangy, stepped forward.

  "What's your name and where are you from?"

  "John Phelps from Barrett Road." A deep frown marked the man's face. "Those sons of bitches raided my home two days ago looking for guns, drugs and women. They used us as shields when they raided other houses on Barrett. Their leader was a nasty piece of work, always on the lookout for young girls. Whoever nailed him did the world a favor.”

  Taylor turned to the two remaining men.

  "Ted Callioux," said the short, freckled man. "I used to live in Berea until those barbarians burned me out. I taught physics at the college. They took my wife, Sandy, and me as prisoners about a week ago. Then that bastard, Thompson, took my Sandy away. Dear God, I hope nothing's happened to her.”

  "You?" Taylor pointed to a slender, bespectacled young man.

  "Harv Cubich," he said. "I'm from Chicago,"

  "Chicago?" Taylor frowned. "What're you doing here?"

  "I’m visiting my uncle, Dr. Shel Weitzman. He lives on Barrett Road. I made the mistake of going for a ride the other day. I was just poking along on a trail and pow, someone shot my horse out from under me. Why he shot my horse is beyond me."

  "Phelps," Taylor called to the man sitting on the log. "Is there a Weitzman on Barrett Road?"

  "Yeah, Weitzman is a dentist who lives on this end of Barrett," Phelps said. "I've met Harv before."

  "All right," Taylor said. "You're free to go."

  "Free? Just like that?" Callioux eyes widened.

  "We don't want prisoners," Taylor said.

  "Who're you?" Phelps asked. "What're you doing here?"

  Taylor introduced his group. As they talked, he got out a first-aid kit and dressed Colagrossi's face.

  Cigarette burns, he thought. Whoever did that was a real prick. As they left, he said, "if you come back, be sure to show a white flag."

/>   "As long as you've got the first aid kit out," Franny said in a subdued tone. "Can you fix my shoulder?"

  Taylor concealed his surprise at hearing her voice. "Sure, no problem." He struggled to find the right words. "Gosh, Franny, you've ruined your new shirt," he said as he cleaned a shallow flesh wound. "How’d you do that?"

  "I don't know," she said flatly. "It must have happened during the shooting. I don't remember."

  "Well, it isn't serious." He placed a bandage on the open wound. “I've applied an antibiotic. Should be all right. Let me know if it gets painful or tender." He looked at her with his eyes wide, looking for a response.

  "Thanks." Her eyes remained blank. "You’re a good man," she said and turned away.

  "You're welcome," Taylor said. "Chris, you're next."

  "Me?" Chris frowned.

  "Yup, you," Taylor said. "Your cheek’s bleeding."

  "It is?" Chris winced when she touched the cut on the left side of her face. "Gee, I never felt a thing."

  "By the way," Taylor said as he swabbed the wound with an antibacterial solution. "That was some pretty good shooting." Probably saved my life, he thought. She was like ice while under fire. I owe her.

  "Thanks." Chris's eyes kept flicking to Taylor's face as he treated her wound. "You know, we were lucky."

  "You're right," Taylor said. "And you're as good as new.” He looked around. “Albert," he called. "Show us what you found on the hill." There were one Mini-14 rifle, two AR15s, five shotguns and six .22 rifles. No handguns? Fewer guns than gang members who came up the hill, so they still have some. We're still outnumbered. And the element of surprise is gone.

  Chapter 10

  Recruits

  Stars twinkled above the pink-lined horizon. Trees carried a faint silhouette of their emerging leaves. Frost traced ghostly patterns in the low-lying meadow.

  It’s like a camping trip, Taylor thought. But my Vivian isn’t here this time. He turned away and put a pot of water on the fire.

  Later, as he sipped coffee and stared at the glowing coals, Fred appeared, his breath steaming as he spoke.

  "Got any more coffee? I got cold. I couldn't sleep anymore."

  "Sure." Taylor moved to make space on the log. "Me, too. We need shelter." He reached for the pot.