This We Will Defend

by C. A. Rudolph

  Fred nodded. “That’s fine. I need to know how well you can shoot it. The only reason I’m asking is because I’ve seen your short-range skills before and I—”

  “I can shoot my big girl, Fred,” Peter interrupted. “The glass mounted to it cost me three times what the rifle cost.”

  Fred nodded indifferently. “Are you good out to a thousand?”

  Peter shrugged. “Who am I, Chris Kyle?”

  “Peter—”

  “Relax, I’m joking. I’m sighted in and accurate at five hundred, but with a few adjustments I can probably make it work. What did you have in mind?”

  “The end of the straightaway,” Fred began as he presented one of the sketches he’d been working on to Peter. “I want to set up a sniper hide there as a fail-safe. You can hit anything you want as far out as you like. I want one more option before anyone gets a chance to make it out of the kill box.”

  “Wait—you want to use my husband as a sniper?” Amy heckled. “Do so at your own risk, Fred.”

  Peter looked dejected. “Really?”

  “You know I’m kidding,” Amy reassured him.

  Fred shook his head. “Meet me down there in ten. I’ll explain further.”

  Chapter 20

  DHS Shenandoah Outpost (previously Massanuten Military Academy)

  Woodstock, Virginia

  Tuesday, October 19th (Present day)

  Doug Bronson leaned forward in his chair and rubbed his chin as his elbows pushed large round indentations into the antique soft vinyl covering on the desk before him. He reached to a glass nearby and took a couple of sips of warm brandy as he examined a mass of printed, digitally time-stamped photographs. Some of the scenes depicted before him had him feeling a shade of perplexed. Other things he’d seen had him flustered—even angered. He was on his third glass of brandy and was only now beginning to find his calm and gather his thoughts.

  The photos were high-resolution stills captured from a combination of standard and infrared video footage. The footage had been taken from an altitude of several thousand feet by a Predator UAV, or unmanned aerial vehicle, that Bronson had recently ordered put into service. He’d initially done so solely for the task of finding his missing response team, which included three DHS security officers, two K9 handlers, and two K9s. They’d been sent out to track down and terminate the last surviving member of a small group of subversives more than a week ago and hadn’t yet returned home.

  Scratching his balding head, Bronson took another sip of brandy and then leaned back into his chair while holding two of the photos he’d been concerning himself with the most. The first was a highly detailed image of one of his own DHS vehicles—the one belonging to his response team. It sat undisturbed and empty at the end of a dead-end road, parked just feet behind another vehicle—one that had been completely obliterated. What was left of two male bodies, both tattered and charred, lay not far away near the tree line. The scene told a story, one that Bronson had already been read-in on. The paragraph that included the fate of the men in the second vehicle, including that of his own ex-brother-in-law, had eluded him at first—that is, before he’d seen the second photo he now held in his grasp.

  The second photo had within it a scene that Bronson had deemed to be nothing short of a massacre. It might as well have been the Oklahoma City bombing or any other attack on federal agents perpetrated by normal, everyday civilians, for that matter. Five dead men, all wearing DHS uniforms, lay scattered about in the woods in various locations. Two of them, including the lead agent, had gunshot wounds to the head. The three remaining men, which included Bronson’s ex-brother-in-law and the K9 handlers, had been shot to death as well, their bodies left lying contorted and motionless along a footpath deep in the National Forest. All their gear and weapons had been taken from them and the search dogs were nowhere to be found.

  As Bronson finished his third brandy, he sucked on his teeth, sighed loudly, and tossed the photos bitterly across his desk. He wondered for a second what the fate of the dogs might’ve been. He wondered if maybe they’d been murdered too, along with his men. Whoever killed them probably cooked them and ate them, too—most likely while wearing their fur as a hat, he thought.

  “Heathens,” he muttered.

  After knocking on his office door, a young brunette wearing thick-framed glasses poked her head in with a flirtatious grin.

  “Mr. Bronson, Seth Bates to see you,” she said as she pulled a pencil from her teeth that she’d noticeably been gnawing on.

  “Well, show him in, Tori,” droned Bronson with an ingratiating tone.

  Bates smiled awkwardly at Bronson’s receptionist and shuffled into the office, closing the door behind him. He pranced up to Bronson’s desk and started to take a seat until Bronson held up a hand.

  “No need to make yourself comfortable, Bates, this will be a quick conversation. Just give me the gist,” Bronson said.

  “Okay…um, well, suffice it to say he wasn’t very happy,” Bates said with a blank look. “I mean, he didn’t seem happy when he got here—I could definitely tell that something had been bugging him prior to his arrival. When I told him that you weren’t coming to the meeting, well, that didn’t sit well either.”

  “Was he alone?”

  “No. The tall man that’s usually with him was there, and some lady with streaked hair was with them. I think she’s the tall guy’s wife,” explained Bates.

  Bronson nodded. “Did you show him everything?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Everything?” reiterated Bronson.

  Bates cleared his throat. “I showed him everything you told me to show him,” Bates affirmed. “I have to be honest, sir, he got really pissed when he saw the footage. Seeing those two motorcycles set him off. And when he saw his man tied to that tree, I thought his head was going to implode.”

  Bronson nodded again and half-smiled.

  “What about the other thing?” Bronson quizzed. “Did you make that happen?”

  Bates nodded. “I had our best graphics guy do it. The vice president’s kutte on a flagpole, just as you requested.”

  “Did he believe it?”

  Bates nodded an unequivocal yes. “He threw a couple of chairs across the conference room and busted one of our tables in half,” he said. “You know—one of those cheaper particleboard ones. Then he just left. He didn’t say anything else…he just left—stormed right out of the room and out of the building while the other two stood there…looking like the damn Terminator.”

  Bronson chuckled to himself. “Good.”

  “Good?” Bates responded.

  Bronson stood and lifted his arms above his head to stretch. “Actually, it’s great,” he said, his eyes beaming.

  “I’m sorry, sir. But I’m lost,” admitted Bates. “I’ve never in my entire life seen anyone so unhinged before. The man is pure evil. He’s a freak when he’s not pissed. How is lighting his fuse like that such a great thing?”

  Bronson smiled as he reached for a single-breasted sport jacket. He nonchalantly slipped it on, but made a show of adjusting his collar.

  “You’re smiling,” Bates mentioned. “You’re actually smiling about this.”

  “Yes, Bates,” Bronson said. “I am smiling. And I’ll tell you why I’m smiling, if you’ll indulge me for a minute.”

  Bronson turned and walked to where a mirror was mounted to a wall and stared into it, then began toying with his thinning hair in an attempt to make it appear thicker than it was.

  “There are several narratives here, Bates. Not just one—but several. And no matter which one ends up ringing true, our side remains the victor. And our mission continues.” He paused. “Right now, that neanderthal is on his way to prep his entire goon squad for an all-out war. A war—on some small commune of countryfied rednecks. If they head down that mountain and kill a bunch of rebels, illegally armed insurgents, and the like—then so what? That’s what they do—that’s what we hired them to do. It’s what they’ve bee
n doing all along anyway and it still serves both our needs. They’ll get their revenge and our mission continues. We press on.”

  Bronson made faces at himself in the mirror while continuing to primp.

  “Now, if they head down that mountain, wipe out a bunch of rebels and illegally armed insurgents—some of whom turn out to be the ones responsible for the deaths of our agents, including my brother-in-law, God rest his soul—then once again, what of it? Mr. Marcel gets his revenge, we acquire justice for our fallen men, and our mission continues. We…press…on. It still serves both of our needs.”

  Seemingly content with his physical appearance now, Bronson turned and approached his cohort. He crossed his arms and rested his chin in his hand.

  “Now…consider this for a second,” he slurred. “Imagine if those morons drive into that valley…and it ends up being the, well…the valley of the shadow of death. And they start their killing spree, but it turns out those folks aren’t the simple, half-witted, overall-wearing moonshiners they’re presumed to be.” Bronson chuckled and extended his arms outward to his sides. “The narrative writes itself, Bates.”

  Bates nodded as his brow furrowed. “I think I understand. You’re trying to find a way to rid yourself of two problems at once.”

  “And that’s why I like you, Bates,” Bronson said. “It’s not the only reason I like you…but it’s one of them.”

  Bronson walked over to his office door and turned around before opening it. “There are two things I know with absolute certainty. One is that as time goes on, what’s left of the undesirables out there are going to continue to get harder to find and harder to fight. And two is that…I am at my wit’s end—I’m unequivocally sick of Damien Marcel’s shit.”

  “But what makes you think Marcel won’t just wipe them out as he intends?” Bates asked. “He’s been effective thus far.”

  “A hunch,” Bronson said, his tone appearing a bit soberer.

  “Can you elaborate?”

  Bronson removed his hand from the door handle and twiddled his fingers before continuing. “You know—it’s worth nothing that it’s been over a year since the climacteric, Bates. We’ve seen all sorts of end-of-the-world behaviors—widespread panic, violence, rioting and civil unrest, civil and gang warfare, disease outbreaks, mass starvation, and multiple die-offs for an assortment of reasons. Anyone who’s survived on their own this far post factum has done so because of a profound advantage. I’ve watched the footage several times. There’s a community down there. They’re moving around freely. They have weapons and they have vehicles that operate. They’re subsisting and doing a darn good job of it, from the looks of things. I admire them for making it this far, I really do.” He paused. “But the world has changed, Bates, and the standard’s changed along with it. Those types of people are subversive, nonconforming, and no longer fit the standard that we intend to universally enforce.”

  “So we’re starting something, then,” Bates concluded. “In West Virginia?”

  “Our jurisdiction doesn’t end at an imaginary state line,” garbled Bronson. “In case you’ve forgotten, Bates, we are a federal entity. But to answer your question, yes. Our mission takes us westward. And we’re going to test the waters in the next couple of days without even lifting so much as a finger. We’re going to send in the knight, his bishop, and his pawns first, and see in the final analysis who’s still standing.”

  Bated nodded. “What do you want to do about the Pred?”

  Bronson shrugged. “Keep it airborne. That way, we’ll know what becomes of our friends and what to do after.”

  Bates shuffled out of the way as Bronson opened his door, and Tori the receptionist entered the room, now wearing a stunning outfit.

  “Is there anything else we need to do?” Bates queried.

  “Us? We do nothing,” Bronson said. “I’m going to go enjoy a steak dinner and movie date with the young and vibrant Ms. Tori here. We’re on the winning side, Bates. It’s best to act the part.”

  Chapter 21

  Sasha stood quietly on the front stoop of a home adjacent to where a prebattle party had been raging on for several hours. She puffed nervously on a cigarette, pulling the final draw all the way to the filter before rubbing it out with the toe of her boot. She then lit another and took a long, fresh drag as she stared out into the darkness of night, contemplating the enormity of what she was about to do. It had been well over a year, yet it still amazed her how truly dark it could be without the added influence of artificial light. If it weren’t for the massive bonfire that her fellow brethren had started in the field next door, it would be even darker.

  She tongued the gap in her gum where her tooth had been recently knocked free, a gift from her husband after she’d decided to question his loyalty to the MC and, as well, the motives of their leader. As much as she didn’t want to admit it, Sasha knew for certain that she’d reached an impasse with Danny and the time had now come for some things to change.

  When the rage-driven clamor and drunken degeneracy had reached a level that she knew she could slip out without anyone noticing, Sasha grabbed a jacket and her things and took off in a sprint to her motorcycle. She began pushing her bike from the cul-de-sac into the road while periodically checking over her shoulder to see if anyone had followed her. It wasn’t the easiest thing for her petite body to accomplish, but she didn’t have a choice. If she started it up too soon, she’d run the chance of bringing attention to her and ultimately her plan, both of which could easily cost her life at this point.

  Sasha was completely out of breath and covered in sweat by the time she reached the end of the road. She took a short break to regain some energy and then started her bike and began mentally recollecting the way back to where Lenny had led them to Wolf Gap to look for Jared’s body. After making a few wrong turns, Sasha ended up finding Route 42 and, not long after, came across Wolf Gap Road. She powered her motorcycle up the windy mountain turns until finally making it back to the parking lot of the recreation area.

  Sasha pulled her bike to a stop when she saw Lenny’s body and shut off the engine. She turned the handlebar and left the headlamp illuminated so she could see the road as it wound its way over and down the west side of the mountain. She dismounted and ambled down the road while looking deep into the darkness before her. Sasha could just now start to see the faint yellow color of the bulldozer that was parked in the middle of the road. The closer she got to it, the more its sheer size became evident to her. This monstrosity hadn’t been put here just for the sake of putting it here, she thought. After what she’d seen in the drone footage today, she knew what lay beyond. A neighborhood of people. A community of families and children. Another community that lay in the damage path of Damien Marcel and his band of evildoers.

  While Damien and her husband were busy focusing their concentration on the particulars that the DHS had purposely directed their attention to, Sasha’s attention had been on other things she’d seen. The cabins and houses. Gardens full of vegetation and small fields of assorted livestock. The people she’d seen milling about and the children she’d seen playing in a backyard. A small society existed in the valley below. A small society that was flourishing in one of the worst periods of tribulation that their part of the world had seen in centuries.

  Sasha was done seeing people get hurt. She needed a way to clear her conscience. She didn’t know if it would do any good or not, but she at least had to try. One good deed, she thought, was all she needed to do.

  Sasha climbed onto the bulldozer and into the cab, half-hanging her body off to the side. She stared deep into the dark abyss of the forest that enclosed her. She’d gotten a feeling when she’d been here before. There had to be someone out there.

  “Hello!” Sasha yelled. “Hello! Can you hear me?”

  No reply. She waved her hand in the air and waited for a moment before trying again.

  “Hello! If you can hear me, please…come out!”

  Nothing. There was no
reply, but the mountains to the west reported the echo of her voice. She sighed, but continued to swing her hand above her head.

  “I come in peace! I’m unarmed! No guns! I just have a message! Let me give it to you and I’ll go away! Come on, if there’s someone out there, would you please just come out?”

  A moment passed, and then another. Sasha was beginning to think she’d made a terrible mistake. Sneaking back home tonight was already going to be a chore. Having to do so with the added fruitless effort of her attempt at sedition was going to make it much harder to swallow. She just wanted to do the right thing for a change. And now, it appeared to be a wasted effort.

  Sasha started to step down from the dozer, until she noticed that she had a bright green laser dot painted on her chest. She moved her hand by it a few times and watched as the dot moved from her clothing to her gloved hand and back. It suddenly disappeared the moment she was struck by an awesomely bright beam of light that wholly blinded her.

  “Lady, you came to the wrong place at the wrong time tonight,” a young man’s voice said from the darkness. “Step down from the tractor—keep your hands right where I can see them.”

  “You heard what I said, right? I don’t have a gun,” said Sasha.

  “You heard me, right?” the young man’s voice snapped. “Do as I said. When you get to the road, step to the front of the blade, turn your back to me, and walk back to your motorcycle.” He hollered over his shoulder to another. “You guys got me covered back there?”

  “Damn right,” a young man’s voice with a more pronounced Appalachian drawl replied. “Just say the word and we’ll put ’er down.”

  “This is stupid,” Sasha complained. “I only came here to deliver a message to you. That’s all. I’m not here to start trouble or hurt anybody.”

  “You shouldn’t’ve come here at all. We saw you yesterday and we know who you’re with. You need to go back where you came from and never come back here again,” the young man said.