The Occupation: A Thriller

by W. J. Lundy

  “Sorry to disappoint you, but military retirees are exempt. We have a five-year dwell period, post retirement, to accept or decline transition to a contract. I still have two years of dwell to decide.”

  She looked at him with a scowl. “Why would you decline contract? The contracts provide everything you need, and with military service, you could collect a pension subsidy on top of subsistence.” She looked around. “You could even get out of this residence and find a nice place in the city.”

  “Because they don’t provide freedom in the contracts,” John said. He looked at her hard and forced a smile. “And I hate cities.”

  She frowned. “Ahh, I see. You’re one of those. It’s all about you—screw the greater good. Just take care of yourself while your neighbors in need suffer.” She stepped closer. “Hand over the weapons or risk arrest, pending a search and full investigation.”

  The sheriff stepped between the two. “You have any receipts for the gun show, John? We’re just trying to do a job here. Honest, we really don’t want any trouble today. We just need to—”

  The sheriff was interrupted by shouting from across the street. A similar deputy and agent were arguing with Aaron Newsome. The old man was John’s across-the-street neighbor ever since John moved to the neighborhood after his retirement from the Army. Aaron was an eighty-year-old Vietnam vet. He’d known John’s parents and sort of took him under his wing to help him get settled. Now the old man was pointing in the face of an agent in black. A large box filled with items lay on the floor in the opening of the garage. Tony, a sheriff’s deputy, was standing with his hands on his hips, having obviously lost control of the situation.

  “Excuse me, gentleman,” John said as he walked around Bill and the agent. “Looks like I have a neighbor in need.”

  “Hold up, we are in the middle of something,” the female agent contested.

  “Sorry, Miss. I’ll be right back,” John said over his shoulder as he continued to walk across the street toward Aaron.

  As John moved up Aaron’s driveway, he could see that his friend was upset, he was pointing at the box shouting. The old man’s grandson, Robert, stood in the doorway of the home. Robert, a large imposing man, was always slow to associate with strangers. John knew him only in passing, and anytime he attempted to start a conversation, the younger man would smirk and walk away. Bobby always referred to Aaron as his daddy, but it was well known he’d been adopted when his mother passed, and it turned out that his biological father was a piece of shit not worth tracking down.

  The Newsomes raised Bobby like a son, and then he went off to the war in Iran and never really came back. An IED four months after he arrived had rattled his senses. Still, Robert was a good man and would do odd jobs for people in the neighborhood. Both he and his father were living on military pensions and had both declined contracts, at the dismay of extended family. John saw Robert’s fist balled up on the doorframe as he intently watched the argument. Knowing Aaron, he’d told the young man to stay inside to keep him out of trouble.

  “Everything okay, Mr. Newsome?” John asked as he walked toward the group of men.

  The agent in black spun to face John. He dropped his right hand down to the grip of his sidearm while bringing up his left hand in a threatening halt motion.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold up there, high speed. I’m just coming over to help,” John said in a calm voice.

  The agitated agent took a step toward John with his hand still raised. “Sir, please remove yourself from the property. Your assistance is not required.”

  “Hey, I get that.” John then ignored the agent and looked to Aaron. “You okay, Mr. Newsome? You know how your blood pressure gets. Something I can help you with?”

  The agent shifted his full focus on John and took another step forward. Tony had also moved closer. John held his hands in the air, keeping a smile on his face. He could hear the footfalls of Bill and the female agent approaching him from behind. He let out a sigh. He was now in the middle of some shit he didn’t ask for and surrounded by four cops. The odds of him not making a trip to jail today were dwindling. Situations like this never ended well.

  John softened his tone. “Okay, folks, I think everyone is getting a bit too tense. Come on, Tony, you all know Mr. Newsome is a good man. No need to get excited,” he said, still holding his smile.

  The agent in black raised his voice to a shout. “Sir, please leave the premises. This does not concern you!”

  There was a blur of motion from the garage. John hardly had time for a glance before he realized what was happening.

  “Is this what you came here for?” Aaron yelled from the open door of his own garage. He had removed an antique single-barrel shotgun from the box. The old gun was broken down with the breech hanging open, showing an empty chamber.

  The agent who had been yelling at John looked back over his shoulder. “Gun!” he shouted as he spun, drawing his weapon. In fluid motions, he fired twice without pause, two times striking Aaron in the chest. The old man looked down with surprise as red spots appeared on his thin white t-shirt. He dropped the antique Winchester and fell to his knees. John, now over the initial shock at what happened, lunged forward to Aaron, catching the old man before he fell to the ground. He pressed his palm to the wounds as the bright-red blood filled out around his fingers.

  The agent grabbed John’s shoulder, ordering him to stand back. Instinctively, John crouched his body, throwing a sharp elbow into the ribs of the agent behind him. The man lost grip on his sidearm, and it dropped to the ground as he fell back, gasping for breath. John took hold of Aaron and carefully laid him on the ground, across his own lap. The female agent charged forward, gun raised in her shaking hands, yelling for John to step back.

  John looked up at the chaos. Aaron was bleeding out in his arms. He could see the female agent screaming at him with gun drawn. Bill and the sheriff’s deputy were stunned and standing back, unsure of what to do. The male agent was slowly regaining his composure, having had the wind knocked out of him.

  He picked up his handgun sitting in the driveway and aimed it at John. He fired a single round; John ducked and saw the projectile split the doorframe to his right. The agent opened his mouth to speak just as the screen door flew open. Robert had burst onto the porch, holding an antique battle rifle. John recognized it as an M1 Garand.

  Robert caressed the trigger, pulling rapidly, and the trained soldier did not miss. The agent in black spun and was hit three times in the chest as the weapon boomed, the heavy rounds easily cutting through his protective vest and exiting out the back. The female agent screamed and turned toward the house. Robert shifted his sights before her weapon came close to taking aim. “Don’t, ma’am. We didn’t want no trouble, ma’am,” Robert said, his voice breaking. “Please—I don’t want to hurt you, ma’am.”

  Bill stepped forward, his hands in the air. “It’s okay, Robert. Just put down the rifle, my friend. Nobody is gonna hurt you,” he said as he slowly walked forward.

  “He went and shot my dad. Why’d he do that?” Robert said. “That old gun doesn’t even work.”

  Robert kept the rifle aimed at the female agent. John watched her as she kept her shaking hands on the grip of the pistol, finger on the trigger with her arms extended down. Bill was still moving toward the house, slowly speaking to Robert. He stepped in the line of fire, shielding the agent. Robert paused, listening to Bill’s voice. He lifted his cheek from the buttstock and lowered the barrel of the rifle. Bill extended his hand and grabbed the barrel. Robert relaxed his grip but still held onto the rifle.

  John was focused on the exchange. He saw from his peripheral the female agent raise her sidearm. She leveled her arm and squeezed the trigger. John flexed his legs and leapt forward toward the female as she fired. “No!” he screamed as he sailed through the air. He collided with her, easily taking her down and onto the lawn. She lost grip of the pistol as John landed on top of her. John rolled away and saw Robert standing on the porch wi
th a small wound on his hip.

  Bill had taken possession of the M1 Garand in his left hand and was holding it by the barrel. John approached, moving toward the side of Robert, who didn’t even seem to realize he was hit. He saw the younger man’s eyes grow big as another gunshot sounded. John felt a tug at his t-shirt as a round cut through the loose fabric near his right love handle, just barely missing his body. The female agent had attempted to shoot him in the back.

  John spun on the heels of his feet in synch with another gunshot. Tony, the second deputy, had drawn his own weapon and shot the agent. The female agent was hit in the side, between her armored plates. She crunched forward with her head down then slowly rolled to the side and fired two rounds at Tony, hitting him low under his vest, spilling blood at his abdomen. Tony fired again at the same time, hitting the female agent in the neck and shoulder.

  “Stop! What the hell is going on?” Bill shouted.

  Both Homeland Agents were dead. One of his citizens was lying dead in the garage, and he had lost a deputy, killed in a shootout with a federal cop. All in a matter of minutes. Bill took a step back and turned to face the street. People were coming out of their houses and were staring at the downed officers. He knew many had seen the altercation.

  He shook his head in panic. “You two will fry for this. Nobody is gonna believe what just happened here. It doesn’t matter how many people saw it, they’ll kill you,” Bill said in a soft voice. “You’ll be dead before you get to the jail.”

  John moved toward him. “It was self-defense. You saw it all go down, Bill. We’ll be fine, call the manager and explain what happened.”

  Bill shook his head. “The manager? John Nohrs has been begging for this to happen. They’ll fry you—and me. They’ll want blood. They’ll make an example. Look at you, you have blood all over you. And, Robert, where the hell did you get that rifle?”

  “It will be okay, Bill,” John said. “Calm down; you can explain this.”

  “No, take Robert and get out of here. I’ll try to slow them down. You can’t let them take you in today. The manager’s been looking for something like this to make a show of.”

  “What? No,” John said.

  “Hit me. Take the rifle and run, John. Go before it’s too late. Get to the Free States, they’ll protect you.”

  They could hear distant sirens getting louder. People had gathered on their lawns but were keeping their distance. Robert was still on the porch, the wound in his hip steadily wetting his pants with blood.

  “John, you have got to go now, dammit, or you’ll never leave this neighborhood alive.” Bill stepped forward and hit John in the gut with the stock of the rifle. He ripped off the body cam attached to his vest and dropped it on the ground then crushed it with the heel of his boot. “Go, get to Texas with Sharon.” He hit John again with the stock of the rifle, much harder this time.

  John took the impact. He stepped back and threw a hard punch, hitting Bill in the jaw. It wasn’t a solid blow, and there was little strength behind it, but Bill made a good show of it. He took a step back and rolled to the ground. He feigned to be knocked out as he rolled to his belly. Meanwhile, Robert stepped off the porch and picked up the rifle where Bill dropped it.

  As the sirens grew even louder, John sensed people approaching him from behind, and he spun around. An elderly man with a heavy beard John recognized from a few doors down held out an overstuffed, military-style backpack. “Come on, son, take this and go. You got food, water, and first aid in there. We will get to you, but for now, you got to get out of here.”

  When John didn’t take the pack, the man grabbed John’s arm and started dragging him behind the house that faced the forest. Another man John didn’t know was packing Robert’s wound as he led him the same direction.

  John closed and opened his eyes in confusion. “Where did you all come from?”

  The bearded man ignored his question. “Head into the woods, get up the mountains and over the river. We will slow down and distract the agents for you. Wait a few days and watch for us. No matter what you hear or see, don’t come back here,” the man said, forcing the pack into John’s arms.

  “Who are you?”

  The man shook his head. “Don’t worry about who I am; we know who you are, John Warren.”

  “Why are you helping me?” John said.

  The man smiled. “Not helping you… we’re helping Robert. Him and his old man are ranking members. After what you just did, looks like you’re a member now too. Aaron always did say you was good people.” The man looked back at the approaching police cars and growing crowd. “Now go on, get to the mountain.” He faced John again and said with a wink, “Head for Emmerson’s Pass by the big river.”

  Chapter Two

  “We have to get that wound cleaned,” John said.

  Robert shook his head and kept walking down the trail. “It’s fine. It doesn’t even hurt anymore.”

  John looked at the trail and the small drops of blood. “Bro, you’re spilling Kool-Aid with every step. A city boy on contract could track you.”

  The big man stopped, looked back at John, and then down at the blood on the dirt trail. He scowled and nodded his head before taking a seat in the tall grass. He pointed at his left hip and said, “Fix it. You’ll find what you need on the front of the bag.”

  Smirking, John removed the ruck sack and dropped it at Robert’s feet. There was an IFAK (Individual First Aid Kit) attached to the front of the pack in a small black pouch with an olive-green embroidered patch slapped on the front. John unzipped the pack and rooted through it. He pulled out a fistful of gear and dropped it on the grass. Sorting through, he found a QuikClot gauze patch and a large adhesive bandage. He looked at Robert’s wound; whoever had dressed it did a decent job for patching up a man on the go, but the marching had knocked things loose, and it was bleeding again.

  He shook his head and pulled away the bandage, which was secured with a brown field dressing that was tied to Robert’s beltloop and then crisscrossed down and around his thigh. John pulled a knife and cut the bandage away, watching as dark blood oozed from the wound—an entry and exit wound inches apart, just below the hip bone. “You got lucky, Bro. An inch higher and you’d be a cripple.”

  Robert looked down at it, his eyes wide. “It looks worse than it feels. Can you patch me up?”

  “I can fix it, but I don’t have drugs for you.”

  “You’re gonna make it hurt, aren’t you?”

  John held up the brown foil packet with the QuikClot gauze. Robert shook his head no. “I don’t like that stuff. Just put the bandage on it.”

  John shook his head; there was nothing more to say. He’d done this before, and it was better to just get it over with. QuikClot burned like hell, but it got the job done. He needed to get this hole patched and the bleeding stopped. He took a bottle of water from the pack and poured it over the wound. Robert convulsed.

  John dab-dried the site with a tail from the old pressure bandage not soaked with blood then looked at Robert and said, “You’re going to want to look away.” Before the big man could answer, John lifted a corner of the QuikClot gauze and let it unfold. He formed it into two balls and stuffed one each in the entry and exit of the wound.

  Robert kicked his feet and growled but didn’t scream or fight him. John cleaned the area again with the pressure dressing then slapped the large square adhesive bandage over the top. He took the wrappings and stuffed them back in the pouch before zipping it shut. Then he handed Robert what was left of the water bottle. “We gotta get the hell out of here,” he said, offering the big man a hand up.

  After pulling Robert to his feet, John looked around. They had only gone about two and a half miles; it wouldn’t do. Five miles would be key, eight to ten miles would be better, but being on foot would make it nearly impossible. They were walking a trail headed into the Porcupine Mountains. Behind them was the small village of Sherman on the north edge of Stone County. He tried to do the math in hi
s head. There wouldn’t be any agents posted in Sherman, as they would have to come from the bigger cities in the south. They would scramble the state police and Feds. A helicopter was probably already in the air to help with the search.

  They’d done nothing but march north since leaving town and disappearing into the wood line. He looked at Robert. “Where are we going?”

  The man stared at him and shook his head, confused. “I thought you knew.”

  “Bro, you have been leading the way for the last hour. You don’t know where we are going?”

  Robert pointed his hand north. “I’m just going this way.”

  “What’s that way?” John asked.

  The big man shook his head again. “I don’t know.”

  “We should get off the trail. Homeland will be following it, if they are not already. They’ll have drones, helicopters, and ATVs. What took us an hour, they’ll do in ten minutes,” John said, looking west.

  He’d hunted these mountains, but not in his backyard—he’d always taken his old truck to a camp up near the national forest trailhead. This area of terrain was rough and tangled with overgrowth, and he’d never bothered to venture into it.

  “We’ll go to the lumber camp,” Robert said.

  John scowled. “Lumber camp? There are no forestry operations out here.”

  “Lumber camp,” Robert said again, pointing west where the mountains curved around and then down southeast. “Used to be a lumber camp there. Daddy took me there hunting.”

  “Tell me exactly what is there. We can’t go anyplace built up; they’ll be sure to send people there looking for us.”

  Robert grinned. “Ain’t built up, it’s a shit hole. Nobody has lived at the lumber camp in over a hundred years.”

  “That’s what we’re looking for. Lead the way,” John said, glancing at the trail behind them, expecting to see trucks at any moment.

  The big man stepped off and started walking through the tall grass, headed for the pines. John followed him and, as best he could, fixed the grass by brushing it so a tracker wouldn’t see an obvious trail break. They moved through the grass then down a slow slope that wound over a ridge before putting them back into the brush. He watched as Robert walked, moving in and out of thick clumps of vegetation, around rocky outcrops, and through spurs and draws, expertly following the terrain.