by Joe Nobody
Dusty’s gaze turned toward the sound of the distant battle, an enlightening bolt of clarity flashing through his already overwhelmed mind. “It’s because of me and this… this invention,” he mumbled.
“What are you talking about?” Penny questioned. “What do you mean it’s because of you?”
Dusty began shaking his head as the pieces of the puzzle fell into place. “The man at the door… during supper the other night. The kidnappers on the Lexington. Somehow, our friends south of the border caught wind of the rail gun. They want it. That’s why so many of them are over that rise, fighting with the cops.”
The big Texan felt a wave of guilt pass through his soul. More people were dying because of his creative mind. More widows and orphans. More destruction.
Then another emotion took over. Dusty felt the taste of satisfaction welling up inside. They’ve ruined my life, he thought. Those government bastards have fucked with me and my friends since this whole nightmare got started. Now they’re on the short end of the stick. Now they’re the ones being hunted like dogs. I wonder how they like it?
An exceptionally loud explosion snapped his attention back, a column of flame and smoke filling the sky above the ridge. He turned to Penny and said, “If I were you, I’d take the girls back to the barn and lock yourselves in the gun room. Don’t come out for a while. I don’t know what else to tell you to do.”
Penny nodded, the proximity of the violence next door making her nervous. She reached out and touched Dusty’s shoulder. “Be careful… and good luck.”
She turned to leave when Dusty had a thought. “Hold on a second. I want you to take Mitch with you.”
And then he was gone, running back to their observation point, where he found his brother still mesmerized by the distant conflict. Dusty quickly explained Penny’s news and then voiced his theory.
“Mitch, I want you to go back to the farm with Penny and the girls,” he announced with a stern voice.
“You what? I’m not going anywhere.”
“Yes, you are. You’ve got a wife and family to think about. Besides, you’re my best hope for eventually clearing up this whole mess. You’ve got to survive… if for no other reason than to clear the Weathers name. Now go, and don’t give me any shit about it.”
“Come back with me. I have a car, and we can run. I can get you out of here.”
The older brother wouldn’t hear of it, “There’s only a single road out of here. We’ve got Laredo on one side, the cops on the other. Laredo has fallen into the hands of what I bet is a drug cartel after the rail gun. From what Penny heard on the news, it’s the biggest battle on American soil since the Civil War. There’s no place to run… no way out. Penny has a safe place for you guys to hold up. You can sneak back home after it’s all over.”
The Professor knew his brother. He’d seen the look of determination in the man’s eye a hundred times and knew it was pointless to argue. “And what are you going to do?”
Dusty really didn’t know. There was a voice inside… a line of reasoning that demanded he do nothing. If the FBI took a serious ass-kicking, it might just allow him to slip through and escape. Maybe they’d think twice about offering him a pardon and dropping all the charges.
Then the patriot’s voice made itself heard. The concept of foreigners invading Texas didn’t sit well with the gunsmith. When he weighed in the fact that the interlopers were criminals and had probably killed dozens of innocent Americans, a strong urge to fight began to emerge.
Dusty lifted his gaze from the battle below and then turned to his brother. “I don’t know, Mitch. I really don’t know. One thing is for certain. The confusion of that war down there is my best chance of escape. Now you think about your wife and my nieces and nephews. You think about the name mom and dad made for our family… a reputation you’ve carried to even higher levels of respect. It doesn’t matter if I survive or not – what I want is the world to eventually know that I wasn’t some madman. I want the Weathers name to go forward untarnished. For my kid and your children. Now go.”
Shultz dove behind the storage tank, rolling away as a string of bullets slammed into the earth where his body had been just a moment before. Bits of soil and rock stung his cheeks as the bullets cracked past. He rolled again, coming up prone and aiming the AR15 rifle at the men that were trying to kill him.
He fired three shots, one of the cartel goons falling as the rest scrambled for cover. The FBI man’s rifle locked back empty. Rolling quickly behind a pipe, Shultz slapped his last magazine into his weapon and then chanced a quick peek around the edge. That last burst had given them something to think about. It would be a few seconds before they tried to rush him again.
He was exhausted, out of breath and now, almost out of ammo. This was all going to be over soon. He glanced behind him and identified the last six remaining lawmen. Two of them were hurt, one bleeding badly. “Anybody got any ammo?” he shouted.
The look on their dirty, fatigued faces answered the question.
They had been pushed back, again and again, retreating toward the big factory that dominated the landscape. It seemed so odd to the FBI man… that word retreat.
Since he had joined the bureau so many years ago, his side had always been the strongest. When the FBI conducted operations, they were always the overwhelming force. They always had the most guns and men. Today was the first time he’d felt the bone chilling fear of death and defeat.
In the last 20 minutes, he’d watched comrade after comrade fall. Withering fire, belt-fed weapons, and the foe’s overwhelming superiority in numbers had made the outcome of the engagement inevitable. Still, the American men had fought hard. They had taken down so many of the invaders… but wave after wave kept coming at them.
Shultz had initially engaged the cartel army to buy time. He had visions of hundreds of reinforcements marching over the horizon – the cavalry saving the day. When the first helicopter had been destroyed by a ground-to-air missile, that hope had been shaken. When the cartel forces had started firing RPG rockets into the midst of his defenders, any realistic thought of rescue had been lost. Shultz and his men had shotguns and pistols – no match for hand grenades and machine guns.
There was no place to go… nothing else to be done. They had fought like cornered animals, and now the end was near.
He took a moment and assessed the situation. The handful of surviving lawmen was huddled in the midst of pipes, liquid storage tanks and other industrial equipment. Spread around a perimeter of less than 20 yards, they had good cover, but he knew it wouldn’t help much.
There was no way they could withstand the next assault.
Tio strolled through what had been the main battleground just a few moments before. He glanced down at the two dead Americans and grunted with satisfaction when he noticed the bloody initials “DEA” on the back of a dead man’s jacket.
Whiffs of smoke drifted past the cartel boss as he passed, burning police cars, and the cordite from ammunition creating a surreal fog of death and destruction. He felt at home here, relishing in the atmosphere of violence and carnage.
He was within a mile of the objective. They would mop up the last few remaining Yankees and then roll into the farm where he knew the man with the rail gun was hiding. Already he’d sent men to seal off the road. There was no way Weathers could escape.
Approaching footfalls brought his attention back, a trusted lieutenant hustling up. “The Americans have taken cover by the main building. We are gathering for the final push,” the winded man reported.
“Good,” Tio replied. “Let’s hit them from two sides and be done with this. We are running behind schedule.”
The man nodded and then trotted off, waving for another group of cartel shooters to join him. Tio followed, wanting to make sure this last step was properly executed. None of the Americans were to survive.
Shultz could tell what they were doing. He could spot the occasional enemy soldier running here and there, most of them h
eading to an area hidden from his sight. They were gathering for the final push.
“I’ve got movement over here,” shouted one of the agents from Corpus. “They’re forming up on the east side. They’re organizing in order to hit us again - any minute now.”
“I’ve got at least thirty more over here,” Shultz replied. “They’re going to rush us from two sides.”
“Where the fuck is the help?” one of the lawmen asked, his voice near panic. “Where the hell’s the Army? The Air Force? We’re dying like dogs out here, and no one is going to fucking help?”
Shultz was surprised it had taken so long for his men to feel the sting of overwhelming fear. “We’ve got to hang on just a little bit longer,” he reassured. “Remember your training, and let them get close enough so that every shot counts. Help is on the way. Think about it – you know it’s true.”
“I’m down to four shells for this 12-gauge,” another chimed in. “Danny’s laying here bleeding to death, and I can’t do shit about it. This sucks.”
“Just hang in there,” Shultz replied.
“There’s no place to go anyway,” someone said. “They’ve got us completely cut off. Why don’t they just come in and get it over with?”
As if on cue, Shultz spied several of the cartel thugs rise in the distance. Gawd, there’s a lot of them, he thought, flicking off the safety and bringing his weapon up.
“Incoming!” screamed one of the lawmen on the other side, just before an explosion ripped through the air less than 10 feet away.
The pings and thwacks of incoming rounds began sounding off the surrounding machinery. Shultz instinctively ducked lower as bits of metal stung his flesh like a swarm of angry bees. One of his comrades began shooting – a clear sign the assault was getting close.
Shultz aligned the front post of the AR15’s sight on the closest enemy and moved his finger to the trigger. “Just a little closer, pal,” he whispered, wanting to hold off until the last possible moment to ensure a hit.
A prayer his mother had taught him began echoing inside the FBI agent’s head. Shultz whispered the words as more and more bullets impacted around him. He finished the verse and then squeezed the trigger.
A wall of earth and pavement erupted, slashing through the advancing line of attackers. A blast wave that rocked the ground beneath the FBI team instantly followed. Soil, blacktop, and sand rose 100 feet into the air as a thunderous clap echoed past. Instinctively ducking, Shultz covered his head as an avalanche of dirt, sod and debris rained down all around the lawmen. Even after the deluge had ceased, it took Shultz a moment to clear his vision and focus. He managed to look up as the cloud started to dissipate. Where were the cartel troops? They were gone – simply vanished. A smoldering trench slowly appeared through the haze… scorched, barren earth where once his formidable foe had been standing.
His first thought was that the Air Force had dropped a bomb. He quickly scanned the sky, looking for any sign of a jet or bomber. Maybe it was a missile, he thought.
The sound of gunfire overwhelmed the ringing in his ears, reminding him that the fight wasn’t over. He managed to crawl across their narrow perimeter to reinforce the other side.
There were dozens of cartel raiders rushing the lawmen’s position. Reinvigorated, Shultz shouldered his rifle and began firing at the attackers. The trespassers were within 75 yards and closing fast on the American position.
“Who’s that?” the man beside him shouted, pointing toward a lone figure running across the lane to the south. Whoever it was wore a distinctive cowboy hat. Had help finally arrived?
Shultz watched in amazement as the newcomer raised what was an odd-looking rifle. “What the hell is he doing?”
Before any answer came, the senior FBI agent felt a sense of weightlessness as he was picked up and tossed through the air - the momentary defilement of gravity soon replaced by the bone-jarring impact with the ground. Shultz’s vision blurred grey, white squiggly lines vibrating through the void.
The world went black.
Dusty watched the last of the invaders sprint toward the main Tri-Materials building. As he had approached the battlefield, he’d noticed a large group of employees fleeing from the facility and into the adjoining field, obviously evacuating due to the raging firefight occurring immediately in front of their workplace.
He calmly dropped another ball bearing into the breach of the rail gun and continued his deliberate trek toward the huge structure. He stepped through the area where the lawmen had been making their last stand, noting the dazed and moaning defenders strewn haphazardly across the ground. “Sorry about that,” he whispered. “They got in too close before I could take them out. But you’ll live.”
He kept walking until he was almost to the road. Now a safe distance away from the big plant, Dusty paused, observing through the rail gun’s scope as the last of the cartel men scrambled inside. He hadn’t had a chance to ask Mitch if the facility were to blame for killing the chickens, but he had no doubt the company was responsible for the arrest and hassle of the Boyce family. Maybe even murder.
Glancing around one last time to make sure he was in the clear, Dusty then checked the green LED. One of the shortcomings of the rail gun was the recovery time between shots. It took a while for the ultra-capacitors to recharge after each discharge. “I’ll have to work on that,” he calmly noted.
As if on command, the small dot illuminated green – ready to fire.
He adjusted the power setting, increasing the reading from 02 to 05. “That should do it,” he stated coldly.
He shouldered the weapon, centered the aiming laser, and mumbled, “Take this job and shove it.”
He squeezed the trigger.
For a brief millisecond of time, it appeared as though nothing happened - almost as if the super-weapon had failed. But this was an illusion. The lower walls of the massive building expanded outward, swelling like a balloon being filled with water.
And then the architectural integrity of the supporting walls succumbed. Chunks of structural steel and concrete accelerated outward, tossed through the air like sheets of paper blown by a strong wind. Dusty watched as entire sections of the roof rose high into the air.
Like a knife through butter, the base of the towering smoke stacks was sliced by the blast wave. They wobbled for a moment and then began their long descent, eventually collapsing on top of the imploding building. The ground shuddered with their impact, more debris rising into the already darkened air.
Dusty watched as the final bits and sections of walls collapsed inward, sure none of the criminals seeking shelter inside could have survived.
He glanced around at the devastation that surrounded him, shaking his head at the waste and carnage. Bodies littered the ground, strewn in the unnatural positions of death. Scattered among the now-scrap law enforcement vehicles, a few wounded men moved, twitching or thrashing in pain. His first thought was to render aid to the causalities.
For a brief moment, Dusty considered surrendering. He and the rail gun had caused enough slaughter. It was time to end this episode of viciousness, turmoil, and butchery. Anywhere he ran, the reaper of life was sure to follow.
“But would it stop?” he asked, surveying the fatalities as black smoke and flame rolled across the landscape.
“No,” he whispered, “it wouldn’t stop. Another finger would find this trigger. Another man would hold this gun. Another man who might make it worse.”
He forced his mind to concentrate on the list of constructive advancements that could be gleaned from his invention. Grunting, Dusty whispered to the battlefield ghosts, “Now I need to see the positive come from my work… now more than ever. I need it just to break even for all of the evil I’ve caused.”
Agent Shultz felt like he had a bulldozer sitting on his head. Even the feeble attempt to roll onto his side initiated waves of torment through his abused body.
It all came rushing back… the firefight… the few remaining men and the retrea
t… struggling to hold their position until reinforcements could arrive… and then the rail gun. He conjured up the image of Durham Weathers, complete with western hat, raising the rifle-like device to his shoulder.
He managed to move, tilting his head to spit a mouth full of grit. The effort was exhausting. His mouth was full of cotton and every fiber of his being protested even the slightest movement. One leg was definitely broken. And judging from its lack of movement and unnatural positioning, he was pretty sure his left arm was going to end up in a cast as well. He fought his way through the pain, the fact that the man responsible for all of this was nearby. Or at least Shultz thought he was close. That all depended on how long he’d been out.
Several blinks cleared some of the fog, vague images barely visible through the smoke and cordite haze that had shrouded every major battlefield since the invention of smokeless powder.
“Where are you?” Shultz whispered, his eyes searching the area.
Instead of finding Weathers, his gaze fell on a corpse lying across the field. The man’s neck was bent at a funny angle, his arms and legs at odd degrees. For some reason, the dead man’s face held Shultz’s attention, the lifeless eyes staring directly back.
For a moment, he thought he was looking at one of his fallen comrades. There was a familiarity in the cadaver’s profile… something about that face.
It then occurred to the FBI man – he was looking at Tio, one of the bureau’s most wanted men. Memorized from countless bulletins, case files and inter-agency operations conducted with the DEA, Shultz was sure. The leader of the Gulf Cartel was lying dead just 40 feet away.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Shultz managed to mumble. “At least something good has come from this.”
