by J. L. Salter
Others nearby had stopped, bowed, and listened.
Then Ellie pointed to the air horn.
Kelly set it off again, this time away from Chet’s head. Most of the shooting stopped except for one of the hoodlums who either hadn’t heard the signal or simply chose to ignore it. Deaf Lyin’ Leo also started to fire again until Diane tugged his sleeve.
Ellie hollered, “Okay, punks. You done waited too late. Now we got you surrounded and yer fixing to get the worst Bless George whipping of yer young scummy lives. I’m going to count to ten and you better have them guns on the ground and yer ugly faces on the street.” She paused for emphasis. “One!”
“What the blitz does she mean surrounded?” Foss looked around, but all he saw behind him was an empty street. That should have tipped him off.
“Two!”
“Look, this ain’t working out, man.” Herve got loud when he was agitated and scared. “We should’ve been finished with all these houses and outta here before now. We can’t stay hung up here with these old buzzards, man.”
“Three!”
“Shut up!” Foss yelled to Ellie. Then to Herve, he also spoke loudly: “Like I told you. All we got to do is kill one of them and the rest will scatter like rabbits.”
Ellie wished she could see where the other friendly task forces were, but nobody from the barricade could spot them.
“Four!”
“These old folks are serious, man. We got two guys shot and two knocked out.” Herve also licked his lips when he panicked. He didn’t even know about the four trussed-up haulers neatly neutralized. “Plus our biggest truck ain’t even running no more, man.”
“Five!”
“Shut up, witch! Stop all that counting.” Foss was distracted with his entire operation crumbling around him and Ellie’s arithmetic just made him angrier. “I can’t concentrate.”
“Six!”
“It ain’t worth it, man.” Herve looked all around as he urged Foss. “We gotta clear out of here, man, even if we’re walking.”
Ellie looked to her left and right at the hunkered down barricade defenders.
“Seven!”
Foss stood suddenly and emptied his pistol, gangsta-style, at the barricade area where Ellie’s voice rang out.
Herve supervised getting the wounded driver, H4, out of the second truck. They laid the unconscious white man on the ground in front of Placid’s second duplex. Herve grabbed driver H6, who’d long ago abandoned the third truck, and ordered him to restart the second vehicle and turn it around.
Foss would have been distinctly displeased to comprehend that his secundo was about to head out.
Ellie’s voice was so loud and clear that Mitch’s Marauders could hear her count as they approached the rear of the second enemy truck, which had just gotten a new driver.
****
Task Force Wade
After smashing into the high curb along the west edge of Pleasant Drive and launching airborne eastward, Wade’s buggy landed sideways on the street — a bit like a housecat just goosed in the rear. All three occupants looked slightly surprised they were still breathing.
Roger’s rump hit the seat like he’d fallen from a tree and he nearly lost Wade’s snake gun.
Joe had tried to hold on with both hands, but it did little good. He crashed back down painfully.
Wade leaned way over and quickly examined the cart’s under-carriage to see if he could locate a reason for the loud clanks and sharp scraping noises he heard when Old Betsey effected her Evel Knievel landing. After a cursory check of his two companions, Wade grinned broadly and announced, “Let’s get ‘em!”
Another number from Ellie at the barricade: “Eight!”
Yes, speeding around the curve and into the intersection, Wade’s Warriors could finally hear Ellie’s numbering even though they had no way of knowing how far she planned to count.
Wade sped northeast on Pleasant Drive like a really intense golfer racing a rival to the next tee box. One of the hoodlums near the two large trucks finally spotted the buggy and yelled out, but none of his compatriots heard because of all the shooting, which had resumed full force after Ellie reached the eight count.
At the barricade, Ellie signaled Kelly, who blew the air horn again.
“Nine!”
Ellie let that ominous digit sink in. “When I call out the next Bless George number, it’s all over, punks.”
“Over for you, witch!” Foss fired his reloaded pistol sideways at the barricade. Most of the 9 mm bullets went into the heavy door panels of Earl’s big yellow Cadillac.
“Ten!” Loudest number so far.
Though it hardly seemed necessary, Ellie shouted, “Okay, boys, they’re all yers!”
****
Task Force Mitchell
Before driver H6 could turn the second truck around, Gary, Steve, and Mitch swarmed the fourteen-foot vehicle. Gary pulled open the door, yanked out the driver, quickly disarmed him, and put H6 in a headlock until he blacked out, in less than seven seconds. Special Forces guys learn that during their first week.
The appearance of the Marauders from their rear stunned every gangster still standing. Hauler D13 whirled and pointed an AK-47 at the Marauders, now approaching the second vehicle. After freezing D13 with his .380, Steve quickly disarmed him, flung him to the ground, and pinned him with a knee in the back. That brutally efficient process cracked at least two of the hauler’s ribs. Groaning horribly, D13 was heaped on the ground near the unconscious driver, H6.
Since the haulers near the third vehicle were securely bound anyway and nobody was moving his direction, Elmer (or Ralph) had moved forward to join his brother when the gunfire intensified.
Ralph (or Elmer) stayed to guard the newly unconscious driver, H6, and the wheezing, groaning hauler, D13.
Mitch hopped into the driver’s seat as one of the elderly brothers climbed into the passenger side. On opposite sides of the truck, Gary and Steve stood on the running boards and gripped the big west coast mirrors.
Mitch first thought the appearance of this truck into the center of things would bring a halt to the shooting. Suddenly he realized the barricade defenders might mistake his Marauders for the enemy. He raised up his own silent prayer. Hail Mary, full of grace was all he could think of because he’d seen Robert Redford say it in a war movie. But Mitch wasn’t even Catholic.
Gary and Steve looked around for somebody else to neutralize.
****
Task Force Wade
Seeing Mitch’s Marauders were already in the fight, Wade accelerated and was soon zooming full bore northeast on Pleasant Drive. Old Betsey’s new siren wailed. Never a wallflower, Wade also began yelling. “Whoeee! Gonna kick some butt!”
It’s hard to say who could hear Wade’s yelling over the gunfire and engine noise. Had anyone been on that part of the street at that point it’s doubtful they could read lips as three men zipped along at twenty-five miles per hour. Joe was moving his mouth, but who could discern anything he was saying? His logical concern would have been all the gunfire ahead. Roger was also screaming something but that, too, was indistinguishable. Most likely it was about Wade’s driving.
Before Wade made the sharp turn onto Placid Lane, he fired Pete’s .45 into the air several times, just for good measure. It was partly about adrenaline and maybe even ordinary testosterone.
About half-way into his abrupt left maneuver, Wade remembered to announce he was turning. By that time, however, the right half of Roger’s body was already outside the vehicle while his left appendages held on for dear life. It would have been difficult to describe Joe’s position — perhaps an arthritic four-legged spider trying to perch on a rapidly shifting nonstick pan.
The only functioning truck, with Mitch and Ralph (or Elmer) inside, pulled up right behind the rapidly dwindling main enemy force. Only six hoodlums remained standing in that group: Foss, Herve, Dante, driver H1, loader H2, and hauler D15.
Gary and Steve, off the running board
s before the truck even stopped, fully intended to neutralize anyone still moving.
Loader H2 was still randy enough to point a pistol, so his Adam’s apple was expertly smashed by the edge of Gary’s flat hand. Special Forces guys learn that in the second week. H2 crumpled, clutching at his throat and gasping.
Driver H1, oozing blood from multiple abrasions after his aborted attempt to dive into cover, did not want to be captured so he raised his AK-47 and was about to squeeze off a burst. Steve kicked the weapon from his hands and whacked the front of his skull with the butt of his .380.
From the barricade, Pete had seen Force Mitchell’s adroit takeover of the second enemy vehicle. He went up the line telling his defenders not to fire — “The truck is friendly”. He went back down the line telling them also not to fire at the two maniacs who were neutralizing gangsters, but that message was superfluous. The troops at the barricade cheered each time a felon hit the street.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Wednesday at 2:40 p.m.
Again, sirens wailed in the distance, this time apparently headed toward the Community. It sounded like police were coming along both routes, from the northeast at Great Vista Boulevard and from the south at Whiskey Road. Those on the southerly route would need one of the SPD’s new four-wheeled Humvee special patrol vehicles to get around the wrecked tractor-trailer.
****
Main Battlefront
Before any law enforcement personnel arrived, Gary and Steve had neutralized almost every enemy. The three gang leaders were down and surrounded, but had not yet been stripped of their weapons.
Only one other thug, hauler D15, remained standing when the Warriors neared the barricade. Wade fired two more .45 slugs into the air; then he grabbed an especially solid potato and, from about fifty feet away, hurled it as hard as he could. It hit the large thug right between his shoulder blades. His arms dropped first, then he seemed to try turning around, obviously curious at what type of brick had just struck him. Then his legs just melted and he collapsed to the unyielding street.
Another big cheer from the barricade and Wade held up his hands like a character in a gladiator movie. Wade had a much bigger grin, however. But no gladiator skirt. Or sword.
The barricaders broke ranks and started advancing toward the downed invaders. Pete tried to hold them back, partly for safety’s sake, but also as standard military discipline. However, he quickly realized it was fruitless and just let them go. Pete himself stayed behind for a moment, looking at his line. It had held! They’d successfully defended their homes! It seemed like an event which needed more recognition than the rather common whooping and hollering which followed Wade’s powerful potato fastball.
Defeated leader Foss was fuming; despite his careful planning, nothing had worked properly. It was clearly the fault of Dante and Herve.
In his final moment of fading logistical clarity, Foss methodically accounted for his gang’s extensive casualties — many at the hands of hobbling, nearly-blind geriatrics and a few women of varied ages. Four haulers had not been seen lately and were apparently put out of commission by one of the flanking forces. Two men had bullet wounds: a loader was shot in his forearm and a driver hit in his shoulder. The little kid ran away on foot and the runner was knocked out by a flying orange. One loader got a karate chop to his neck and another was presumably unconscious in a garage. One hauler had cracked ribs and another was practically impaled by a rock-hard potato. One driver was whacked on the head and another blacked-out from a choke hold. The gang’s two lookouts had fared the best: both presumably escaped in the pickup at some point. The funny thing was, Foss had forgotten all their numbers!
That was sixteen men down or missing, leaving three able bodies. Therefore, the remaining gangster force still un-subdued was: Foss, Herve, and Dante. Or, as the barricaders had designated them: Baldy, Chico, and Toady.
As most of the barricaders gathered around, some of the newly downed aggressors began stirring again. At that point, however, none had weapons in their hands.
Toady/Dante started to get up and presumably would have attempted escape. Diane smacked his head with her hoe handle. Some nearby defenders clapped with approval.
Chico/Herve smarted off about the indignity of being defeated by old men and females. Ellie poked him hard in the belly with her bat. He collapsed with a loud whoosh of exhaled air.
Foss was squalling about his rights being violated, claiming he was denied due process, and generally spouting off various expletives.
Irene, who’d spent the entire barricade time with a spiked Springfield and occasionally yelling “Bang”, had long since reached her limit. She grabbed the pistol from Kelly’s hand and shot Baldy at point blank range.
A large yellow blot formed in the middle of his stomach and Foss groaned horribly as his breath was knocked out.
Wade winced on behalf of the gangster. “Ooh. That’s gonna bruise real good.”
“Irene, it’s a good thing you knew that wasn’t your husband’s real .45.” Kelly gave her some space.
“Actually I thought that was Pete’s old gun.” Irene handed the paintball pistol back to Kelly and walked away. There was a hint of bounce in her step.
Wade took the recreational gun from Kelly’s hand. “That paint thing ain’t near as heavy as a real .45, not by half. You think she was kidding?”
“Hard to say, Wade.” Kelly thought for a moment. “That punk did mess up her luncheon. And women in their eighties really hate their meal plans being ruined.”
Foss and his grand logistical operation were utterly defeated, but it had not completely sunk in yet. Still on the pavement, he began crawling towards his 9 mm pistol, which had skidded beneath the largest truck.
Ellie approached quickly. “Better not, Baldy.”
The exasperated Foss looked up as Ellie waggled her bat like clean-up hitter for the Cincinnati Reds.
“I’ve busted up thicker skulls and bigger brains than yer’s. But I don’t think I ever smashed a noggin as Bless George ugly as yer skint melon.” Ellie waggled the bat again and took a slow practice swing. “Go ahead, you polecat. I’m all warmed up.”
Chet was close enough to intercede, but looked like he’d just as soon watch her swing away. However, he pointed his unloaded, bayonet-tipped Garand at the gang leader on his belly.
“Blitz! Blitz! Blitz!” Foss just collapsed to the macadam.
Out of nowhere, Trooper Fred Lee Means appeared, quite winded, without saying a word. Giving Ellie and her lethal bat a wide berth, he squatted near the big truck to retrieve Baldy’s pistol. Means released the magazine and cleared the chamber, leaving it open, with the slide back and the naked barrel sleeve poking out. “Would you really have smacked him, Ellie?”
“You Bless George right I would’ve.” Ellie rested the bat’s big end on top of her shoe and twirled the handle knob slowly. “Sometimes it takes a nice, hard whack on the noggin to get somebody’s full attention.”
Means also gathered up the other nearby firearms dropped by the criminals.
Melvin finally limped his way from Leo’s garage to the ad hoc assembly point in front of the barricade. A city police sedan arrived from the north access and two officers hustled out, weapons drawn. The anxious policemen ordered everyone, including the women with bats and garden tools, to drop their weapons.
The barricaders all looked back at Pete, as he approached the gathering. His nod signaled for everyone to comply. Chet flipped over his M-1 and drove the bayonet deep into the ground just beyond the curb and slightly east of Art’s condo, where the largest truck had been stopped. The inverted rifle stuck straight up as though waiting for a helmet to be placed on top of its butt plate.
The other men with Garands — Isaiah, Leo, Herb, and Stanley — laid them carefully on the grass near Chet’s vertical rifle and stood silently. It took Melvin slightly longer due to his bloody toe. Irene put her Springfield in that same row and Pete lovingly did the same with his deer rifle. Art carefull
y placed the over/under shotgun; Norm laid down Isaiah’s revolver.
Bernie was still trudging down the street with the broken-open Long Tom slung over his shoulder by a bathrobe belt. His walker wheels squeaked and scraped on the pavement as he arrived. With considerable difficulty, he un-looped the sling, closed the breech with a loud clank, and laid the enormous shotgun in the grass near the other firearms. About that time the watch alarm in his pants pocket went off again and the second policeman hurriedly re-aimed his own weapon.
After anxious looks and a hurried, confusing explanation, both officers tentatively reholstered their weapons and promptly confiscated Bernie’s watch.
Diane dropped her hoe to the curb.
Ashley thought relinquishing their garden implements was absurd, but she let her shovel fall against the curb. “Whatever.”
Kelly had her hands full. She put her rake on the curb and laid the paintball pistol on the grass near the other weapons, but kept the spotting scope in one hand and air horn in the other. Police are trained to assume everything could be a weapon, so an officer motioned for her to drop the other two items as well. She did, but added a dramatic sigh. The only implement not confiscated was Earl’s sprayer-wand, still hooked to the hoses.
Ellie was the last defender to drop her weapons: the Garand with no bolt and her beloved Louisville Slugger. She told the officer if anything happened to her favorite bat that she’d come looking for him, personally… and she knew his momma.
He appeared sufficiently worried.
Means turned over all the criminals’ weapons he’d gathered to one of the city policeman presently on the scene. Then the trooper headed back to his own vehicle in a quick march.
Soon, additional city police arrived in two more squad cars from the north and one of the new Humvee special unit vehicles from the south. They quickly had cuffs on all the visible criminals, including the three gangster leaders. One of the officers called for paddy wagons to come in from the north.
