by N. C. Reed
“Yeah. Sounds good anyway,” Leon nodded slowly. “Wonder if anyone else is leaving.”
“If they are, you are better off without them.”
–
“You're making a decision when you're angry, Joshua,” Franklin George said gently. “Angry and grieving. A bad combination, my friend.”
“It was a mistake to bring my family here and leave my home and now my son has paid for it,” Webb shook his head angrily. “I'm not going to compound that mistake by staying.”
“Your son was a good man who died defending his family,” George said. “He could have just as easily died at your home as he did here. Only there, it would more likely have been all of you. Had your family been forced to take on that group yesterday on their own, nothing would be left this morning aside perhaps from your womenfolk. You know that, if you’ll just allow yourself to think about it for a minute.”
“All I know is that my son died yesterday fighting a war that belonged to somebody else,” Webb replied. “I'm not going to let that happen again.”
“How do you figure it belonged to someone else?” George asked him. “We all have a substantial investment in time and work in this place. We all depend on it to provide for us. The idea was that we would be stronger together than apart. Those men did not care that we weren't part of the Sanders' family, Joshua. They were coming here, to these cabins, to kill anyone they found and take whatever they wanted. You know that as well as I do.”
“They came here after the Sanders!” Webb all but roared.
“They came here to clean this place out and take everything we have,” George would not be shaken or deterred. “If you can't recognize that, then perhaps we are better off with you gone.” Without waiting for a response, Franklin George turned and walked away, head shaking in sadness.
“Joshua, this is a mistake,” Deborah Webb said softly from behind him. He turned to look at her, noting her red-eyed look from a night spent crying.
“How can you say that when our son is lying down there in a box,” he pointed down the hill toward the building where their son waited to be taken home.
“He would be just as dead if he'd died fighting at home,” Deborah told him. “And a lot of this can be blamed on you all giving in to Harley Jessup and putting his boy in that hole with Mark. Had you put Micah or Matthew there with him, none of this might have happened at all.” Her words were soft but cut deep for all of that.
“So, it's my fault?”
“The ultimate fault has to lie with the men who were attacking us, and the man who pulled the trigger,” Deborah shook her head. “But some blame has to go to that boy, and you had a say in who was in that hole with Mark. You should have put someone stronger in there. You should have insisted that Mark have someone he knew he could depend on to help him.”
“The Sanders-”
“The Sanders didn't decide who would be there,” Deborah didn't bother to let him finish. “You and the others did that.”
Webb had no reply to that. He stood still and silent, face red, for so long that Deborah wasn't sure what was going through his head. Finally, her husband shook his head.
“We don't belong here,” he told her flatly. “We're leaving, and we aren't coming back. Now I suggest you pack whatever you haven't gotten ready so far.”
“Doesn't matter to you at all what I want, does it?” she said softly. “Doesn't matter to you that the rest of us like being here. Or that we're better off here than alone. None of that matters at all, so long as you get what you want.”
She turned on her heel and left him with that, going to finish preparing her household to move yet again. A move that she knew would end in disaster. Knew it as well as she knew that the Lord would one day return and take them Home.
As well as she knew that her husband, good man that he was, would not listen.
–
Ellen Kargay pulled in to the cabin area and then around so that she could back the trailer she was pulling into the square. She had done this once before when she had helped move the Webb family in here, so this was merely a repeat. She expertly placed the trailer into the single lane opening at the corner, placing the doors far enough back that they could swing open unimpeded. Once she had accomplished that, she stepped down from the truck and began to unhook the trailer.
“What are you doing?” Joshua Webb demanded, seeing her unhook the trailer and begin placing the legs down to hold the nose up.
“I'm unhooking,” she told him as she cranked the handle.
“You need to hook it right back up then because we're leaving,” he ordered. Or thought he did. She just kept cranking.
“We won't be using this truck to pull the trailer to your house,” she settled on saying, knowing the truth but also knowing this wasn't her battle to fight.
“Why not?”
“We’ll use the bigger truck that's better protected. This one was just easier to get up here. Now if you’ll excuse me, I still have work to do before lunch.” With that the tall, muscular woman climbed back into the cab and took off down the hill, out of sight.
Mumbling under his breath, Joshua Webb stalked back to the cabin he and his wife had shared with their unmarried children.
–
“He is angry,” Ellen said as she stood with Clay and some others where she had parked the truck. “And impatient.”
“He’ll have to get over it,” Clay shrugged. “And it's about to get better, too,” he sighed. He turned to look at the others. Jose Juarez, Mitchell Nolan, Zach Willis, Kade Ramsey and Nate Caudell.
“Are we loaded?” he asked. Jose nodded.
“Well then, I guess it's time. Mount up.”
–
“What's all this?” Joshua Webb muttered as the MRAP and a Hummer pulled into the cabin area, followed by a single pickup truck that had been taken from the first raid on the ranch.
Webb's anger surged when he saw Clay Sanders get out of the Hummer.
“What do you want?” he demanded.
“I want my rifles and gear back,” Clay said bluntly. “Now.”
“What?” Webb was clearly taken aback by the demand. It was the last thing he had expected.
“We provided your family with rifles, field gear and protective vests to use defending yourselves while here. I need that back. If you're leaving, we’ll need it for whoever might take your place. Please have everyone bring that gear out here to me.”
“But. . .what do we use to protect ourselves with?” Webb was dumbfounded. In his heat and anger and his choice of descriptions for the Sanders family in general and this Sanders in particular, he had never once given thought to how much his family had gotten from him and his people.
“We brought a selection of the weapons we took off the people that attacked the farm,” Clay told him. “Best among that stuff and a supply of ammunition. Your family can have your pick of that, but the mil-spec gear we issued you stays here. So, let’s have it brought out so we can account for it and you can make your choices. Also, that truck is yours to keep. It has a full tank of gas and Jake checked it over before we brought it up here. Should serve you well.”
Already some of the Webb family were bringing the rifles, ammunition and various pieces of gear out to the trucks. More than one Webb son looked a little embarrassed or chagrined at how things were going but took it in stride. As each one surrendered their gear, they were taken to the MRAP where the other weapons were laid out.
“I thought you might appreciate this one,” Zach told Seth Webb, handing him a bolt action rifle. “It's a Ruger .22. They're accurate as all get out. Man can take a ton of squirrel meat with that.” He handed the youngest Webb two bricks of ammunition.
“Thanks,” the boy nodded, accepting the gift gratefully.
“Just think of me when you're eating all that squirrel and dumplings,” Zach winked.
“Will do,” a grinning Seth agreed, hefting the rifle at him.
“I picked this out to give you,” Clay
told Samuel Webb, handing him a sleek bolt action Remington 700, Parkerized, with a fiberglass stock and forearm. “It's chambered for .30-06,” Clay told him, handing over several boxes of shells. “Should do well in the field.”
“I appreciate this Clayton,” Samuel nodded, accepting the rifle and the shells. “I'm sorry how this turned out,” he added.
“I'm sorry about Mark,” Clay nodded. “He was a good man, and a strong one. A credit to his family.”
“Thanks,” Samuel nodded.
And so, it went. Clay's worse thought was that this whole thing would go poorly, but it hadn't. Clearly the Webbs were going along with this out of respect for their Patriarch and not because they shared his beliefs. It was a damn shame, Clay thought, and hated to see it.
Not everyone was strong enough to endure a loss like that. Clay didn't view it as a weakness to grieve, or to want revenge or even to place blame. He had done all those things more than once, most recently with the death of John Barnes.
But people had to take responsibility for their choices and their actions. He hoped that the Webbs would be alright on their own. So long as they weren't attacked they should do fine, he figured.
So long as they didn't face an attack like yesterday on their own.
–
“How did it go?” Gordon was waiting when Clay and the others returned.
“Better than I expected,” Clay admitted. “Looks like most of them don't want to leave and are only doing it to please Mister Webb.”
“I'm not surprised,” Gordon mused. “They are a clannish outfit and always have been. It surprised me that your grandfather was able to convince them to come here at all.”
“I think Miss Deborah had more to do with that than anything else,” Clay recalled. “Anyway. I'm sure he’ll be calling in a little while about getting a truck up there. But there won't be any convoy until tomorrow at the soonest.”
“He won't like that at all,” Gordon shook his head.
“Best we can do,” Clay shrugged. “We're all tired, we're down a man and there is still a load of work to be done just trying to finish clearing away this mess. And we can't short change the watch, either. We have to be on the lookout in case that attack was just a test of our defenses and strength.”
“You mean someone might have thrown away all those lives just to see how strong we are?” Gordon looked aghast.
“It's a common tactic,” Clay nodded. “We saw it time and again in Africa. Sacrifice numbers to gauge a defender's numbers and power. They called it kuhesabu mikuki. Counting spears. When they encountered rifles for the first time, they just changed the name and kept the tactic. To them, it's an acceptable use of their people. You can bet Holman will think the same thing. If he has cannon fodder, why not use it to test your enemy and weaken them before sending in your better troops.”
“Dear Lord,” Gordon shook his head.
“Yeah,” Clay nodded. “That's a good way to look at it.
“So, I tell Webb he can go tomorrow?” Gordon got the discussion back on track.
“I suppose if he wants to take that old truck we managed to get running from Jake's parking lot, he can,” Clay shrugged. The group had found an older model Mack semi-tractor in Jake's parking lot when they had gone to get the fuel from his tanks. They had hauled it back on a whim and Jake had managed to get it running, if roughly. They had meant to use it at some point as a good will gesture or in trade, but…
“It's probably got a half-tank of diesel, and he's not getting a drop more, but that should get him home. I suppose those who can't fit in the cab can ride in the back of the truck we gave him.” Clay thought for a moment and then nodded as if he'd made some kind of mental decision.
“If he yells too loud, then offer him that option,” he told his father. “To be honest, it would be the best route for us. It would mean we didn't have to have anyone out and away from the farm. But if he waits until tomorrow we can probably manage a small escort to see them safely back. His call.”
“I’ll tell him.”
–
“We’ll take it,” Webb said firmly.
“Really?” Gordon didn't hide his surprise. “You got anybody that can drive that thing?”
“Micah knows how,” Webb nodded.
“You know, it would be safer to wait until they can-”
“We don't need you Sanders to keep us safe,” Webb's voice was vibrant.
“I see,” Gordon nodded. “Well, Joshua Webb, I'm sorry you have such a poor opinion of us. That I know of we've done you not one wrong. Have Micah come down and get the truck when you're ready. It's yours to keep, just like the pickup. I wish you well.”
Without waiting for more Gordon climbed on his own four-wheeler and made his way home. It was a short ride and Gordon didn't bother to consider anything with the Webbs as he looked around. Signs of the battle were still everywhere and Clayton was right; there was a great deal of work to be done. That bunch had done a lot of damage.
Gordon found his sons and son-in-law standing in his yard, looking the damage over and discussing how to repair it. They stopped talking as Gordon pulled up.
“He taking the truck?” Clay asked.
“Be here to get it soon,” Gordon nodded.
“That's one problem solved then,” Clay seemed glad to hear it.
“You know, they're going to need-” Gordon started only to be cut off, albeit gently, by Clay.
“Dad, I know what you're going to say, but no. We've given them a lot already. Guns, ammunition, two vehicles, all of it stuff we got or repaired ourselves so we could use it as trade goods or the occasional good will gesture. All gone now. And let’s be honest; he doesn't want our help. There's no point in antagonizing him further by continuing to insist he take it.”
“All of that is true,” Gordon nodded. “I just feel like this is all a mistake, that's all.”
“It is a mistake,” Clay agreed. “A giant, monumental mistake that will punish all of us. We’ll miss them being here, and they will be isolated and alone when they face whatever threat rears its head at them. And we won't be able to help them without leaving this place vulnerable, which we will not do. So, this, unfortunately, is how it is. To be honest we have too many problems of our own to be overly concerned about someone who wants to spurn our hospitality.”
“He's just angry about his son,” Gordon pointed out. “If he had another day-”
“I tried to give him that day and he took another way out,” Clay shrugged. “And there are over a dozen people in that family, Dad. Some of them need to be willing to step up and tell him no. Until they do, then there's no reason for them to stay since they’ll only ever want to do what he wants.” He paused, watching his father's reaction.
“I really am sorry, Dad,” Clay told him. “I'm sorry Mark died, but it wasn't my fault. I'm sorry they're leaving, but I can't stop them. I'm sorry that kid is traumatized, but I can't fix it. I'm prepared to accept a bit of responsibility for what happens when we have to fight, but their decisions can't be held against me. They should have put someone else in with Mark. It was too early to expect that kid to be able to handle it, and where he might have grown into at some point I think you can forget that now. This will probably have ruined him.”
“I didn't make that decision and I can't change it now. If I had known, if they had asked me, then I'd have said the same thing to them. Bryon Jessup had no business being in that hole. Not with just one other man. It was a mistake and they all knew it.”
“That's all true,” Gordon said again. “I promise I'm not trying to hold you or anyone else responsible. I'm just trying to find a way to make this mess settle down.”
“I wish you could, Dad, but I don't think it's going to happen. Just pray it doesn't get worse.”
“Worse? How could it-”
“Don't!” Clay, Ronny and Robert said in unison.
–
“Bryon, I wanted to talk to you about yesterday,” Beverly Jackson said quiet
ly. She and Bryon were seated behind the massive trio of storage buildings on the Troy farm, out of sight of the damage of the battle or the tools used in it. She hoped that setting would help Bryon feel more at ease.
“I want you to understand that this is between us. I don't assign blame for anything, nor will I allow what you say to be used to fix blame either. This is about you. About making sure you're alright after what happened to you. Do you understand?”
“Yes ma'am,” the boy was lifeless. His eyes were lifeless and dull, whatever shine they had once had completely gone now.
“Why don't you take me through what happened to you yesterday, Bryon? Let’s start with what you were doing when the alarm sounded.”
“I was bringing wood for the stove in the mess hall,” Bryon replied, never looking at her. “Part of my job, you know. After that I was supposed to do the garbage detail. Then if Marcy needed help sweeping and cleaning the bathhouse I'd help her out. I didn't have to. It wasn't my job. I just did it.”
“That was nice of you,” Beverly smiled.
“Just trying to help out,” Bryon shrugged. “Marcy is nice, so I helped her when I could.”
“So, when the alarm went off, what did you do?” she asked.
“We were supposed to get our stuff and meet in the mess hall,” Bryon answered. “Everyone who wasn't trained or able to fight was to go to the shelter and the rest would meet in the mess hall for assignments. Mister Samuel suggested that I be in the shelter, and Mister Micah suggested the far side defense position, Sentry Five. But my dad. . .” the boy broke off with a slight head shake, “…he wouldn't hear about that. Wanted me to prove myself. Wanted me to become a man. You know, I always thought that meant. . .I mean I always heard...”
“Sex?” Beverly asked gently. “You became a man when you had sex?”
“Yes ma'am,” the boy flushed, but nodded. “I didn't see how this made me a man, but. . .even when I tried to tell him I didn't think I could do it, my dad, he insisted. I ended up in Sentry Four with Mi…Mister Mark,” he stammered a bit. “I was so scared,” he began to cry. “I was so scared I couldn't stop my rifle from bouncing in my hands. Mister Mark he tried to get me to steady up but. . .I was so scared,” his voice had dropped to a whisper.
