by Mic Roland
“No takers on the Kel-Tec?” Tyler asked.
“I don’t do .32s,” Charles said. Nick hesitated.
“You take it, Martin,” Tyler said. “We’re using your truck and your gas. You oughta get something for that.”
Martin shrugged, but was inwardly pleased. His household needed more guns to arm the patrols.
Chief Burgh drove up the hill with the prisoner and the recovered loot. The others set about changing the front tire on the Lancer. A tuner looks absurd with a donut spare. The engine would turn over, but not start. Shots directed at the driver had damaged the wiring. Martin pulled his truck around and hooked up the tow strap. Charles agreed to sit in the Lancer, to steer and brake. Tyler agreed to ride on the tailgate, next to the three cold bodies.
Martin pulled slowly, getting the Lancer lined up for the trip back to town, then stopped. The site needed to be cleaned too. Charles grudgingly agreed to pick up all the broken taillight bits. Martin and Tyler rolled the rocks back up to their stone walls. Nick replaced the fence rails. Some brushing with a tree branch almost erased the torn up shoulder where the Lancer had skidded. Some dirt layered over the blood, then swept around with the tree branch, turned the dark stains into innocuous dusty patches. Shell casings were scouted for and pocketed. It was tedious work, but finally the four men stood for a moment to admire their success.
“There,” said Tyler. “Now, you’d never know.”
“Good. Let’s get these obvious clues…” Martin pointed to the truck bed of bodies. “…up to town.”
As they rolled up to Town Hall, Gene Merdot stepped into the road to flag them down. “Hey there. Heard you all were coming into town. Everybody okay?” He glanced from one man to the next. Each man nodded with varying degrees of weariness.
“Great. Glad to hear it,” said Gene.
Burgh walked over to Martin’s truck. “I’ve got a place to stash that gangland car, but you’ll have to pull back around to the old fire station.”
“Think I could steal them for a couple minutes, Chief?” asked Gene. “I’m trying to finish up a little after-action debrief with the rest of Stockman Company. We’re over by the mailboxes.” Burgh acquiesced with a nod.
“Thanks, Chief. Only a couple minutes,” said Gene.
The four men joined Lyle, Lance and two other men in a semi-circle around Gene.
“Okay. Gotta make this quick. I told Chief only a couple minutes. I’m glad to report that of the nine men who responded to the call, all nine returned. No casualties. Only minor wounds on two of us. We did good today. Lyle’s group backed up North Pond at the rear door move, taking out at least two of the bandits in the kitchen. Charles’ group stopped the four that fled. Three of them killed, one captured.”
“How did the other companies do?” asked Nick.
“They did good too,” said Gene. Bell Hill and Wilson Hill stormed the front door. One of Wilson’s men was hit pretty bad in the chest, but seems stabilized. Another took a hit in the thigh. Some cuts and scrapes, but no men lost.”
“Where did they find my aunt and uncle?” asked Charles.
“Ah, well, we found them in the cellar. Looked like they were hiding down there. I don’t know if it’s any help or not, but it looks like they died fast. They didn’t suffer.”
Charles looked away.
“Bell Hill found the last of them hiding in an upstairs bedroom. He tried to shot the Wilson Hill man and ran down the stairs. That’s when a Bell Hill man took him out.”
“Time, Gene,” called Burgh.
Gene waved. “You boys head on home and get some sleep. Come meet at my house tomorrow around noon. Diane will work up something to eat. We can pick things up then.”
Chief Burgh had Martin loop around to pull up in front of the old fire station abandoned years ago when modern fire trucks became too large for old garages. The men pushed the battered Lancer into the smaller bay. They draped an old canvas tarp over the Lancer and rolled down the door. Handily, the windows were almost too dusty to see through as it was.
Burgh climbed up into the pickup bed. He turned each body over, to lie face up. He photographed them and searched their pockets. Only one of the dead men had any ID. Jacob Winslow: 17. Pine Street, Manchester. The other two had small amounts of cash, keys or tokens.
“Maybe our prisoner can tell us who they were,” said Burgh. “He’s not talking at all…yet. A little cooling off time in that cell might help his mood.”
“What do we do with these guys now?” asked Nick.
“Take them up to the cemetery and dump ‘em in, I guess. Not much else we can do with them. You boys look wiped. I’ll find a couple other fellows to send up to the cemetery to do the filling in. How’s that sound?”
All four nodded wearily. Nick and Tyler rode on the bed sides. Charles got in with Martin.
“Part of me still wants to kill that guy,” Charles said, almost to himself.
“I know,” said Martin.
“And I don’t know if I’m mad at you, or mad at myself.”
“I know the feeling too well.” Martin nodded.
“I’ve been in that dark place before,” Charles said. “For a minute, back there, I was all too willing to go back into it.”
Martin had no idea what to say.
“So I guess I’m saying thanks.” Charles looked out the side window. Sometimes it’s easier for guys to say things if there is not eye contact. “Thanks for talking me out of it.”
“Any time,” said Martin.
Martin turned onto the narrow cemetery road. He pulled up as close to the trench as he felt prudent. They hefted in the stocky one first. They tossed the other two on top of the first one. It would save the other men from having to cover more. Again, the four stood and looked at another task done, as if to savor completion.
“We’ll walk home from here,” said Charles. He and Tyler waved as they left.
“I’d still like a ride, if that’s okay,” said Nick.
“Sure. Let me try calling home first.” Martin held his walkie-talkie close to his lips. “Base 9. Base 9. This is Fowler. You there Base 9?”
“Martin?” came Margaret’s voice. “Martin? Is that you? Are you okay?”
Martin rolled his eyes. He told her not to use their real names over the radio. “Yes. I’m fine. Coming home in a few. I’ll do the signal. Tell the others.”
“Right…I mean…Roger…or whatever. Just hurry home.”
“There.” Martin turned to Nick. “This way they won’t shoot me as I drive up.” Martin wanted to laugh, but could only muster a smile.
Nick waved as he stepped out of the truck. “See you tomorrow at Gene’s, I guess.”
Martin waved back. As he slowly rolled down the dirt road, he hit two quick beeps on his horn. That was the signal that it was him approaching, if anyone remembered that.
Everyone was waiting on the front steps as he pulled into the driveway. Anna had to hold Lucas back, to keep him from running up to the truck.
Martin had half-anticipated that Margaret might run up to him for a welcome-home hug. At least, he wanted to picture that. He hoped Susan did not do so too. He had no energy left to keep that problem contained. But, when Martin stepped around the front of his truck, no one moved from the top of the steps. No running for hugs. At first, he was a little taken aback at such a cool reception. Everyone simply stood and stared. Then he followed their stares.
The whole front of his jacket and pants were drenched in blood. He imagined that he looked like a walking dead, or something. Back at the roadblock he smelled the metallic-tinged odor of blood, but had gotten used to it and did not smell it any longer.
“Are…are you okay?” Margaret asked.
“Yeah,” he said looking down at his jacket. “It’s not mine.” That answer did not mollify the group on the stairs. It was still a great deal of someone’s blood.
Martin walked toward the front door. He just wanted to get inside and sit down. The others quickly scramble
d to get inside and up the stairs before him. All, except Lucas, who had broken free of his mother’s arms and stood his ground on the porch. He stared with wide eyes as Martin passed.
His thighs ached as he climbed the stairs. His feet felt like they weighed a hundred pounds each. At the top of the stairs, Margaret pointed to his jacket and signaled for him to take it off. He set his carbine in the corner. Out of various pockets, he pulled out both Hi-Points and the Kel-Tec and handed them to Dustin.
Margaret took the bloody jacket with a thumb-and-finger pinch. She waved Anna over to help. Anna crossed herself first. They took the jacket to a wash bucket and poured water over it.
“We heard all kinds of shooting,” Dustin said. “From the radio, we heard how our guys were going to storm a house full of bad guys.”
“And that a man got shot in there,” said Lucas.
“We didn’t know if it was you, or what,” said Susan.
“I guess it was a guy from Wilson Hill. Gene said he’s hurt pretty bad, but stabile. You were all watching your corners, right? — not gathered around the radio?”
“No,” said Margaret. She handed him a glass of water and a half a flat bread. “They stayed at their posts. Dustin made sure of that. I gave Lucas the updates and he went around to tell everyone.”
“Things were happening so fast,” said Lucas. “I had to run.”
Martin chugged the water, then slumped into his chair. It felt good to have his boots off and feel the warmth of the wood stove.
“We heard the Chief talking about a battle at a roadblock,” said Margaret.
“That was us,” Martin said with his mouth full.
“Did you shoot the bad men?” asked Lucas. Anna pulled him out of the room by his shoulder.
Martin ignored the question. It reminded him of his earlier wondering of when each of the dead men had crossed the line from innocence to evil.
“What happened?” asked Dustin.
“We stopped them.”
“But, will more of them come?” asked Margaret.
“Don’t know.”
Martin leaned back in his chair and stared at the dancing flames. It seemed like everyone was done asking him questions, or at least he stopped hearing them.
In his mind, he mapped out things they needed to do. There was much more to work on — early-warnings and defenses — but from the action of the day, it seemed like the town had already started to organize itself enough to deal with any further threats from the outside.
The bigger challenge would be keeping things together on the inside. Even if the outside hoodlums could be controlled, the food shortage still was a problem looming on their horizon. Would people turn on each other when food gets scarce? That was probably what the federal authorities hoped would happen with their embargoes, sanctions and blockades: that New Hampshire could be starved into anarchy and forced to accept their aid — and control — regardless of all the strings attached.
Loss of hope would be worse, Martin mused. People without hope do desperate things: selfish things. Selfishness could crumble what semblance of civilization they still had. He realized that all he could control was himself. He vowed to guard himself against selfishness. If order were to crumble, it would not start with him.
Martin fell asleep in his chair.
The End of Book Two
