Unknowable to the men, during the firefight the helicopter had come under a literal hail of small arms fire, and the pilot had been completely riddled in seconds of the barrage. The helicopter had done a crazy rotating dance, ending in a fiery encounter with the building.
Joe noticed something small, and then bent down to inspect it.
“Guys. Guys,” he stated with worry in his voice, holding out what he found.
“Look, no corpses, on either side of the barricade. No skeletons, nothing.”
Zeb took one look at the remains of a splintered and gnaw marked human femur, and unslung his rifle in a rush.
“You heard him boys, we’re in a feeding trough!” Zeb shouted.
Zeb noted that neither Nicolson or Hitch had reported back. It had been almost an hour, yet their absence had gone unnoticed. A loud and indescribable cross between a roar and growl came from around the corner, followed by the firing of two separate weapons on full auto.
Zeb took off running towards the noise, followed closely by Joe and the other two soldiers.
One weapon blasted through its magazine rapidly and fell silent, followed quickly by the other. Another horrid roar screamed forth, this time in rage, and only one gun opened up for a second volley.
Zeb and Joe ran even faster, almost skidding to a stop when the tableau came into sight. Hitch was behind a car parked on the side of the road shooting at an animal, his face rictus of abject terror. What he was shooting at inspired horror.
The two soldiers beside Joe started blasting through magazine after magazine of ammunition at a huge creature standing upon its hind legs over the inert form of Nicolson, who was laying still in the middle of the road. It was the largest brown bear Joe had ever seen, and he guessed it was probably a Kodiak bear.
“Put that poodle shooter down Zeb, you're just going to piss him off more!” Joe shouted as Zeb raised his M-16 again.
“You are going to make him charge us.”
Joe opened the bolt on his Mosin watching the last remaining shell fly out. It was comparable to a thirty ought six, but he wished it was a Barrett Fifty Cal.
Joe took out a blue painted clip of rounds out of his pocket and racked them home in the gun. Taking aim, he put a round through the windpipe of the bear, shutting off the Grizzly's spine chilling roars of defiant rage. The decrease in noise helped steady the nerves, but he had been aiming at the eye and missed.
He then shot the bear through the eye-socket, causing the bear to fall on its rump in a sitting position. He sent a third round as close as he could to the second, and a puff of red mist exited from the back of the bears head.
Nicolson still had not moved, and his eyes were staring into space. The fact that his front was a solid red stain was not a good portent of what they would find.
The bear fell over backwards, and lay twitching on the cement, the jaws still gnashing at the air. Joe sent another round into its spine just below the head for good measure, to make absolutely sure the bear was dead.
Looking at the damage done to the bear, Zeb pointed to the blue painted clip on the ground, noticing also the ejected but unfired full metal jacket rounds making a trail to their present location. Joe had been racking the ammunition out as he ran.
“What did you put into that thing?,” Zeb asked
“Homemade and very nasty hollow points,” Joe replied panting from the exertion.
Joe opened the bolt on the rifle and added three more shells from another clip into his weapon. The clip he removed the three shells from was painted blue as well.
Something moved on the roof of a building to their left. Joe took a knee, sighted in, and shot. He followed this as quickly as he could with another, racking shell after shell through the rifle.
“Man, what was that! The smell of blood must be gathering every meat eater in the area,” Zeb stated loudly.
“By the spots, I would say a cheetah,” Joe replied slamming another blue clip home in his gun.
He gathering up the two empty blue clips from the ground, and picked up the full metal jacket rounds he had ejected earlier.
“Men, grab Nicolson and let's get out of here!” roared Zeb.
Hitch picked up Nicolson in a fireman's carry, and felt a pulse.
“He's still alive!” Hitch yelled happily, as he trudged towards the circle of soldiers as they covered his retreat.
The rest of the group provided cover, with Hitch carrying Nicolson in the center and the rest facing outwards with their weapons at the ready. They slowly moved the entire circle as one man all the way to the Humvee.
Once inside, Zeb drove and everyone else except Hitch was watching for movement. Hitch had the first aid material out, and was bandaging up the four nasty rakes Nicolson had received from the glancing blow the bear had delivered. It was now evident why any humans which were alive, were not showing themselves.
They weren’t hiding due to fear of the soldiers.
They just weren't that stupid.
The wolves had spoken truly last night concerning the town of Great Bend. They were just claiming territory that belonged to them.
“OOOUUUUURRRRRRS!”
Daniels dodged suddenly back from his window. A flash of gray followed a bang on the side of the Humvee. A rhino behind them bellowed a roar of rage that sent a shiver down Joe’s spine.
“Zeb?”
“Yeah, what you want? I’m trying to drive,” Zeb retorted while concentrating intently on the road.
“Let's get the heck out of here. We don't need concrete that bad,” Joe replied
Zeb looked for a second at his friend and smiled.
“I'll just happily take that as an order. Colonel. We're gone!”
Zeb stepped hard on the accelerator, putting it all the way to the floor.
26. (Will THE Joe Anderson Stand Up?)
After a few blocks, Joe mentioned to Zeb that they ought to turn north to see what Hoisington was like before heading west again. He just wanted to take a different route home and see for himself, hoping beyond hope that what he had seen in Great Bend had been a limited event and not as widespread as what he feared.
He also just wanted to see fellow human beings, other live human beings that is.
Not familiar with the roads, Zeb had Joe guide him on the best route to Hoisington. Some deep morbidity within him wanted to see what happened in the other city as well. Great Bend had been an eye opener to him as he couldn't have possibly imagined what he had seen beforehand.
He had seen much more in his life than any man would desire to see. Yet everything of the past had been somewhere else.
This was different for Zeb. His beloved family since he had turned eighteen was destroying any notion he had held previously towards the military stance on patriotism, honor, and duty. He had seen too much already before this ever started.
There had been too many jungles, too many deserts, too much violence, and far too many lies. However, the problems on the past were blamed on this president or that commanding officer, and never reflected on the military as a whole. Now he could see no honor whatsoever. They had rejected their duty and had turned traitor. Zeb’s whole world had turned upside down.
Joe guided Zeb out past the feedlot, and it was different than he had imagined. His vision encountered pen after pen of dead and bloated cows which had starved to death. Some of the pens were mostly empty, with only fleshless skeletons remaining. From the last pen, a jackal raised its head from a half-eaten rotten cow carcass, and barked a yipping challenge to the passing car.
Farther down, a Bengal tiger snarled and growled its warning, black claw filled paw possessively hugging the dead cow it had been lazily gnawing.
Having driven through a residential section en route to where they were now, the city had completely transformed in their eyes. The facade of Tenth street turned to stumps of trees, some shattered and burned, and charred empty lots. Huge patches of the city evidently had burned in some blast-furnace of a conflagration. Occasional ho
uses had streams of char marks horizontally on the sides of the buildings, starting and ending mysteriously without having completely igniting the building.
Then they saw it, the cause of the mysterious black streaks.
On a side street sat a memorial. The hulks of two more tanks were sitting, both destroyed. The two machines were not the larger and newer Abrams as they had seen on Tenth Street. These were old converted Sherman tanks. Each tank had a large, odd-looking, drum shaped container behind the turret, with metal tubing connecting the drum to the tank.
The huge barrels of the main big guns had blackened muzzles. The drum on each tank was blackened, torn, and ruptured. The paint-less rusting tank hulks bore witness that whatever had been stored in the tanks had escaped and burned with a terrible heat, killing the tracked weapons of death.
Entire blocks of residential housing had been burned this way, with occasional sections of housing remaining. Joe noted a dog pack which he estimated at around twenty animals running through a yard in the distance. Some were easily recognizable breeds such as German Shepard and Doberman, but among them were numerous unfamiliar breeds both large and small.
They were converging as a howling mass upon two Great Danes which had hamstringed some unfamiliar type of deer or antelope. The prey was bleating in terror, its short curled horns waving wildly. A German Shepard quickly silenced its cries.
“Wild dog packs. I bet people never thought of their dear little 'Benji' like this,” Joe muttered.
The rest of the ride to Hoisington was relatively uneventful, though Hoisington itself was an event in the making. Men on top of buildings on either side of the street waved frantically at other people on the ground. The men on the ground hid behind a barricade made of three layers of K-rail concrete road barriers. The K-rails were in three rows creating a type of staggered maze which completely crossed the road.
A second later, Zeb heard a whistling sound and slammed on the brakes.
“Incoming!” He roared, just before the road in front of them erupted with the impact of a mortar shell.
Having a clearer view now that the Hummer was stopped, the men on the roof were waving signals again and yelling. The frantic actions were seen by the men behind the concrete dividers who started to drop more rounds in the mortar tubes, each drop accompanied by a 'whump', followed by an eruption of dirt and asphalt moments later in close proximity to the Hummer.
Without a return of answering fire of any kind from the convoy, an order of 'cease fire' resounded from behind the K-rails.
Joe thought he had ridden into Baghdad with all of the screaming rounds falling from the sky, each one erupting like a miniature volcano, blasting holes in the dirt and tarmac. He was just glad of only one thing. Whoever was shooting at him was a bad shot.
Whoever was dialing in the mortars didn’t know how. They had hit all around the hummer, but not close enough to actually hurt anyone.
Zeb was just shaking his head, looking at all the damage caused by the wasted mortar rounds.
“Gotta be either civvies or National Guard,” Zeb grumbled
“My men wouldn't have needed more than three rounds at this range to get a good sight.”
A loudspeaker barked to life in front of them.
“Lay down your weapons. Lie flat on the ground and do not, I repeat do not move!” a voice boomed, the sound echoing ominously off of nearby walls.
“Or what, you will hit me with a spit-wad?,” Zeb yelled loudly as he disarmed and laid down on the hot asphalt.
Everyone else followed his example, but without the taunting.
“Darn amateurs,” Zeb grumbled from where he lay.
He was surprised that they hadn't said 'you're surrounded' or some other such nonsense.
If this was a military op, someone needed a bust in pay grade in his opinion. He had glimpsed two antique Sherman tanks in their arsenal, as well as what appeared to be an old WWII Howitzer. However, they were messing around with mortars.
No matter what, it told Zeb that an inexperienced commander was in charge. Whether the commander was civilian or National Guard didn’t matter. Whoever it happened to be was dangerous because of their inexperience.
Ten police officers in uniform and five National Guardsmen approached in a decidedly unprofessional manner. The policemen had a hand on their sidearm, but not one had the weapon drawn and ready to shoot. The National Guard boys merely looked bored, having their guns aimed down and to the left.
“If you try anything you will be shot,” one police officer said commandingly.
Zeb raised his head just enough to look the officer directly in the eye.
“If I had intended anything... boy... you would already be dead,” Zeb growled.
They were all handcuffed, and escorted past the barricade to the National Guardsman in command.
He was young Captain who, though obviously determined and resolute, also looked uncertain and decidedly in over his head.
“Who are you Lieutenant, and what is your business here?” the Captain asked of Zeb.
“Lieutenant Josiah Anderson. My men, Hewitt, Daniels, Cross, Hitch, and the injured private over there is Nicolson,” He said, pointing to each man in turn.
“This man is a special advisor. He is Colonel Joseph Anderson though he is not in uniform at…” Zeb started, but was cut off by the Captain.
“Joe Anderson? You are Joe Anderson?” the Captain asked looking surprised at Zeb, the names having just registered.
“Nope. That Joe Anderson would, I think, be the Joe Anderson,” Zeb said, pointing at Joe.
Looking at Joe, the Captain spoke to Zeb.
“I don't believe you. He doesn't look anything like him. Intel also has Josiah Anderson as ambushed, all men reported as dead,” the Captain retorted, leafing through some papers.
“First of all, I am Josiah Anderson. He is Joseph Anderson. I am called Zeb, and he is called Joe…” Zeb retorted as if he was speaking to a child.
“Your Intel is wrong. Which doesn’t surprise me.”
The Captain glared at him.
“There is one interesting thing which could prove your statement. Private, go search the vehicle for personal weapons, make me a full list!” The Captained ordered, pointing at a Guardsman.
“Now gentlemen, sit down and wait,” the Captain ordered.
Joe was getting angry and remained where he was.
“I outrank you Captain.”
Ten long, tense minutes later the Guardsman came back with the list, and handed it to the Captain.
“Hmm. Wow! There it is, a Mosin Nagant sporterized, with a Schrade lock-back side knife. Known possessions of the Survival Instructor Joe Anderson,” the Captain exclaimed happily.
“You make me sound famous or something,” Joe replied with a serious tone to his voice.
“You are famous,” the Captain retorted.
“In fact, we could use your training assistance.”
“Where have I heard that before?,” Joe sighed.
“If you have a concrete truck, and a load or two of cement, then we'll talk,” he finished with a twinkle in his eye that was not that friendly.
“I think that can be arranged,” The Captain said, with a small nervous smile.
“Private, take the restraints off of these men. Now I know for a fact you are in fact Joe Anderson.”
“What makes you think you know anything, you little…” Zeb said, but was interrupted by Joe.
“Cool your jets Zeb, and that’s an order.”
“That for one,” the Captain replied.
27. (The Flu)
Joe looked into the sky, seeing something he had not seen since the action had first started. Months back in July at his farm he had seen the white streaks in the sky. They were common then, but non-existent now. The classic sight met his eyes of a clear blue sky streaked high in the atmosphere with white fans that looked like jet contrails, but refused to dissipate.
After watching year after year of practice
runs and dispersal testing, Joe didn't even consider the ominous white trails in the sky that refused to evaporate or the Jets that they trailed from. He didn't even note them first turning slowly into dull white smudges, then to a whitish haze in the previously beautiful brilliantly blue sky as the airborne material in the greasy smoke spread and fell oh so slowly to the earth below.
The time for testing, drills, and practice runs were over. This was time for the real deal. Before the plan could fail, it was time for drastic action.
Surviving in America: Under Siege 2nd Edition Page 16
