by Joe Nobody
Bishop smirked, “I don’t feel so lucky.”
Baxter returned just then, the officer breathing hard. “There’s good news and bad news. The good news all of our people are accounted for. I’ve lost five KIA (killed in action), four wounded. We also have three civilian KIA, another three wounded. We hold the west side of the building; they hold the east. The rotunda is no-man’s land.”
“And what’s the bad news?”
“The snipers have stopped shooting.”
Bishop’s head snapped up, the officer’s words making his eyes open wide. “We have to get out of here, Major. Get our men to the Humvees and leave. All of those shooters are on their way here - you can bet on it. There’s no way we can hold this building.”
The expression on the major’s face indicated he had already considered Bishop’s prediction. “I agree. That’s what I would do if I were them.”
Turning to the sergeant, Baxter shouted, “We’re pulling out. I want as much security as you can muster around our transports. We’re leaving town.”
“Yes, sir!”
Bishop struggled to his feet, the effort inviting waves of pain-induced nausea to surge through his gut. “My guys and I will act as the rear guard. We’ll keep those boys from the east side off your back while you get our transportation ready.”
“Are you sure? You look like shit.”
“Thank you, sir,” Bishop laughed, and then pulled his thermal imager from his kit. “This should help me see through the smoke and dust. We’ll hold as long as we can, but I wouldn’t waste any time.”
Nodding his understanding, Baxter was off. Bishop could hear him barking orders as he hustled to the west.
Motioning to Jonesy and the other civilians, Bishop shouted, “Any non-driver stay here with me. All drivers head out with the Army people. Get your trucks ready, we’re blowing this pop stand.”
Several heads nodded their understanding, and then over half of Bishop’s crew scurried out. He was left with six rifles, counting himself. They wouldn’t be able to hold off a determined assault for long.
“Form up on both sides of the arch leading to the rotunda,” the Texan ordered.
A few moments later, they were in position, three men on each side of the doublewide opening. Even though the fight was in a fleeting lull, the thick smoke hanging in the air made it nearly impossible to see the enemy’s side.
Bishop flipped on the thermal, and the world changed to a flurry of psychedelic colors and shapes. He adjusted the various settings, finally choosing “white = hot.”
With a quick scan, he could identify at least a dozen men on the east side – or at least parts of them. Like his own squad, the men of Brighton were all behind cover, only the occasional arm, shoulder, or pair of eyes peeking around a corner.
Bishop was just fine with that. He could care less if they decided to just stay put. The longer Baxter had to get their retreat organized, the more of them would make it out alive.
Over three minutes passed, the two sides watching each other like two tomcats separated by a screen door. Bishop thought he heard a motor start outside, but couldn’t be sure. Once or twice, he heard Baxter’s voice booming some order, but couldn’t make out the words.
“Come on, Major,” Bishop whispered. “We ain’t got all night here.”
When the gunfire erupted behind him, Bishop jumped. His first thought was that somehow his foe had managed to get around behind him, but then he realized it was the Major’s team in front of the courthouse. What started as a few random shots outside turned into a volley before growing stronger still. Less than a minute later, it sounded like the Army men were engaged in a pitched battle.
“Oh, shit,” Bishop whispered to himself. “The rooftop shooters are trying to surround us. This isn’t good. That means our friends on the east side of the building will probably…”
Jonesy, from the other side of the arch hissed, “Bishop,” interrupting the Texan’s train of thought. “I’ve got a bunch of guys moving over here.”
Bishop scurried across the opening, barking, “Make a hole… make a hole,” as two shots zipped through the air. Replacing Jones at the edge of the arch, he raised his rifle and scanned with the imager.
The Brighton boys were definitely active, a large group of them gathering for a rush. Bishop started to raise his rifle when he felt a tapping on his shoulder. Bishop turned to find a wicked-looking smile on Jonesy’s face, one of the fragmentation grenades in his hand. Bishop nodded with a smile of his own.
In a flash, both men armed themselves with the explosives, the pins free and clear. Jonesy counted one… two… three, and they both tossed at the same time.
It seemed like an eternity before the concussion shook the wall at Bishop’s back. Taking a deep breath, the Texan peeked around the corner and spotted some men still moving. He began firing.
The men from West Texas made the rotunda a living hell. With a man high and another low on both sides of the arch, the four rifles kept up a steady, deadly rate of fire as their foe tried desperately to cross the open area.
But the fighters from Brighton weren’t the only ones suffering. It didn’t take the assaulters long to realize they only had to concentrate their fire on the arch’s frame. Horrendous volumes of bullets began impacting where Bishop’s men were hiding, each round chipping away the wood and plaster that was keeping the West Texans alive. Bishop saw one of his men take a hit in the arm from a bullet that had penetrated the thick wall, another falling to the floor after exposing himself around the corner.
Both sides struggled, both fighting the choking, blinding cloud of gun smoke, powdered plaster, and debris that filled the air. Blood from the dead and dying made the marble floors as slick as ice. In the rare lull, the pleading, desperate cries of the wounded could be heard through ringing ears.
Bishop’s magazine ran dry. He rolled out of the way and was quickly replaced by another shooter. After slamming home a fresh box of pills, the Alliance negotiator slapped the bolt release and was ready to rejoin the fray.
He had one frag grenade and two smoke canisters left. No sense in carrying this thing around, he thought, and a moment later, another explosion rocked the building. There was a momentary lull, and then it all began again.
We can’t hold this position any longer, he realized. The walls that had protected them just a few moments before were crumbling, whittled away by the relentless pounding of hundreds of bullets.
“Fall back! Fall back to the front door,” Bishop screamed over the roar of the battle.
Again, Bishop’s arm arched in a throwing motion, this time a popping hiss sounded instead of an explosion. Thick, obstructing smoke began to fill the rotunda.
After seeing his men begin to move toward the front door, Bishop began spraying random shots into the dense fog generated by the smoke grenade. He had no idea if he was hitting anything, but thought it might deter the more eager souls on the other side.
Once he was sure all of his men were clear, Bishop turned and ran like the wind to their fallback position, traversing the 40 feet in a limping gallop.
After taking cover beside one of the entrance columns, he chanced a quick glance outside. A sickening sensation filled Bishop’s core when it occurred to him that Baxter’s men weren’t in their trucks, but rather behind them. All of the visible soldiers were shooting across the courthouse lawn, most of them using wheels, engine blocks and any other suitable cover.
The sergeant appeared at Bishop’s side, his breathing labored from exertion. “The major’s been hit. He’s taken a round to the chest, but the doc says he’ll make it. There must be a hundred enemy out there, hiding in every nook and cranny. We’re surrounded. I don’t see any way to get us out of here.”
Bishop moved further outside, using the overgrown hedges as concealment. Taking in the perimeter, he thought the scene resembled one of Dante’s paintings. Two of the Humvees were burning, as were several of the pickups. Men were prone, some shooting, some wit
hering in agony. Just below, the medics had found a relatively safe nook to establish their triage. At least a dozen wounded were there, surrounding by the litter of emergency aid. Adhesive tape, bandage packaging, and bloody scraps of cloth were scattered everywhere.
“How many men are left fighting, Sergeant?”
“We’re down to less than 20, sir,” came the report. “Ammo is holding out, but I don’t know for how long.”
Before Bishop could respond, a wave of weapon fire erupted from behind. The Texan didn’t even have to look – the men from the rotunda were pressing forward again. They are the hammer, Bishop thought. They are going to pound us into the anvil.
Jonesy and his men would slow them down, but couldn’t hold forever. We have to get out, or we are all going to die right here in Brighton, Texas.
Visions of Terri and Hunter entered Bishop’s mind. He then thought about the men that had traveled with him from West Texas. He knew many of their families. Just a few days ago, he’d been shaking hands and hugging spouses, promising to bring the men back alive. Their intent had been noble, and now all this… this carnage.
We weren’t conquerors, Bishop contemplated. We weren’t here to impose our will or to take advantage for our own benefit. We came here so we could help millions of others. This just wasn’t right.
“Sir?” the sergeant’s voice sounded, cutting through Bishop’s fog.
“We’ve got no choice. We have to bust through, or we’ll all die right here. We need a diversion or some sort of cover.”
“We’ll never make it off this square,” the NCO said. “Even if we did get the men into the trucks, they would shred us to bits before we made it a single block.”
Bishop thought about making a mad dash on foot, but the wounded ruled out that option. He thought about surrender, but was reasonably confident the mayor had no intent to take any prisoners.
“I don’t see any other option,” Bishop finally announced. “Order the wounded loaded into the back of the safest trucks. We’ll use the smoke grenades to cover their loading, and then it’s pedal-to-the-metal until we bust free. Hopefully, some of us will make it through.”
“But, sir, I’m not even sure any of the trucks will run. They’re pretty shot up.”
“There’s no choice. Do it.”
Just as the sergeant turned to execute Bishop’s orders, a new wave of bedlam sounded from the buildings surrounding the courthouse.
Bishop’s first instinct was that the Brighton men were moving to close the pinchers of the vise, but the amount of incoming rounds didn’t seem to increase.
He scrambled to a nearby Humvee and went prone behind the back wheel. From that vantage, Bishop raised the thermal optic and began searching for an answer. Whatever was happening out there, it was increasing in intensity. More and more reports of rifles and shotguns rolled across the landscape, but the Texan sensed his men weren’t the target.
Around a corner, just down the street, three Brighton men rushed toward them, their heads darting back over their shoulders as if they were being chased by the devil himself. Several muzzle flashes appeared, all three of the runners falling to the pavement. “What the hell?” Bishop mumbled, trying to make sense of it all.
And then the pitch of the distant battle increased, an ever-building number of shots echoing through the town square. More men appeared, scurrying away from the courthouse. Shouts filled the air, frightened voices competing with the discharge of so many weapons.
“Sir!” a nearby soldier yelled, “I’ve got some guy over here waving a white flag.”
Bishop scrambled for a better vantage, raising his optic to study the signal. He identified only one man, brandishing a flag and then scooting down the sidewalk to duck into the next doorway. “Hold your fire,” Bishop ordered. “Let’s see what he’s up to.”
The flag bearer moved again, now closer, just across the street from the courthouse. “Come on in!” Bishop screamed as loud as he could manage. “Come on… we won’t shoot.”
Zigzagging across the lawn, Bishop recognized Frank before he reached the perimeter. It all fell into place and made sense – Evan and the famers were joining the fight.
Panting hard from his run, Frank sat on the ground next to Bishop and tried to catch his wind. “We’re hitting them from the south,” the big man reported. “Evan didn’t want your men shooting at us, so he sent me to warn you. He also wanted me to tell you that we’re running low on firepower and see if you guys can spare some weapons and ammunition.”
Bishop took a moment, visualizing the situation in his head. The Texan didn’t hesitate. “Sergeant! Sergeant!”
Pounding footfalls announced the NCO’s arrival. “Sir?”
“Take 10 men, the weapons from the wounded, and as much ammo as you can carry. Go with this man. He’s with the cavalry, and they’re here to save our sorry asses.”
Three minutes later, Bishop watched as Frank led a squad of soldiers back to his own forces. Bishop picked another five soldiers and said, “Come back inside with me. We’re going to get these guys off our backs. It’s time for a little recoil therapy.”
The rising sun offended Bishop’s eyes, but physical exhaustion discouraged much activity. Adjusting his hat instead, he decided to pull another mouthful of tepid water from the Camelbak tube draped over his shoulder.
The reflection of his own movements drew his eye to a storefront glass window. There he scrutinized the image of a bloody, ragged man sitting with his back against a mailbox. Bishop managed a smirk at the poor fellow’s state. Filthy streaks of black and grey covered his face, the dirt-darkened skin competing with the raccoon-like circles under the emotionless eyes.
Every inch of the gent’s clothing was covered in mud, dirt… and blood. There were multiple holes and rips in his shirt, one sleeve barely attached by a few dangling threads. What a pitiful wretch you are, Bishop whispered to the reflection. You look like day-old shit warmed over.
Unable to tolerate his appearance any longer, Bishop decided to study his surroundings instead, curious what the new light of day would reveal. It didn’t take long to conclude that Brighton and her people hadn’t faired any better than the wretched soul reflected back to him.
The majestic courthouse, once the center and pride of the community, looked like a disaster zone. It had started in there, the fight eventually boiling over into the streets. Still smoldering Humvees and pickup trucks lined the pavement and lawn. Soot-blackened patches of bare earth dotted the once-green grounds. And then there were the bodies.
The dead were scattered everywhere. Empty, hollow faces returned the Texan’s gaze. Corpses were lying in grotesque, unnatural positions, their limbs at odd angles, twisted in impossible configurations. There was a man draped over a car’s hood, both of his arms nowhere to be seen. Another rested against a nearby light pole, the top half of his torso a good six feet from an orphaned pair of legs.
The worst were those who had burned. One charcoal-black form was reaching for the sky, as if last night’s stars would pull him from the flesh-consuming flames. Another appeared as though he had simply laid down to take a nap while being roasted alive.
Shaking his head, Bishop decided to look toward the heavens, hoping the glance would at least provide some salvation from the carnage and destruction that surrounded him.
But that wasn’t the case.
He found himself enveloped by the remnants of battle. Columns of smoke rose into the morning blue. Already the vultures were circling, the scavengers preparing for a banquet of human flesh. There was no respite for his tortured soul. There was no vista that offered relief. Bishop decided to simply close his eyes.
It didn’t help.
The darkness of his lids was illuminated with mental pictures from his short-term memory. Dying men, screaming wounded, the vibrating dance of a man being riddled with bullets.
He saw Jonesy fall, replaying the moment when a fist-sized hole of gristle and bone appeared in the man’s chest. He recalle
d the look of fear and helplessness as his friend slid down the wall, a smeared trail of blood and tissue left behind. Bishop could still hear his final plea. “Tell my wife and kids I love them.”
There were so many dead. So many images. Frank’s head nearly severed from his body, a point-blank blast of a shotgun to blame. A man dragging himself across the street, leaving a trail of intestines and gore behind.
Bishop shook his head, self-preservation demanding the parade of memories be halted - or his remaining sanity would disappear forever. Maybe lucidity isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, he pondered. Maybe going crazy is the way out.
Unable to bear the thought of sitting and torturing himself any longer, Bishop made the difficult decision to stand. He had to go somewhere – didn’t he?
Using his rifle as a brace, he managed to achieve a knee, every cell of his body protesting the move.
And then he was on his feet, staring at his weapon.
“Are you loaded?” he questioned the carbine. He didn’t wait for an answer. He didn’t care.
The first step was a pure, scathing hell of pain. The next was worse. But he kept on putting one foot in front of the other, something drawing him back to the courthouse.
After half a block, his joints loosened, blood flowing to aching muscles and tendons. He’d never been so tired, so uncaring, so… disinterested.
Had they won? He didn’t care. Had any of his men made it out alive? He didn’t know and was too exhausted to check.
A sudden bout of introspection forced his legs to stop moving. Why are you so indifferent? Why so apathetic? Have you finally lost it? Have you finally snapped?
The questions were troubling, any answer or admission seemingly beyond his mental reach. Move your legs, Mr. Shell-shocked. Keep moving those boots.
