Good Fences

by Boyd Craven III

  The gang started to take cover behind the trucks, which they’d parked at angles, as soon as they saw the roadblock. They’d been openly attacked already, and had found out who the bushwhackers were. Uh, duh! Us! They weren’t horribly organized, but it became apparent that the assortment of weapons they were using wasn’t something they’d worked with or trained with much. For example, I peeked my head up as a guy with what looked like an M16 started spraying lead all over. In a second or two he was completely out and still standing. I saw two bullets hit him in the chest, seemingly from two different directions, judging how his body was flung apart in half a heartbeat.

  Another gang member was shooting a pump action shotgun, but the range he was firing at us from was so far out I doubted he was getting the spread he was hoping for. I doubted he was using slugs, because the rail on the top of the gun indicated that it was either a duck gun or a trap gun and, if he’d thrown some big lead through it, he would have torn off the choke tubes, or blown the front of the gun off. Another one was firing a handgun at a range that I’d only use a rifle at.

  I lined up targets, no use thinking of them as humans at that point, and fired. Some were hits, some were misses and lead made pock marks on the heavy counterweight of the backhoe above me.

  “Brenda, you ok?” I called up.

  “It’s a turkey shoot,” she hollered back.

  The gang must have thought that the only fire coming at them was from Kristen, Ken and I. I hadn’t even heard the glass shatter above me. A shout went up as one of the defenders stood a little too high and got hit in the neck, while his foxhole buddy screamed for help. Fire, repeat, fire repeat. It was almost monotonous and inhumane.

  “Grenades!” someone shouted as round spherical globes were tossed over the fence.

  Somehow, they’d used the chaos of the battle to sneak two or more people up in a position right next to the fence. They’d been missed, and had used the heavy cover at the side of the road to move in close. The grenades hit near the gate, near the foxholes, and one dropped right into a foxhole right next to the right gate post. The explosions rocked the gate and flung bodies as it tore into them.

  “Oh shit,” I screamed, trying to find a target.

  From cover, I could see somebody duck behind a tree, to the far left of the gate. He went to make a wild overhanded throw when I saw his head turn into pink mist at the exact same moment I heard a shot from above. Brenda had got him, but the explosion on that side of the fence was a lot more violent than I had expected from one grenade.

  “Damn,” Kristen swore, changing magazines.

  We fired on, and I had to break to start reloading mags, but the fire coming across was quite a bit lighter than it had been moments ago. Were they regrouping? Retreating? Engines fired up, but the men didn’t hop into the beds. I quit reloading and put what I had into the AR and charged it. My gun was made to shoot quite accurately and, in the hands of Brenda, it would probably be as deadly as anything out there. I, on the other hand, was a mere mortal and, although I’d been making accurate shots, I worried about what I was going to do. I fired on the tires, and first one truck and then another was disabled as the tires were flattened. Ken patted me on the shoulder and started firing as well. If they were moving the trucks but the men weren’t leaving, whatever they were doing was not a good thing for us.

  “What do you think?” Kristen asked Ken.

  “I think there’s something coming. Why move the trucks?”

  The firing from the other side stopped by another degree as men started pushing the trucks out of the way as an air horn sounded. At an almost fevered pace, the drivers and men pushing tried to move the trucks as the flat tires lost their beads. We fired on the men pushing, and then we started firing on the drivers but, as something approached, the men who were still alive and pushing abandoned the trucks and dove for cover.

  “Jesus,” Ken breathed, as an old Kenworth semi pulling a gravel dump trailer came barreling down the road.

  Everybody in our group started firing on it as it plowed through the trucks and the gang members that hadn’t moved fast enough. It looked like sheet metal had been bolted or welded to the front, making a shield. The driver’s window was a narrow slit, with rusty looking sheets of steel covering most of the flat glass. My blood ran cold as I changed magazines for the ones I’d put a strip of red tape on. The two magazines that I’d not used yet. I charged the AR and started firing.

  “What is this? Mad Max?” Kristen yelled.

  I didn’t answer. I aimed for the front cowling of the screaming truck that was a scant one hundred yards away, and closing fast. I started firing, seeing holes every time I could fire. The gang must have picked up or absorbed another one because our scant Intel didn’t have any of this going on! Smoke or steam erupted, but the truck didn’t slow. I spent the remainder of the magazine shooting towards the tires, hoping to make it lose control. All that momentum, all that force. We weren’t ready for that! I pulled the charging handle and was going to try to aim for the fuel tank when Ken tapped me and yelled into my ear.

  “Go for the driver, the sheet metal—“

  The truck was almost kissing the gate when I opened up and peppered the entire cab of the truck. I didn’t know if any of my shots found the target, but the truck roared through the gate like it was nothing. The swinging gate literally took the heads off of people who were positioned too close to the swing of it in foxholes. I kept firing until the truck jerked hard to the right and tipped. The sound it made was horrible. Grass, gravel and rock from the driveway flew up as the dump trailer gouged deep furrows in the land. Many of our people started fleeing and quite a few were shot as the gang moved towards the now open and unmanned gate.

  “Shit,” I cursed, “I’m out,” I said pulling the mag and started reloading with the ammo I’d brought again.

  Brenda’s shots had been slow and well placed. Now it sounded like she’d gone with a full auto. I knew hers wasn’t, so I could only assume that it was her firing as fast as she could. Kristen as well was laying down a deadly barrage of fire, but the numbers were too overwhelming as more thugs joined in the fight in the wake of the semi.

  “We have to fall back, leave this place,” I said grimly.

  The gang was sitting in our foxholes, shooting back at us and, other than hoping they ran out of ammo first, there wasn’t much we could do. None of them had advanced as far as the turned semi, but it wouldn’t be long.

  “No, not yet,” Ken yelled.

  I got my magazine topped off and started on another even though things were getting hairy all around us, and potshots were being taken at the backhoe pretty regularly. I knew when the big push by them or our retreat came, I’d be out of luck if I had an empty gun. So I worked as quickly as I could, bloodying my thumbs at the quick and careless reloading. I wiped them on my shirt and stopped after three magazines and charged my AR. The gang was advancing, running low towards our position, and I could see somebody pulling the pin on a round globe.

  “Grenade,” both Ken and I yelled at the same time, and ate dirt.

  Kristen was pushed under Ken’s dive beyond the second set of tracks, and I went between the tracks under the big digger. I hoped Brenda had seen or heard, but things had gone silent above us and I prayed it was because she was reloading. The explosion rocked me, almost lifting me off the ground with the concussion, but I wasn’t hit by shrapnel. A sharp pain ripped through my head during the explosion and then everything went silent.

  I crawled to the edge of the tracks, feeling dizzy. Either things were moving, or I was wobbling more than I realized. A leering face with teardrop tattoos under the eyes was smiling back at me from no more than four feet away. He pulled a cheap AK knockoff up and, as his finger was finding the trigger, four holes appeared in his chest and shoulder. He fell back. I rolled on my back to get my gun up and looked. Ken was holding a thumbs up at me as if in question. I tried to hold one back up to him but I felt myself passing out.

&nb
sp; * * *

  I woke up to hear gunshots. Weird, I’d been deafened by that blast. Maybe it was only temporary? I tried to roll to my stomach and puked when a wave of nausea ripped through me. I knew what the problem was, and I didn’t have time for a concussion, but it was what I had to deal with. Ken motioned for me to stand up and when I did, I almost fell again. He wasn’t taking cover like we’d been moments ago. Moments? How long was I out?

  “Don’t silhouette yourself,” he said, pointing.

  My hearing was coming back, good.

  The gang was fleeing towards their trucks as what looked like two military hummers with .50 Cal’s on top spewed shells faster than men could run. The men the shells hit seemed to explode wherever it hit them. A leg? Gone. Arm? What arm? Take a shot through the chest and the gang was lifted off their feet with a hole blown all the way through them, their internal organs flying through their cavities.

  “Who is that?” I asked.

  “I’m hoping it’s the National Guard and not NATO,” Ken said, “keep it frosty.”

  My legs wobbled and, as I started to fall, Kristen grabbed me and eased me down.

  “How bad is it?” I asked them.

  “You look like you hit your head,” Kristen said, “Other than that, cuts, bloody thumbs—“

  “How bad is the community?” I asked her.

  She looked down at her feet before turning to look back at me.

  “I don’t know,” she said in a small voice.

  I knew I was passing out again so I made sure I didn’t hit my head. I leaned back against the treads of the backhoe as I saw two feet hit the treads from above. It was Brenda’s boots. I could tell by—

  22

  Soft hands checked me for wounds. My ears were being examined and cleaned with a wet cloth. I tried to open my eyes, but I was too dizzy. Sleep. I wanted Lucy and Spencer and I wanted sleep. A kiss on the cheek, a soft body lying next to me on my bed. On my bed?

  I tried to sit up, but it made my stomach revolt and a bucket was put in front of me. When I finished I chanced opening my eyes and saw all of my friends in the doorway or in the bedroom with a stranger in uniform. I was sweating buckets from being sick and nauseas and embarrassed. How long had they been staring at me?

  “Hey,” I said.

  “Hey baby. Don’t move fast,” Lucy said from the side of the bed.

  I looked down and Spencer was curled up next to me, his thumb in his mouth, and snoring softly. In his other hand was a piece of notebook paper. I ignored everybody and stared at the paper until I could make out what was drawn on it. I squinted my eyes and could make out three stick figures. One was taller than the others, one came roughly to its chest and there was a small one. They were all linked stick hand to stick hand.

  I couldn’t make out the names beneath it but I knew what it was.

  “How long have I been out?” I asked.

  “A couple hours,” the man in uniform said, “you took quite the beating out there somehow. How did you hit your head?”

  “Grenade I think. Lifted me up and sideways. Didn’t know I hit my head.” I told him.

  “You’ve got a line of stitches running across the back of your head now baby,” Lucy told me, her hand brushing my arm.

  “What happened? Is everyone ok?” I asked, trying to make out faces.

  Randy, Brenda, Brandon and his three boys, Kristen, Ken, and the twins were sitting in the corner with coloring books. Spencer and Lucy were by me, along with George Jr. He was standing just outside the doorway next to the soldier.

  “It was pretty bad,” Ken admitted, “We lost ten people, most of it to the gate breach and grenades,” he looked down.

  Ten people. The neighbors had provided twenty shooters, and another ten in support personnel for reloading magazines. In one fell swoop, they were down by a third while we were safe. I sat back, wincing as I could felt the line of soreness.

  “Who stitched me up?” I asked.

  “One of my guys. I’m Lieutenant Costello, and we’ve got our medical team looking everyone over. Of the survivors, you’re one of the worst hurt,” he said.

  “Who are you guys?” I asked.

  “My men are active duty mixed with National Guard, come down from Camp Grayling. We’re to secure the state and put down looting wherever we can and we’re supposed to link up near Detroit, Ann Arbor and Dearborn.”

  My head swam but I got it, we got lucky. Real lucky. The alternative to not fighting a losing battle is to lose and die. We would have died if it hadn’t been for these guys.

  “We’re a bit off the highway,” I told him, meaning it as a question.

  “We followed up on rumors of the released prisoners,” he told us all, “Rumors had us pushing west towards your farm here. The first two communities we checked had been completely destroyed, the inhabitants tortured and killed. We heard the explosion from miles away and came to investigate. It was pretty clear to us who were the good guys and bad guys. Unfortunately, two of the men killed were from friendly fire. I’m very sorry.”

  His face was stoic, but I could see that he was upset by that. Lucy handed me a Dixie cup half filled with water. I took a sip and fought down my gorge.

  “If you hadn’t shown up when you did, we’d all be dead,” I told him.

  He nodded and continued talking. “Your friends and neighbors told us about the sacrifices and problems you all have been going through. Your wife Lucy has been telling us that you’ve been feeling guilty about—“

  “We’re not married, not yet.”

  “Oh, well… uh… she said that you’ve been feeling guilty about not being able to do more and help more. I want you to know, your community has done better than most I’ve seen as we roll south through the state. Don’t doubt yourself, and don’t blame yourself for your losses today.”

  Dammit, he had been talking to Lucy, because he was hitting every guilt trip I was preparing myself to experience. I looked to her and she smiled at me and gave my arm another squeeze.

  “But I could have done things differently, maybe it would have made a difference,” I said.

  “No, from what it sounds you did what you had to do until harvest time. I just wanted to thank you personally because…” he looked behind him and Pete the lawyer walked up into the doorway. “You saved my little brother, even if he’s a liberal retard, no load, pencil dicked, puss nutted, pansy ass mother fucker.”

  I’m sure he meant that as an insult but we all busted up laughing. Within seconds I was reaching for the bucket again and when I was done I was still laughing as my head spun.

  “Oh, and about the husband and wife thing; we have a Chaplin with us,” the lieutenant said, walking out of the doorway.

  Everyone broke out in cheers and dizzily I looked at Lucy and smiled. I would, I do.

  * * *

  The guard unit bivouacked at the farm. They moved the trees blocking the road and their combat engineers reinforced the gate and got it re-hung for us, before they righted the semi and towed it out of the driveway. What did they get? A community to rest in for a few days. The best corn on the cob in the state of Michigan, some smoked ham, wild game and company. We didn’t have much to share, but they loved every bit of it. There really weren’t as many soldiers as I would have thought, perhaps twenty or thirty, but I spent most of that time laying on the bed. On the last day of them being there, Randy, Ken and Brandon came into the bedroom and dragged me to the bathroom.

  “I don’t know if I can do this,” I said, miserable from the dizziness.

  “Dude, we all get cold feet once in a while, we’re just here to make sure it’s a wedding and not a funeral. Lucy would—“

  I laughed as I stripped and got into the shower. Once they heard the water start they walked in and sat on any open surface they could.

  “I’m not talking about that, I meant washing my hair. I’m wobbly and my head is killing me,” I admitted.

  “Ohhh…..” Randy said.

  “I’ve go
t something I have to do real quick. Yell if you need me,” I heard Ken say.

  “Ok, will do.” Brandon told him.

  “I thought only girls did this?” I heard Brenda ask from the doorway.

  “Don’t want him to fall,” Randy told her.

  I let the water wash over my head. It’d been a while since I’d had a shower, and a sponge bath wasn’t the same thing as nice hot water. It hurt at first but soon the sheer joy of being clean overpowered the sharp pain. The hot water made my already wobbly muscles relax, loosening up the tensions I’d been feeling.

  I turned the water off and an arm poked through the back of the shower with a towel.

  “Coming out,” I warned them, wrapping the towel around my middle.

  “Ok, we’re out of here. You fall, yell.” Brandon said.

  I heard the door close. I took a step out and almost slipped but the grab bar saved me. Standing on firm ground, I toweled off and sat on the closed toilet seat, feeling my stitches and pulling my hand back to see if there was any blood seeping. Nope, it looked safe.

  “You ok in there?” the banging on the door startled me. Ken’s voice.

  “Yeah, just about to come out. Ya’ll didn’t put some clothes in here for me did you?” I asked, looking around.

  “No,” they both answered and giggled like schoolgirls.

  “Damn.”

  I wrapped the towel tighter around my waist and opened the door and headed to the bedroom. The group minus Ken, Kristen and Lucy were all there to jeer me. I could take a joke and wolf whistle like anyone so I scurried quickly and shut the door to my bedroom. It was empty, thank God.

  What I found though, was my suit had been carefully laid out on the bed with a note:

  Hurry up and dress. My men are pulling out of here at 14:00 and we’d like to give you enough time.

  Lieutenant Costello

  I got dressed as quick as I could, but couldn’t find my dress shoes anywhere. I shrugged and put on my least worn work boots and looked at myself in my mother’s dressing mirror. I looked thin and drawn compared to my usual rangy look. Food, worry and comfort had been tossed out a long time ago, but I looked like a survivor. I debated adding my .45, and decided it wouldn’t hurt. I got my concealed holster and put my gun in it. You just never know.