Albert scurried across the dirt floor and crawled under the baler, the weapon pointed to the open door. The second man made it around the corner and crouched down, directing fire at the pond bank. He waited until the man's clip ran out and then Albert stood up and sent a swarm of ten or fifteen bullets into the back of the man's head.
He fell against the building and started to shake again. His eyes were burning. The building was taking no fire so they still didn't realize he was here. He could just stay here until it was over, just wait it out and get under some cover or make a run for it while they were concentrating on the pond. That's when the Pakistani sergeant came into the shed and stood with his back against the wall, looking down at his dead comrade but not seeing Albert who was five feet away in the corner, shivering and trying to stop the tears from blurring his vision. The Pakistani pressed his back against the wall and looked up at the ceiling as the bullets from George's troop pinged against the baler. It was at that moment he sensed Albert's presence and turned his head. Albert looked right into his eyes as they fractured with the certain knowledge of his own death. The sergeant didn't even bother to raise his rifle. His eyes were in the process of transforming from shock into defiance when Albert pulled the trigger.
George was down to five plus himself when Albert dashed from the building and ran in behind the Humvees. The .50 continued to rake the ground and the operator entranced with the rhythm of the belts jerking through the receiver and the hammering of the explosions as the shells sailed forth. Albert lay down in the grass and sighted his AK on the .50 operator and squeezed the trigger, holding it down for one long burst. Thirty terrible bees whipped through the smoke and noise and landed in the man's back in a space no bigger than a saucer. The gun stopped and he pitched forward.
The UN troops had no stomach for more and he watched as the remaining four "soldiers" scramble into two Humvees, taking the .50 with them. George's remaining troopers rose from the back of the berm and hurled bullets after them which bounced harmlessly off the armor and then began screaming like apes at the retreating vehicles.
It took them a moment to recover, but it came to them that they had not killed the machine gunner or sent the UN soldiers down the road. The gunner lay on the gravel, his guts blown out and the three men lying dead at the baler shed had never even been within reasonable LOS of the men pinned behind the pond wall.
Albert changed the magazine and stood up. They could see that he was not a UN soldier or any sort of official. The five, bedraggled, dirty men stood around waiting for George to tell them what to do as Albert got closer. George's suspicion was clear, even from the distance that separated them but he didn't put it together until Albert raised the AK and began pumping bullets into the group, killing two and wounding one. George and his remaining two men ran to their stolen Humvee and managed to get inside before Albert could change magazines. He fired a burst at the vehicle but the bullets deflected or flattened against the armor and dropped. The driver slammed the machine into drive and they took off overland, bouncing wildly across the soggy field, not even bothering to fire back at him.
The wounded man was gut shot and holding his intestines in with two bloody hands and making strained, grunting and whimpering sounds. He didn't know this man who lay on the bank of the pond, bleeding into the wet earth. Albert looked up at the house and back at the man and then shouldered his weapon.
"Please..." the man begged.
"Fuck you," Albert said, and left him crying and bleeding in agony where he lay.
He walked in the front door of the house with his rifle still slung and walked through several rooms downstairs that had at one time been well-appointed and looked after. Now there was filth everywhere, stuffing coming out of the soft furniture like blubber and nothing burnable left.
He heard the floor creak above and mounted the stairs, pulling his rifle down.
The woman he'd seen earlier came around the corner and stood against the hallway wall, arms folded across her chest. Her face was streaked with dirt and tears that had dried and she wore two different shoes.
"You carrying anything, like a gun or something?" Albert asked her.
She shook her head and unfolded her arms and opened the sweater. She wore several shirts, no bra and a man's belt held up her pants.
"Anybody else here?" he said.
"No," she whispered hoarsely. Then she cleared her throat and tried again. "No."
"I'll kill you first if you're lying," he said.
She shrugged and closed her sweater up. He pushed her ahead of him checking the three bedrooms and the closet until he was confident they were alone.
"You live here?"
"If you can call it that," she said, relaxing a bit and sitting down on the edge of the bed.
"You Grogan's wife?"
"Was."
"What were them guys doing in here this morning?"
"What do you think?" she said.
Albert nodded and put the rifle down. This must have been the master's bedroom. There was still some furniture and the bed was covered with filthy blankets and oil stains and someone had shot a hole in the door.
He smelled the dried diarrhea pulling at the hairs on his legs and shuffled uncomfortably. He needed to clean himself but there was no water here. These big modern houses were completely dependent on electricity for their function. Without it they had no water, no sewage disposal, no lights, no communication, no heat, except for the occasional useless fireplace dependent on wood they bought from the peasants or propane or natural gas fake logs they could pretend to watch while their in-laws stayed over for Thanksgiving.
"I don't suppose you have any of your husband's pants left, do you?"
She got up immediately and went to the closet and pulled out several pairs of grey dress pants and laid them on the bed.
"Jesus Christ," he said.
"I might have a pair of jeans," she said, starting towards the door. He stopped her and she threw her hands up and sat back down on the bed. Resistance was no longer part of this woman's disposition. Saying 'no' had probably been a very expensive lesson.
"You tell me where they are," Albert ordered.
"Just in the next room," she said.
He followed her in and she began rummaging through piles of unwashed clothing lying all over the floor. Eventually she extracted a pair of jeans, which would be four inches too large around the waist and three inches too long, but he took them.
"Where's your bathroom," he said. She led him to the bathroom and he pushed her inside and slammed the door.
"You come out when I say, not before," he said. "Don't test me, okay? I'll kill you as easy as I did all them others."
He went back to the bedroom and got his pants off. It wasn't quite as bad as he expected. It felt like a lot, but it was fairly easy to clean up with some rags and bottled water. He had to cut an extra hole in his belt to keep Grogan's pants on, but they were dry and relatively clean.
When he opened the door she was sitting on the toilette, waiting for him.
"You better clear out of here if you want to live," he said.
"Where are you going?"
He shrugged.
"Those UN soldiers will be back with even more firepower," he said. "And they're probably going to hit this house with a Hellfire or something like that."
"Where am I going to go?" she asked.
"I couldn't give a flying fuck," he spat. He shrugged again and turned away. He spent a few minutes arranging his pack and then hefted it, the weight immediately pulling his back muscles and his legs began aching again.
She watched him impassively. She was older than he'd guessed, maybe closer to thirty five than thirty.
"Forget it," he said, before she even spoke.
"I'll do whatever you want," she said blandly.
"I don't want anything, thanks."
"Why? Are you?-"
"Just shut the fuck up, okay?" he snapped.
He pushed her roughly out of the way
and started down the hallway.
"I can pay," she called after him.
He turned and dropped the pack, grateful for any excuse. He waited for her to speak.
"If I give you something, you take me along with you."
"Why the fuck should I do that?" he demanded. "I can't believe you got anything I want and I already told you-"
"Oh, I'll throw that in for a bonus," she said.
He followed her down the stairs and back outside.
Darkness was an hour away and he had to try and get back to his house before daylight. Normally, that might not be difficult but he was weakening, he could tell. Food hadn't helped this time, so he knew he was getting some kind of virus. Maybe it was the killer Red Plague come back to take everyone else out.
They went through the kitchen into the two-car garage where Grogan had stabled a Mercedes and a Camry. He wasn't interested in either and he looked impatiently at her.
"Oh, they already took all the gas," she said. "You think I'd still be here if I could drive off somewhere?"
She gestured and he followed her to the tool cabinet.
"In there," she said.
"Ya? Open them up," he said, crouching behind the Toyota's front wheel.
She reached down and pulled the two metal doors and said, "there," again and stepped back.
Somehow Grogan had gotten his hands on three Claymore mines, complete with triggers and detonation cord. It had to be Grogan because George would never have let them out of his sight. Albert had never seen one except in pictures but he knew what they could do. When seven or eight hundred steel balls hit you at four thousand feet per second it really hurts.
"Where did these come from?" he said, standing up.
"Who gives a shit?" she asked, incredulously.
She had a point.
"Why don't I just take them anyway and tell you to go fuck yourself?"
"I don't know. Why don't you? Anyway, if that's what you want to do, just fuck off."
She strode towards the door back to the kitchen and he remained behind, looking at the mines, a treasure beyond words to someone like himself.
"Shit."
He divided up his pack contents between them, giving her about twenty pounds of food and water while he carried the ammunition and the rest of his equipment, most of which he now realized he didn't need and should have left at home. The three claymore's added another ten pounds, not much under normal circumstances but Albert's joints ached and his skin was on fire from the illness that was creeping through him. He had already experienced a moment of vertigo as the little beasties bored their way through to his inner ear. Every step was taking energy he didn't have.
They had been walking along the edge of the road, ready to fall into the hedgerows at any instant. She trudged behind him, uncomplaining and more than able to keep up. They'd probably gone two miles when they heard the explosions and turned around to see an orange fireball erupt where Grogan's house used to be. He gave her a few moments to mourn but she didn't seem to care. It was an excuse to break, in any case and he peeled off the road into the heavy woods along the ditch and found a level place to sit with his back against a tree. She dropped her pack beside him and he took out water and handed her one of the bottles. He threw a few power bars at her and she tore the first one open.
It was still at least nine miles to the truck and even then he'd have to wait in the woods for several hours watching the property before he went in.
One thing at a time...
"Better go easy," he said. "We got a long way to go and you'll get hungry."
She said nothing as she finished the second bar.
He didn't know how long he stayed. Time had dilated in the delirium. He saw himself get up and walk but when he opened his eyes he was sitting on the ground again. His body harried by fever began to shake uncontrollably. Her face swam in and out of focus, but they did not seem to speak or communicate otherwise. Then he would think he was walking again, fire racing up his legs and pooling in his joints and his breath coming in short, insufficient gasps. This last bout had been the worst and he couldn't bring himself to stand up and start walking. He continued attempting to rise but each time a weight dragged him back to the ground and after the fourth or sixth or tenth time, he surrendered and settled onto the cold ground where he shook and moaned and could not get warm.
And then he was suffocating and ripped the membrane that had been wrapped over him and threw it aside to let the sun blast into his face.
She was sitting on the ground a few feet away, wrapped in a heat blanket like the one she had placed over him, arms hugging her legs and head resting on her knees. She came to without alarm and shuffled off the Mylar.
"Where are we?" he asked.
"Same place we've been all night," she said.
His fever was gone but he was still shaky and gulped half a quart of his water. Then he ate a bar, chewing slowly, his eyes closed.
"After that explosion you just came over here and passed out," she said.
And now it was day time and they would be visible to every marauder on the road. How had UN troops ended up in Indiana?
Invasion? Not likely. The nuclear arsenal would have been on alert from day one and if anybody or thing in this country was protected from harm, it was the boys and girls who controlled the missiles. Even with so many dead that the ranks of the qualified had been thinned to the crisis level, someone in this country somewhere was still in a position to scorch the earth. Maybe with their own troops tied up with the missiles and truck bombers they had called on the United Nations to send an international force over to help keep order. So now gangs of Africans, Chinese, Malaysians, Russians, Koreans, Syrians, Iranians...the entire panoply of Liberty-loving and America-loving folk who dreamed of nothing but peace, had been invited at long last into the country en mass, provided with fantastic weapons and unlimited ammunition and rum.
Albert and anyone like him who tried to resist government armed forces wouldn't last long and they all knew it. Peasants who lived on rocks were able to keep the U.S. Army stagnating in Afghanistan and Iraq for more than a decade before they were forced to tuck tail and head home; but the rules would be different here. Public opinion acted as a break on government actions in Iraq and Afghanistan. When U.S. troops killed little Afghan soccer players, things got dicey, public opinion soured, world opinion frowned and somebody started losing some money. But here in America, there would be no one to complain. They didn't have a chance, here. The CIA would undoubtedly be rich in the mix with drones and mobile torture chambers, special forces teams would have satellite Intel to locate groups of "terrorists" and all the parasitic government agencies would answer to no one when it came to search and seizure, standards of evidence, guilt, innocence or sentencing. To be caught was to be killed. Most of the troops and contractors would be around the large population centers but they would have enough with the Chinese and the Pakistani contingents alone to put a Humvee and a .50 in every village in the country if they wanted. He supposed George Griggson had seen that black Humvee parked unattended and just grabbed it, not stopping to consider that it would be wired and trackable a dozen different ways.
(They had found him within the hour and then eradicated his entire base; but they didn't get good old George.)
"We can't go anywhere in daylight," he said.
She lay down on the ground and covered herself with the Mylar blanket and he did the same. He slept all day and woke ravenous around sundown. She was dressed and packed up and ready to go.
He took out another couple of bars and handed her one. They ate slowly. That was it. There would be nothing else until they got back to his place and maybe nothing there, either.
He was weak from hunger, now, but the illness, had passed on. He lost his balance occasionally and teetered from hypoglycemia and there was nothing to do but wait until he recovered before moving on.
Still, she did not speak either to chat or complain unless he addressed her first and
even then her answers were clipped and business-like. That was fine with him. Maybe he could ditch her somewhere in Provost.
The light from numerous small fires led them along the road past Provost and they could make out people in the square. There seemed to be hundreds of them and as they got closer he could hear them.
"There ya go," he said, stopping and putting the pack on the ground.
"I'm not going in there. Are you crazy? What do you think I am?"
"You said you wanted to get somewhere," he said.
"I'm going with you. That was our deal, right? Now either kill me or quit trying to wiggle out of it."
"How do you know where I'm going? I might be walking to Timbuktu."
"I know who you are. Everybody knows you. That's all they talked about was how they were going to kill you and take over that place you have. Is it true you kept your food, you have-"
He left her standing in the road talking, and moved on. She ran to catch up and fell in behind him again. That was the first desperation he had heard in her since they met, the first indication that she was still alive at all, capable of wanting something and even hoping for it.
He half expected the truck to be gone or ruined when he found it but it had remained hidden and unmolested during his two-day absence. They put the packs in the back and he climbed in. He thought of abandoning her right on the road and he would have if he was thinking straight. Nothing good was going to come of this for him and he knew it. She would fuck things up, sure as hell.
As Wind in Dry Grass Page 23
