After reconnoitering the area, and setting up their plan, Piggy rode into the looters’ camp, as the other members of the posse watched from the shadows.
“Up you uncircumcised Philistines! Wake up, you swine!” A few of the men struggled to leap to their feet as the others slowly rolled out of their bedrolls. It took awhile, but soon enough, they realized that they had a stranger in their midst, and started drawing their weapons, surrounding Piggy.
“Easy there, you Philistine dogs!” Piggy said, dismounting. “We’re going to do this Piggy’s way! I am Piggy, and I have you right where I want you! Drop your weapons!”
Chapter 17 - Gareth
Despite Phillip’s protestations, Gareth was on the front lines when the battle began at the Penateka Dam. He understood that he was both a friend and a valuable tool of militia propaganda; hence, it was understandable that Phillip wanted him out of harm’s way. Still, from the moment he saw Phillip’s plans, he knew that he wouldn’t miss this fight for anything in the world. Frankly, during all the years of training and schooling at the feet of the greatest military minds of Aztlan, he had never seen a more brilliantly devised defensive strategy. In his view, Phillip was one of the greatest generals since Stonewall Jackson.
Gareth’s unique position and experience allowed him to examine the military plans of both sides impartially and objectively, as much as was possible. Thus, he had to admit that, if he were on the side of Aztlan, he would be doing exactly what the Aztlani general was doing. From their limited point of view, their plans made sense.
From what he had learned from militia scouts and out-riders, the invaders’ plans were now quite evident.
Aztlan had brilliantly skirted Bethany to the south in the opening days of the campaign, using the diversionary failure of the attack on Bethany as cover. The Ghost militia didn’t even know that Aztlan had advanced that far eastbound until it was too late and the Vallensian refugees had already been slaughtered. Once they had reached the area of Lampasas, the army had turned and marched northward, eventually making a forward line west of Dublin, stretching from Deleon to Comanche. From there, quietly and with purpose and precision, they had marched the entire front westward, sweeping the Vallensian refugees in front of them, and eventually enveloping and destroying the “heretics”. Only those Vallenses who had traveled as far as Chalk Mountain had survived. However, given that their numbers were so small, Aztlan did not consider pursuing them to be worth the effort.
According to the Ghost militia outriders, Aztlan had conscripted hundreds of civilian looters, thieves, and gangs to do the actual killing of the Vallenses, and had promised them all the rape, plunder, and pillaging they could possibly want if they would do the dirty work. In this way, at least to Aztlan, their hands were clean of genocide and the slaughter of innocents.
Gareth paused for a moment and his thoughts rolled back to his childhood and the days spent in his father’s expansive library. He had read hundreds of his father’s books, both fiction and non-fiction, of the time before the collapse, and he had been absolutely fascinated by them. He had especially enjoyed his father’s collection of post-apocalyptic books because those had attempted, with varying degrees of success, to look into the future and see what life might be like after a million different collapse scenarios. One common thread amongst them all was the omnipresence of the inevitable and ubiquitous traveling gangs of looters and ne’er-do-wells. In the books, the gangs of low-life misfits were always pictured as inbred mutant-zombie-biker trash; clownish representations of the lowest dregs of white-trash society; prison escapees and assorted trailer dwellers that enjoyed raping anything that moved and kicking puppies for fun.
Gareth had to smile at the irony of how things had really turned out. For the most part, in the last 20 years, the looter gangs of pillaging gypsies had been made up of former middle-class suburbanites. They were cubicle drones and middle-management wannabes who had given up any moral high ground in exchange for moral relativism long before there was even any sign of collapse. After almost 50 years of brainwashing by the self-esteem cult, where children—irrespective of their natural ability— were mind-numbed by years of video games and sport into believing that they ‘deserved’ a corner office, a regular paycheck and a paid vacation regardless of their failure to attain even the lower rungs of mediocrity, the die had been cast for the few of this class that actually survived the crash.
When 90% of the population dies—most within the first year, due to their unpreparedness and their inability to think for themselves, adapt, and overcome the new challenges—some interesting statistical realities emerge. Of those who survived, in general, most were intelligent and engaged individuals who possessed an ability to process information in real-time. Survivors almost universally had the ability to innovate while under pressure, without panicking or giving up. However, there were a small percentage of survivors who—having already succumbed to moral relativism and the wicked philosophies found in video games and movies—fell rather naturally into the survival ethics of crime and the utilitarian pack mentality.
Sure, there were inner-city gangs and thuggish looters in the first days after the collapse, but those people perished pretty quickly—especially in Texas, where everyone had guns. The new class of criminals came from the upper and middle-class of disaffected urban know-it-alls and even rural ranchers and cattlemen, who believed that whatever you did to survive was good and right, even if it wasn’t moral or just. Murder is easy when you have lived your whole life as an entitled brat.
The looter gangs of the last two decades didn’t come roaring up on motorcycles, blowing up bunnies with hand-grenades. They looked like the poor and disheveled homeless of the early 21st century, and they might approach your ranch or community with women and small children out front, aiming to appear as poor, helpless people, just looking for a handout. They knew that someone was bound to feel sorry for them and would let them in. The rape and the pillage happened later, but when it did, the victims never expected it or saw it coming.
Such was the reality of what Aztlan unleashed on the Vallenses. Groups of looters followed large armies like sea birds would follow a shrimp boat, and these groups had a particular hatred for the Vallenses, because the Vallensian countryside—some of the most productive areas of Texas—had been patrolled ruthlessly by the Ghost militia for the last 20 years. The sweet and delicious heart of the Vallensian lands was now ripe for the picking, and the looters wanted all of it.
Hence, Aztlan had turned the looters loose on several thousand helpless and unarmed Vallensian refugees. Satisfied that their deed would be done, they had continued their slow and deliberate march westward, burning and destroying farms and villages as they went—the looter gangs killing the Vallenses before them, and devouring the land like locusts in their wake. Sherman’s March was being revisited as Aztlan moved westward towards Bethany.
As the enemy approached Lake Penateka, their options diminished. While the decision to move all the way to the east and attack from there in order to avoid the Bethany Pass, the Thicket and all of the other natural hindrances to the south and west was a brilliant move, the Aztlani forces now had some difficult choices to make. If they were to swing south again, far below Penateka, they would be back to square one—they’d still have to deal with The Thicket and the Bethany Pass. To move northward was an even worse choice. North of the lake was extremely difficult country. In most of that area, county roads did not exist even before the collapse. The region was thickly forested, and the roads that did exist were extremely narrow. The trees came right up to touch the sides of the roads. An army marching westward down those roads for days would be picked apart by an enemy they would never even see.
The militia had put a Ghost unit to the north to make it look as if the militia expected Aztlan to move that way, but for Aztlan to go north would have been a real suicide on their part.
In effect, Phillip’s plan had made Aztlan’s decision for them. They would squeeze through the insignificant op
ening just below the Penateka Dam. They would think that it was a masterstroke, and that the militia wouldn’t be expecting them there. Phillip had reinforced this idea by keeping all of his movements in the Penateka area completely shielded and invisible to the enemy. Even now, the hundreds of militia soldiers in place at the south and west sides of the lake and the dam were completely hidden from Aztlan. Thus, to keep the northern militia units from sweeping in behind them, Aztlan intended to blow up the dam behind them.
The most brilliant part of the plan was that Phillip had no intention of winning the battle at the dam. He intended to lose. He had to put up just enough resistance to make it look as if an inferior militia force had been overwhelmed by a superior army. Phillip intended to win by losing, and Aztlan had to be drawn into the trap because they would think that they were winning. The militia needed to kill so many of the Aztlan soldiers that by any accounting it would have to be considered a resounding loss, while at the same time convincing the Aztlani generals and soldiers that they were engaged in a great victory. Gareth was staggered by the genius of it all. He was never gladder not to be Phillip’s enemy.
Aztlan, indeed, just as Phillip had predicted, swept in quickly and intently towards the dam. Gareth held his breath when, for a moment, it looked as if the invader would actually cross on the top of the dam, across the dam road, instead of continuing towards the easier and wider crossing below the dam. This wouldn’t have been a tragedy, but it would have made the militia’s position exponentially more difficult. Gareth himself, and all of the warriors hidden to the south and west, would have had to fight uphill to plug the dam road in time to keep up with the plan.
The Aztlani vanguard paused at the entrance to the dam road, and for some time actually considered crossing that way, before some officers rode up and ordered them to keep moving down the hill to cross just south of there where the lake overflow waters trickled southward as a shallow creek.
He heard a noise and looked behind him as David Wall rode up and joined him in the woods overlooking the battlefield. Their orders were for the militia cavalry to launch a surprise attack downhill, just as Aztlan began the uphill climb on the west side of the creek. They were to engage only briefly, before fleeing back up the hill in full retreat, hopefully drawing the ‘victorious’ Aztlanis along behind them.
Because the Ghost militia, as a policy, never, ever engaged in frontal assaults, anyone who was fully learned in their tactics might well smell a trap at this point. Indeed, this was one weakness in the plan, which could not have been avoided. Time would tell if the Aztlani leadership was adept enough to sense that they were being led into a slaughter.
At some invisible and silent signal, the militia cavalry appeared mystically from the tree line, and Gareth could see the surprise and shock on the faces of the Aztlani troops as the Ghost militia appeared out of nowhere and was suddenly upon them. Some of those troops were able to take up their weapons and fire a few shots. Consequently, several militia riders were killed within the first seconds of the attack.
Regardless of the plans and contrivances of men, riding into enemy fire is very disturbing. Prior to this, he had only ridden into battle at Bethany, and in that instance, they had attacked from the rear, relying on the element of surprise. During the first few moments—moments that seemed to last an eternity—Gareth found himself unsettled, for he could actually hear bullets flying by his head. He felt the ‘thump’ of one as it pierced his coat as he rode forward, swinging his sword.
David was still on his right and Gareth heard the pastor’s son shouting encouragement as they rode onward. He wondered if David was actually yelling at himself.
Within seconds, they crashed into the Aztlani troops, slashing their way into the throng of surprised men. Their job was to kill as many enemy soldiers as possible within just a few minutes, while listening for the signal to retreat. The slaughter was great, and he lost count after he personally had killed twelve Aztlani soldiers.
Fully half of the militia—those who had volunteered to do so—then killed their own horses with shots from hidden pistols, and proceeded to scream ‘Retreat!’ and, ‘All is lost! Run for your lives!” The mayhem and confusion truly made it look like the militia cavalry had been routed, even though only a handful of the Ghostmen had been lost.
The Crown Prince and David, upon hearing the call to retreat, turned and began to ride back up the hill when David’s horse was shot out from under him, tossing him violently to the ground. Gareth reached down and hauled David onto the back of his horse and, albeit with some difficulty, continued the retreat up the hill.
Aztlan’s leaders, having watched the engagement from the distance on the east side of the creek, and seeing all the horses and dead men writhing on the ground, sensed an immediate and overwhelming victory and ordered a full assault. Aztlani soldiers poured down the hill and across the creek, and the militia let them come without firing, except for some token resistance fired by snipers up on the dam, and back to the west in the trees.
What came next was choreographed to perfection, as the militia, using the method of Genghis Khan, pulled back rapidly in the center of their lines—creating an enveloping bubble, as the Aztlani army moved westward toward the Wall ranch. The enemy officers, sensing a great victory, and wanting to be part of it, did not lag behind the rear-guard. Instead, they bolted forward towards the middle of the host, and were thus unaware when the militia’s northern unit swept in behind the enemy army, effectively slamming shut the back door. The attempts to blow up the dam had failed, but there were few people there to notice.
Heedless and ignorant, the Aztlani army—albeit still in ranks—rushed forward in pursuit of what they thought was the bulk of the defeated and retreating militia. Gareth could see their faces contorted in the rapturous throes of victorious glee, despite the fact that, unbeknownst to them, for every five miles they marched, one out of every two of them was killed by snipers and crossfire. It wasn’t until, a few hours later, when the Aztlani force arrived within two miles of the Wall Ranch, that the officers began to notice that their army had considerably shrunk.
Part of the reason for their ignorance of what was happening to them was that they had so far outpaced their rear-guard that they didn’t even realize that they no longer had one. The militia had effectively destroyed almost one-half of the enemy without their leadership even realizing it.
Eventually, though, the reality of the situation began to sink in, and the Aztlani officers started to recognize that their army was now enveloped with no way to move but forward. Unhappily for their men, the officers reasoned that—since the way forward was open, it had to be the way out. So, they kept up the march, hoping that they would soon outreach the forces that harried them on both sides, and from the rear. The path of least resistance was forward, and forward they went.
David had procured another horse from a dead Aztlani cavalryman, and had rejoined Gareth on the south side of the advancing Aztlani army.
“We must ride forward, Prince, and get to the ranch, so that we can participate in the defense,” David said, the excitement of battle making him slightly short of breath.
“The way gets exceedingly narrow here,” Gareth replied, “we’ll be seen.”
“Follow me. We’ll shortcut through the Thicket. No one knows the Thicket like me, except maybe Ruth.”
They bolted to the left and, soon, they were immersed in the Thicket. “Stay right on my tail, Prince Gareth, and don’t make a mistake or you’ll likely kill your horse and then you’ll have to walk out!”
David expertly negotiated the almost imperceptible game trails and switchbacks of the Thicket, and Gareth did his best to stay directly on the tail of the horse in front of him.
In less than an hour, they were near the southeast corner of the Wall Ranch, and Gareth gave ample vocal warning that they were not the enemy, so that they wouldn’t be shot by the troops manning the pillboxes.
They found Phillip in the command center set up i
n the Wall’s dining room. Flushed with excitement, David reported to Phillip all he had seen and all that had occurred during the militia’s planned retreat.
Strangely enough, Phillip was neither surprised nor excited about the news that his plan was proceeding flawlessly. His blue eyes never gave even a twinkle or shine as he stared out the window to the east. After a moment, he gave orders to The Mountain and several other militia leaders, and then began pacing the room back and forth.
“This is the worst type of battle for me,” he said, “and the absolute worst time in the battle. I can do no good for my men in any of the pillboxes—isolated from command—neither can I assault the enemy because our forces are already hidden and in place. I have to trust my men to do their duty, and wait for the results.” He paused and closed his eyes, “I feel just as I did when my Juliet was pregnant again, and I was waiting for word…”
With that, his strength gave out, and he slumped into a heavy oaken chair. Tears came to his peerless blue eyes, until he closed them again in silence.
Gareth sensed that the militia commander needed a moment, so he indicated to David to meet him outside.
“We ought to do something productive,” David said. “However, since we aren’t in command, maybe we should join the men in one of the pillboxes where we can watch the defense unfold?”
With that, the two men walked back to the southeast, and climbed down into the underground structure, joining the three militia men who were armed with fully automatic machine guns.
There was no conversation for some time as they awaited the ambush on the Aztlani forces. After a few minutes of silence, David looked at Gareth and a strange look of distress passed over his face.
“You royal idiot! You’ve been wounded!”
Only then did Gareth notice the blood that had pooled around his collar. The shot, he had assumed, must have gone through his coat, and had actually hit him in the shoulder, almost precisely where he had been stabbed by the spy Ronald Getz.
The Last Pilgrims Page 19
