Preacher’s mouth opened wide as he fought in vain to get air into his lungs even as he felt himself being lifted off of the floor and held there in place by his neck. He heard Sarah’s shouted cry but it sounded as if it came from a far-off place as his eyes rolled into the back of his head.
“Preacher!”
Atlin, you gonna fight for that girl or not?
It was the voice of Uncle Joe, calling out to Preacher by his real name.
If you die, she’s gonna die too…
Preacher eyes slowly refocused. He let out a feral snarl as he ripped his left hand out of the Beast’s grasp and then slammed his palm into the bottom of the Beast’s right elbow. It was just enough to loosen the hold around his neck so that he could drop to the floor where the muscles of Preacher’s oxygen-deprived legs crumpled beneath him, causing him to fall onto his back where he lay loudly gasping for air.
The Beast growled at his prey while reaching out with his left hand to grasp the front of Preacher’s shirt and lift him upward while at the same time his massive right fist prepared to break every bone in Preacher’s skull. Sarah stood horrified, tears streaming down her cheeks as Preacher’s head rolled to the side and he looked out at her hoping his eyes could communicate to her his apology for having failed to keep her safe as he had promised.
It was the rule ever boxer knew would ultimately prevail no matter how skilled the fighter. Eventually there comes a fight you simply could not win.
The Beast’s fist descended like death itself, impossibly strong, as unyielding as it was unfeeling.
And then with a thunderous skin on skin clap, its path was abruptly halted as an even larger hand encircled it and held it firmly in place. The Beast looked up at a deeply-lined face covered almost entirely within a long, grey beard. And then the Beast stood up and found himself doing something he had rarely had to do in the entirety of his adult life – look up even further into the eyes of another man who was taller than him.
He glanced over at the hand that still held his own in place and realized he faced a strength almost equal to his own.
Almost.
“That gentleman just now getting up off the floor will be coming with me.”
The Beast disregarded Preacher’s unsteady movements to regain his feet. His attention was at that moment entirely focused upon this new and unexpected challenge.
“Who the hell are you?”
The stranger’s voice was a whispery baritone, like the sounding of a warning horn echoing out over the expanse of an open field just before the battle is engaged.
“I’m Silas Toms and that man and those he’s travelling with are leaving here with me.”
The Beast’s eyes widened as he hissed his rebuke.
“Is that right?”
With a violent jerk downward, the Beast freed his fist from Silas’s grip and then prepared to cut the taller man down to size before returning his attention to the still gasping nigger who made his way back to the blonde bitch who stood in front of the bar.
Silas stepped back and prepared for the altercation. For the first time since he was a young boy, he was uncertain if he was strong enough to defend himself against another human being.
Again the Viper Pit’s front door was opened and this time it was Sabina Markson armed with an assault rifle who stepped through. She located Preacher, Sarah and Tom Dolan and motioned for them to make their way to her. When the two shotgun-armed men near the bar prepared to aim their weapons at her, Sabina pointed the assault rifle upward and fired off four rounds into the ceiling.
Not a good idea, assholes! I’ll light you up.”
The bartender frantically motioned for his men to lower the shotguns, fearing he might get shot in the exchange of gunfire.
“Just get the hell out of my bar, you, your friends – all of you! And don’t come back!”
Tom led Sarah and Preacher toward the door and then turned around and called out to the man who had just saved Preacher’s life.
“Silas, we’re ready.”
The Beast gave Preacher a feral grin and motioned with both his hands for the rancher to make a move.
“C’mon old man, let’s see what you got.”
The bartender ordered the guard to his left to aim his shotgun at the Beast.
“No more violence inside my joint, got it? I can’t have paying customers getting killed around here. It’s bad for business. I told them to get the hell out, and that’s what they’re doing, so back off.”
The Beast’s head swiveled to the side as he glared back at the rotund bar owner.
“You telling me what to do, fat man?”
The bartender took a hard swallow and wiped the sweat off his brow with the back of his left hand.
“Yeah, that’s what I’m doing. If you don’t like it, you can get the hell out too.”
Silas backed away slowly toward the door, making certain he kept his eyes locked on the Beast who stood unmoving and glaring back at the departing rancher.
“You’ll see me again, old man. All of you…real soon.”
Once outside, Tom Dolan looked down to see both men who had been standing guard at the entrance laying face-first on the ground on the other side of the wire fence with Jackson pointing Tom’s revolver at them. The former lawman’s right brow arched upward as he gave Sabina an approving half-smile.
“Good work, Mrs. Markson.”
Sabina returned the smile but then her eyes moved down the row of vehicles to her right where Mika stood over pointing the hunting rifle at the man with the long yellow-blonde hair who was also lying on his stomach in the compacted dirt and gravel roadside parking lot. He had been left behind by the beastly giant who Sabina knew as soon as she spied him getting off his motorcycle, was trouble for Tom and the others inside the Viper Pit.
So, Sabina Markson did what any self-respecting mother of two who had somehow defied the odds and managed to keep her family safe despite hundreds of miles of increasingly dangerous, mayhem- plagued travel. She and her kids pretended to make small talk which included Mika using her own feminine wiles on the newly arrived biker while Sabina did the same to the two men guarding the entrance and then with weapons suddenly drawn, the family of three took the three men temporarily hostage which allowed Sabina access into the tavern where she found the bald-headed monstrosity on the verge of breaking open Preacher’s head.
And that, as they say, was that.
Once everyone was on the other side of the gated entrance, Tom pointed to a large stick on the ground and had Sabina hand it to him. He quickly jammed it between the door handle and the building’s exterior wall so that that someone would be unable to pull it open from inside. He then took out the small item Sabina had earlier seen him remove from the trunk of the Ford. It was a simple, brass-colored padlock which he then proceeded to lock the wire mesh gate with.
“That’ll buy us a few minutes, anyway. That still leaves the problem of gas, though.”
Silas tilted his large head in the direction of his parked jeep from which a small Asian man carrying a black, pump-action Mossberg shotgun had just emerged from the passenger side where he had been hiding for the past several minutes.
“I got room in the jeep and plenty of fuel. I won’t call it a comfortable ride, but it’ll get us there.”
“And where is there?”
It was Sarah who asked the question. Silas, sensing they were running out of what little time they had to make good their escape, was quick to respond.
“My home…there’s food, water, shelter, and plenty of weapons. That young man standing by the jeep is named Lu. He’s here to help.”
The group all turned their heads toward the Viper Pit entrance at the sound of someone attempting to pull the door open.
Tom motioned with his right hand that they should get moving.
“Time to go.”
Preacher and Sarah hopped onto the Harley and were the first to pull out onto the road followed soon after by Silas behind the wheel
of his jeep. Lu sat in the passenger seat with a seemingly content Clyde on his lap, while Tom, who felt a momentary pang of guilt for leaving the Ford behind, Sabina, Jackson, Mika and Bosco crowded into the backseat space. Preacher slowed the Harley to allow the jeep to pass as it was Silas who had to lead the way to his ranch some eighty miles away.
Unlike his journey from the ranch where he avoided the main roads, Silas intended to drive as fast as safely possible on those same roads, knowing there would be some from inside the bar who would be coming after them, in particular, an especially large and frightening someone. The jeep’s speedometer indicated they were approaching fifty miles an hour, a speed which sent every subtle bump and variation in the road vibrating through the entirety of the old jeep’s steel-welded frame.
Tom leaned forward so Silas could hear him over the rush of wind that poured over the short windshield that offered little in the way of actual protection, especially for someone as tall as the rancher.
“How did you know you’d find us in that place?”
Silas kept his eyes glued to the road ahead as he contemplated the question. Tom proved patient, remaining silent until the question was finally answered.
“My wife told me.”
Tom saw Lu glance at him and then quickly look away.
“She’s back at your home?”
Silas’s jaw tightened as he slowly shook his head.
“No…she’s dead.”
Tom started to open his mouth to ask another question but then abruptly closed it as he felt a familiar cold chill race up his spine and then rest upon the back of his neck.
My dream in the Mark Twain National Forest when I was sick after the bastards killed my family. The silver-haired woman from that dream, she was his wife.
Tom Dolan had no reason for why he knew that to be true.
He simply did.
And in that knowing, he also felt no need to ask for further explanation from Silas. It would simply remain a shared act of faith between the two men.
Tom also knew it meant he was finally in a place he was meant to be, and though the void left in the wake of his family’s murder was still at times emotionally debilitating for him, there was now the hint of hope, of purpose, of a way out from the darkness of such a terrible loss.
Sabina reached out with her left hand and wrapped it lightly around the tips of Tom’s right fingers and gave him a reassuring smile as each of them took comfort in the realization that whatever lay ahead, they would face it together.
---------------
EPISODE FIFTY-TWO:
General Reg Thompson surveyed the long-abandoned remnants of the U.S. military airfield located in the vast expanse of Nebraska farmland. Bruning Airfield was one of several World War Two-era bases utilized during the war effort for aircraft training. Nebraska was noted for weather conditions that were conducive to inexperienced pilots learning how to better navigate a variety of aircraft prior to sending them off to combat.
The base had been officially closed since 1945 and became a state-operated civilian airfield until 1969 at which time is was closed down for good. It had been left abandoned ever since.
“We conducted a quick survey of the airstrip, General and concluded it remains useable and at least one of the hangars is in serviceable condition as well, with room for both the transport craft and the F-16.”
The general gave a curt nod to Colonel Jones.
“Yup, this’ll have to do. What’s our total number, Colonel?”
The colonel glanced back at the large transport plane that had taken them from Maryland to Nebraska.”
“Eighteen men in all, sir, plus Captain Jackson.”
Jackson was the twenty-seven year old African American F-16 fighter pilot who had accompanied the transport plane, providing security that the general was thankful proved to be unnecessary. The journey to Bruning took place without incident. They were now well inside the newly formed Neutral Zone.
“Move the aircraft into the hangar. I’m not sure Sage has access to our former military satellite surveillance system, but to be safe we’ll assume he does. We don’t want satellite making out our aircraft from above. Have the fuel, weapons and ammunition remain on the transport craft in case we need to make a sudden departure. Set up hidden checkpoints on the perimeter at least five hundred yards out. Everyone is to have a loaded sidearm and rifle with them, as well as walkie-talkies set to channel seventeen, and binoculars with night vision capability, understood? We’ll rotate twelve-hour shifts, two men for each shift. Oh, and give me an updated assessment within the hour detailing our food and water supplies. I need to know how long we can wait this out before that becomes a potential problem.”
Colonel Jones gave the general a salute.
“Yes sir.”
General Meyers watched the colonel walk quickly back toward the transport plane as his voice began to bark out the general’s orders to the men.
The Bruning facility was nearly 1800 acres of flat farmland dominated by grass that in some areas was well over three feet high. Meyers had recalled an airfield assessment report from years earlier that had indicated the area to be among the most sparsely populated in the country. As such, he hoped it would provide him the ability to remain hidden from view and thus give him the time to assess how best to build and then initiate a counter-attack against whatever government alliance Fenwick Sage had formed between his EPA army, the United Nations, and the Russian and Chinese governments.
Slow-moving grey clouds gathered over the abandoned military base, indicating rain was soon to come. General Meyers stood silently watching the quick but orderly movements of his orders being carried out and wondered how many lives had been claimed by Fenwick Sage’s Race Wars already, and how many more lost lives were yet to come.
There has to be other resistance forming out there somewhere. We can’t be the only ones.
The general placed two fingers into the corners of his mouth and let out a high-pitched whistle that immediately received the attention of Colonel Jones who proceeded to jog back to where the general stood waiting.
“I need a private room in the hangar set up with the short wave, Colonel – ten minutes.”
The colonel again saluted his commanding officer.
“Yes sir.”
Colonel Jones made good on the request. It was only eight minutes later that the general sat down inside the dilapidated, greenish-paint chipped hanger structure upon a dust-covered, steel-framed, leather upholstered chair that had last been used in the 1960’s. A small rectangular window allowed him a partial view of the activity still taking place on the hangar floor below the ten by ten room that now contained the general and the battery-powered shortwave radio that the colonel had left sitting atop an old grey-metal file cabinet that was turned over on its side so it could be used as a makeshift desk.
The general reached down and powered the radio up and then closed his eyes as he tried to focus his mind entirely on the communication to follow. He wasn’t certain anyone else would hear, but knew that he had to try. If Sage was to be defeated, the general and his men were going to need help – a lot of help.
General Thompson cleared his throat as he cleared his thoughts.
“This is General Reginald Thompson, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff of the former United States of America. Reports of my demise have been greatly exaggerated. I speak to you all now about the need for an armed resistance to erupt throughout OUR nation, ladies and gentlemen. I am doing all I can to fight, and ask that you join me and those already with me who are doing so now. If you want your country back, if you are willing to die to help make that happen, please respond to this message. Let me know you’re out there.”
The general leaned back in the chair and waited. A few seconds turned to several more and then a minute passed and there was only further silence.
Finally that terrible silence was broken apart by a single reply.
“I am ready to fight and if need be, die for Ame
rica.”
And then a second voice, and a third, until more and more joined the general’s call to action.
“I will die for my nation.”
“We must fight!”
“Thank god I’m not the only one! Yes, I’m ready to lay down my life to take this country back!”
“I was nineteen when I fought in Vietnam. I’m a whole lot older now, but I’m ready to fight again. Let’s do this.”
“I did three tours in Afghanistan and Iraq, United States Marine Corps. Once a Marine always a Marine and I know I’m not the only one around here waiting and willing to fight back. Count me in, General.”
RACE WARS: Season Nine: “LAMBS TO THE SLAUGHTER”: Episodes 49-54 of an ongoing post-apocalyptic thriller series... Page 4
