by John Grit
Men ran from cover to a pickup; one got in the driver’s seat, four in the back. The driver sped down the bridge until Nate put a bullet through the windshield and killed him. Deni started in on those in the back. Nate joined her, and they soon had all of them dead or lying wounded in the bed of the pickup.
Reaching into a pocket, Nate pulled out four tracer rounds. He removed the magazine from his rifle and loaded them. The truck had come to a stop at an angle, leaving the gas tank exposed to rifle fire. It took three rounds to set the truck ablaze. Nate hoped the bridge would burn, too. If not, the truck would be one more obstacle the killers would have to overcome if they wanted to rebuild the bridge well enough to get their vehicles across. Why don’t they turn around—unless they plan to repair the bridge? They must need to get across bad.
He moved closer to the road, looking for Deni. He needed to talk to her. But how could he cross without being shot?
Water had washed a gully across the road two hundred yards back from his position. It was only a foot deep in places, a little more in others. He thought about trying to cross there, but his pack would be visible above the shallow gully, and he did not want it shot up. It was not enough protection anyway. A quarter-mile down the road, there was a hill. He could get there safely by staying in the trees, then crossing on the reverse slope.
I hate leaving Deni unsupported for so long, but it’s the only way.
By running as fast as he could, weaving through trees and brush, he made it to the hill in five minutes. Firing intensified while he crossed the road on the reverse slope. He fell to his stomach and crawled to the top of the hill. They were rushing the bridge, and Deni was struggling to drive them back.
Nate adjusted his back sight for range and a five-mile-an-hour wind coming out of his right, then slipped his left arm into the shooting sling. His withering fire halted them by the time they got to the break in the bridge. Before they were able to get back behind their vehicles for cover, Deni and he had killed ten more.
Nate assessed the situation. They won’t try that again. The deputy said these guys are organized. I see no evidence of that yet. He crawled across the road and headed for Deni, using the cover of trees.
Deni did not hear him coming up behind her, so Nate stepped behind a tree and called out. “Time to relocate, Deni. We have to go.”
She turned her head around. Relief on her face, she ran toward him. They left the river valley behind, stopping after one thousand yards.
They sat on a log to talk.
“What about Sam?” Deni asked.
Her eyes told him she knew the answer, but he dreaded telling it anyway. “I think he was shot and his foot slipped off the clutch. That’s why the Cat wound up on the bridge, collapsing it and falling in the river. I could not see him after. I guess he ended up under the Cat. I’m sure he’s dead.”
She looked away. “I hate it.”
“So do I. But we’re not out of this yet, so we’ve got to keep our heads working full time.”
“I don’t get why they didn’t leave already,” Deni said. “They can’t get their vehicles across now.”
“I’ve been wondering about that, too. They must think they can repair the bridge. They’re in a hurry and don’t want to turn around and go another way, I know that. But I don’t know why.”
Her eyes lit up. “They’re being pursued. But by whom?”
“Bingo. Either way, we have to hold them here as long as possible. The more time they lose here, the less time they’ll have to stop and raid our farm. They may keep driving by, especially since our drive is blocked.”
“If we get lucky, whoever is chasing them will catch them on that side.”
He nodded. “We can’t bet our lives on luck though.”
She checked her magazine pouches. “I’ve got a mag and a half left.”
“I’m running low, too. We need that duffel full of ammo.”
She stood. “There’s no way. Don’t even think about it.”
“Oh, I’ve thought about it, but you’re right; there is no way. At least…not now.”
Deni’s eyes showed worry. “They’ve sent men up- and downriver to swim across out of our sight.”
“Yep. They’re hunting for us as we sit here.”
“If you don’t want to run, what?” Deni asked.
“Come on, I’ll show you.”
Chapter 7
Deni looked downhill at the men milling about on the bridge. “One thousand yards?”
“That’s what I estimate,” Nate said, “and I better not be off or I’ll miss every time.” He raised the back sight on his M14 to shoot high at one thousand yards so he could aim low and the front sight would not obscure his targets. At that range, the front sight would appear larger than a man’s chest. “Wind’s in our face—zero value.”
“I knew a couple snipers out of Benning; you sound like them.”
“I wasn’t a sniper, but Rangers are trained to reach out past normal carbine range. I have fifty rounds for my revolver. You may see some long-range revolver shooting before this is over.” He glanced at her, a slight sign of mischief on his face. “And I damn sure did not learn that in the Army.”
“Yeah. I got to shoot one magazine of pistol ammo a year. Army doesn’t think much of pistols in combat.”
Nate handed her his Zeiss binoculars. “You’re my spotter. Try to see where the bullets hit so I can adjust my range.”
“Okay.” She glassed the bridge. “Who are you going to kill first?”
“The one standing on the hood of that two-ton flatbed truck. He has binocs and is trying to find us up here.”
He sharpened his sight picture and held his breath when the front sight was low on the man’s chest, then started to squeeze the trigger.
The M14 barked. The man doubled over and fell headfirst off the truck.
“A foot low,” Deni said.
“Yep.” He could see men on the bridge running for cover. One man looked over the hood of a pickup. Nate shot and missed.
“I didn’t know which one you were aiming for, so I didn’t see where it hit.”
“I missed,” Nate said. “The target was too small for long range—his face.”
He aimed for a man in the open and took out his heart.
“You got that one in the chest,” Deni said.
The M14 barked again and a man fell behind a pickup.
“Not sure where it hit,” Deni said.
“That’s okay, he’s good. One more and we have to relocate.”
He fired, wounding a man in his right arm.
Firing from below roared.
Deni handed him his binoculars.
“They’re shooting blind again,” Nate said, “but we must move. Others are coming at us through the woods right now. Bet on it.”
“Close quarters stuff from now on, huh?”
“I hope to avoid that by backing off,” Nate said.
Deni seemed relieved. “How far do you think they’ll come before turning back to the river?”
“Don’t know, but we won’t be there. We’ll swing around downriver and come at them from the side tonight.”
Deni’s eyes grew wide. “Oh. Shit.”
“You don’t have to come.”
“I didn’t say that.”
Nate stopped walking and turned to her. “I know you didn’t; I did, and I meant it. I want you to stay back while I raid them tonight.” When she said nothing, he started walking again.
She followed him as he worked his way through thick brush. “No time to argue about it now.”
He nodded and kept moving.
They walked three miles downriver and stopped to eat for the first time in sixteen hours. Neither was really hungry, but they needed to keep their stamina up.
Mosquitoes feasted on their blood. They were both soaked with sweat and exhausted. Night sounds of the swamp forest chirped, buzzed, and hooted around them. Water moccasins were coming up out of the water onto land to hunt.
>
“I don’t think you should go alone,” she said, resting on a log. “I can keep your escape route clear at least.”
Nate kept his ears on the woods in case someone tried to sneak up on them “You will, by staying here.”
“This is way too far back to do you any good.”
“It will be morning by the time I’m through, and I’ll need you awake while I sleep tomorrow.”
“You’re not in the Army anymore.” Her voice was somehow different. “How long has it been since you were a Ranger? You’re not twenty; you’re pushing forty. You have to be young and in your prime for combat. Now you’ll be using your knife in the dark. It’s all crazy bullshit.”
“You mean you have to be young and stupid enough to think you’re bulletproof and it will happen to the next guy but not you.”
“Well, you’re not a twenty-year-old kid with a body full of testosterone. And—”
“Piss and vinegar,” he interrupted.
“Whatever,” she said, “there’s no need for you to push it.”
“Deni.” His voice rose above the whisper he had been talking in. “Those bastards are heading for my son and friends. I’m not going to let them by without doing everything I can to stop them. And this is the place to do it. Once they get that bridge repaired and they’re over the river, we can do nothing but kill one or two as they drive by.”
“And you think they’re being pursued, so you want to hold them here as long as possible.”
“Why else are they so damned determined to cross here? There’s another bridge twenty miles north. Why didn’t they turn around when Sam and the Cat collapsed the bridge? Why have they been willing to take such losses? They know there will be more if they try to cross.”
“Yeah, they know we’re not playing.” Deni sighed with fatigue. “But they think they can hunt us down out here. We’re in deep shit and you know it.”
“Yes, we are,” Nate said. “We have to be careful. One screw-up and we’re dead. But them not turning around and crossing somewhere else means more risk. Why? Why do they need to cross the river at this one spot?”
Deni stood and came closer. “I understand all that. Just keep in mind I can’t stop them alone. So be careful and come back. And remember…you have Brian waiting for you.”
Nate stood. “Always. Well, I have to go if I’m going to have time to travel quiet there and back.”
“You damn sure snuck up on me in daylight,” she said. “I guess you can sneak up on a bunch of yahoos in the dark.”
“Why don’t you get on that big cypress log we passed twenty yards back and lie down and rest?” He took his pack off and handed it to her.
“Damn, this thing is heavy,” she said.
“It’s got .44 mag ammo in it. Don’t lose it; we’ll need all the ammo we have before this is over.”
“You have a lot of killing in mind, don’t you?” Deni’s voice revealed worry.
“Deni,” Nate said, “if we don’t stop them here, we don’t stop them. We will lose the farm. More than likely, they will burn the house and barn to the ground. This year’s harvest will be lost, and we will all go hungry.” There was silence between them for some seconds. “You should take this time to rest. Just keep your ears working so you can hear someone coming up on you.”
He left her standing there in the dark, listening to an owl.
“Yes, who will die tonight,” she said to no one, “that is the question.”
~~~~
Nate swam across the river. He kept his M14 out of the water, and that required him to use only one hand. Then he made his way upstream, praying he did not step on a cottonmouth in the dark.
He heard chainsaws long before he got close. They were back from the river bottom, up on drier land, where pine trees grow. No. You’re not going to repair that bridge tonight, assholes.
A pickup’s starter groaned. It did not start and the battery was nearly dead. A door slammed in the dark. “Son of a bitch,” a man said.
“Gas is getting old,” another man offered. “That stabilizer works only for a while with ethanol gas. If it was the old shit with no ethanol, it would still be good.”
“There’s still some of that spray stuff to put in the carburetor to help it start,” the first man said.
“Where is it?”
“In the glove box, idiot. Bring it here so we can get this load of logs to the bridge. They’ll be shooting at us again, come daylight.”
One of the men scrounged around in the glove box, feeling in the dark. “I got it. Ain’t much left.”
“The filter’s off the carb. Get your flashlight on it and be ready to spray once I start cranking. Soon as it fires up, stop spraying. We can’t afford to waste it.”
“Right. Batteries are almost dead, but it should light up long enough for this.” A dim light came on, shinning on the engine. “Ready when you are.”
The starter groaned.
The man in the pickup noticed the flashlight went out, but kept the starter going. He could not see much with the hood up. It didn’t start and the battery was nearly dead. “Shit.” He got out. “What happened, asshole?”
A massive hand clamped over his mouth and nose and pulled his head back. A sharp pain cut across his neck, deep. He gurgled as the hand released its hold and he fell to the hard-packed clay of the county road next to the other man.
Nate’s right hand and wrist were wet and sticky. A copper smell Nate knew was blood permeated the air for some seconds, and then a drifting breeze blew it away. He slid his KA-BAR into its sheath and checked their weapons. One carried an AR-15. He took the ammo for Deni. There were only eighteen rounds. The other carbine was a semiautomatic AK-47 clone in 7.62x39mm caliber. He threw both carbines in the back of the pickup on top of logs that were so long they hung out past the tailgate eight feet.
Grabbing the flashlight, Nate searched for the chainsaw and put it in the back. There was a one-gallon can of gas and oil mix for the chainsaw near the cab on top of the logs.
He went around to the front, dragged both men out of the way, and picked up the can of starter fluid. Then he ran around the open door and jumped in the driver’s seat. There, he released the parking brake and made sure it was in neutral and the ignition on. He got out and pushed until he had the truck moving. The road sloped down toward a valley between hills one hundred yards ahead. He planned to push the truck until he had it going down that slope.
After only fifty yards, he had to stop and rest. Two more tries and he had it near enough for one last push. He got out and sprayed the contents of the can into the carburetor, then pushed until the truck was rolling downhill, his legs and back screaming protests. He jumped in and let the truck gain momentum for a few seconds, then pushed the clutch in and put it in gear, letting the clutch out. The engine sputtered and the truck nearly stopped rolling. He pushed the clutch pedal to the floor and the truck gained momentum again. When he let the clutch out the engine sputtered and caught.
It ran rough, but it ran, and that was good enough for Nate. He reversed back up the hill and found a place wide enough to turn around. After three miles, he saw what he was looking for. There was a side road, little more than a jeep trail. He turned off, found a place to park and back up in the wet mud. There, he unloaded the logs and hid the guns behind a windfall. Someday, he might come back for them.
A tall, thin pine tree grew nearby. He soon had the chainsaw working and the pine tree down and limbed. It was forty feet long, so he found some rope in the cab and lashed it to the right side of the truck. He hid the saw and can of gas next to the guns.
Nate jumped in and raced the engine a little because it was idling so roughly that he thought it might quit. Tires spinning, he headed for the road.
Two miles from the bridge, Nate got out and lashed the tree crossways behind the cab, taking great care to lash it tight with rope and chain so it would be sturdy. It was about chest-high on a shorter man, but waist-high on him. The tree reached nearly all th
e way across the road. He drove slowly at first, using the headlights for the first time, and keeping in the middle so as not to hit an overhanging roadside tree limb.
Several fires in the road and people standing around drinking beer alerted Nate it was time to speed up. When he was doing forty, he let up on the gas and then kept going at a steady speed. He took a hasty count and thought there might be thirty men standing around those fires, eating and drinking. There were as many more lying in the road resting or asleep.
He hoped to kill some of them, too.
A man with a shotgun stepped out from behind a tree, waving his free arm. “Slow down, fuckers!”
Another man appeared on the right, yelling something Nate could not understand, but he had a good guess. With the high beams on, neither could see the danger as Nate drove between them. The pine tree caved their chests in and killed them where they stood, throwing them both into the ditch on their side of the dirt road. He tightened the seat belt and hit the gas.
Men flew on impact and died in their tracks; some lived only long enough to wonder what hit them. Others were crushed under tires as Nate ran them over, some died in their sleep. More would die after hours of agony.
Nate slammed on the brakes and skidded twenty yards, crashing into the rear of a Ford F150. He grabbed his rifle, rolled out, and kept rolling until he was out of the road and in six inches of swamp water.
Firing from the bridge killed many on the road, and firing from the road killed a few on the bridge. All they knew was they were under attack. They shot at any and every muzzle flash in the dark.
Nate low-crawled farther into the swamp. The firing made it unnecessary to worry about keeping quiet, so he got up and ran.
It was tempting. Nate wanted that duffel bag of loaded magazines bad. However, he called it a night and circled around, crossed the road several miles back from the bridge, and made his way through the swamp to the river again, which he swam.
Deni was losing her battle with fatigue, just able to keep her eyes open, when her ears caught squelching boots in mud. Someone was working his careful way upslope from the river. She sat up and pushed the safety off on her AR-15. Since she expected Nate to be coming from the same direction, she knew to wait until he was close.
