Apocalypse Law 2

by John Grit

  “What about putting some along the side of the road back in the woods to cripple a few in those hunter patrols?” Deni finished tying the sticks to her pack.

  Nate’s face hardened. “I’ve got other ideas for them.”

  Deni cocked her head and smiled. “Yeah? I can’t wait.”

  Chapter 11

  “What are you looking for?” Deni asked. “It’ll be dark soon.”

  Nate rummaged through a pile of scrap lumber someone had dumped back in the woods, just off the dirt road. It must have been dumped sometime before the plague. Most of the boards were rotted from months of rain and termites, but a few were pressure-treated and still solid.

  “Firing pins,” Nate answered. “Keep your attention on our surroundings. They’re hunting us right now.”

  “Don’t worry, I’m on guard.” Deni searched the woods. “Just asked a question, is all.”

  “You’ll find out later when you help me set the traps,” Nate said. He put four 2x4 boards that had nails poking out one end under a pine tree by his pack. There were four shorter 4x4 scraps that someone had cut off fence posts already lying by the pack where he had left them. “Keep your eyes working while I improvise.”

  As soon as it was full dark, they placed punji sticks across the road in a shallow washout. They covered the sticks with a mat of pine boughs cut from saplings and then put a thin layer of dirt over that. The result of their work made the washout look like level road and no sign of the sticks could be seen. The next afternoon summer shower would make the fresh earth look the same as the surrounding road.

  A little past midnight, they set to work back in the woods, setting booby traps.

  “Let me show you,” Nate said. He twisted his small pocketknife, drilling a hole in the 4x4. “Use the small blade and the hole will be a little smaller than a .308 bullet. Careful you don’t let the blade swing closed and cut your fingers.”

  Deni rolled her eyes in the dark. “I’m not a total klutz.”

  “Didn’t say you were.” Nate handed her his knife. “Make it as deep as you can with the short blade. Do the other pieces the same, about four inches from the end.”

  “Can’t see a damn thing in the dark.” Tired, dirty, and sick of dealing with danger, Deni was becoming irritable.

  “Feel,” Nate said. “Your fingers can do the work of your eyes. It’s just like reloading a gun in the dark.”

  “Don’t let me bother you,” she said. “My arm hurts, and I’m growing more pissed at those bastards every hour. We could be taking regular baths, eating well, and sleeping in a bed if not for those assholes.”

  “You’re doing fine. Focus on surviving another day, and do that every day. Maybe we’ll make it. Either way, they already know they fucked with the wrong people when they shot at us and killed our friend.”

  She snickered. “That’s the first time I heard you cuss like that.”

  “You’re not the only one that’s pissed.” Nate went looking for hickory branches to cut.

  Two hours before false dawn, Nate and Deni had completed drilling larger holes from the other side of the 4x4s, in line with the smaller holes. The larger hole would be the chamber for a rifle round, the smaller hole, the “barrel” for the bullet. Both had bleeding blisters from twisting Nate’s pocketknife into wood.

  Nate had to push hard with both hands to get the .308 rounds seated in the holes. “Perfect,” he said. “As long as I can get them all the way in, the tighter the better.”

  “I don’t think that wood is going to withstand the pressure,” Deni said.

  “It won’t.” Blood ran from his raw palm onto the last round as he pushed it in with one hand pushing over the other. “Not over fifty thousand pounds per square inch, but it will hold together long enough to send that bullet on its way with enough energy to kill a man if it hits in the right place. The wood fragments will wound also.”

  Deni smiled. “Oh. You Rangers are devious bastards.”

  He smiled back in the dark. “Yep, and I’m as pissed as you.”

  With just a hint of light showing in the eastern sky, Nate constructed the last trigger with string and sticks while Deni lashed a 4x4 to a tree waist-high, using a quarter-inch-thick vine Nate had cut earlier. She did the best she could to aim the rifle bullet where it would take out a man’s guts.

  Nate then worked on the “hammer,” made from the last 2x4. The nail on its end would be the firing pin, a springy length of hickory branch the mainspring that would drive the hammer with nail/firing pin into the primer of the rifle round.

  “Okay.” Nate stood in the predawn glow and cocked the trap, holding the 2x4 back. “Hold this while I set this thing.”

  Deni held the board back against the power of a bent hickory limb. She watched nervously, waiting for him to tell her to complete the most dangerous part.

  Nate walked into the trap’s kill zone and set the trigger. He had to hold everything in place while she let the board move toward the rifle round enough to take up all slack in the cord and trigger device.

  “Okay, let it move a little.” Nate watched the cord tighten and the trigger he held in place take some of the pressure. “Hold it there.” He backed away, out of danger. “Slowly let it go.”

  They held their breath.

  When the trigger held, Nate said, “Let’s camouflage it and set the rest of those punji sticks. We’re running out of time.”

  ~~~

  Nate could just hear the chainsaws at work as he scanned the bridge and the road beyond through binoculars. He lay in brush by the dirt road, watching a dozen men lean against a cypress log ten feet in diameter, straining to make it roll. It was not moving. A much smaller pine tree had been cut into ten-foot lengths and rolled into the massive crater left by the explosion.

  Nate was exhausted, and he knew Deni was dead on her feet. He wanted to go deep into the woods and find a place for both of them to sleep. What he was about to do would make rest an impossibility for a long time. No rest for the weary.

  Nate took careful aim, killing a man standing guard on the near end of the bridge. He fired three more rounds at the radiator of a pickup and quickly crawled back into the woods. They would be coming for them. He must be ready.

  Firing from down the road closer to the bridge told him a patrol had walked into Deni’s ambush. So they were closer than I thought. Nate heard her coming on the run, swinging around one of the traps as planned. A large group of men was chasing her.

  A man’s screaming echoed in the woods. Morning mist dulled the sharpness of his high-pitched voice, but it still cut into Nate’s soul. He reminded himself what kind of men he and Deni were killing and what they would do to Deni and the others if they had half a chance. One of Nate’s booby traps had just put a sharp, two-foot-long stake into his gut.

  Deni’s face was rigid with stress as she ran past Nate. She raised her left hand and showed him five fingers twice, telling him there were ten men coming. He nodded, his eyes searching her for signs she was wounded. He found none.

  She kept running, making as much noise as possible.

  Another of their traps was triggered, this one powered by a rifle round. Its dull report told Nate they would be on him in seconds. Screaming told him the trap did its job.

  From thirty yards away, a voice yelled out, “Stop! Let the little bitch go. She’ll just lead us into more booby traps.”

  Another man yelled, “Someone put one in that bastard’s head. I’m tired of hearing it.”

  Nate had already located the first man. He put his sights on the man’s head and squeezed the trigger. Then he swung on another man’s stomach—all of him he could see through the undergrowth of the forest. Nate was disappointed to find the man had already moved and disappeared behind brush.

  Snapping brush and crunching leaves told Nate the men were seeking cover just where he'd hoped. More screaming, this time from two men, echoed in the forest.

  “Punji sticks!” a man yelled.

  Nate back
ed off and made his retreat.

  Gunshots roared behind him as he made his way to where Deni was waiting.

  Deni was keyed up. Her desire to live kept her senses on high alert. She saw movement before Nate was close enough to see her standing still back in shade and thick brush.

  When Nate came close enough, easing his way through the woods, flowing like a ghost so slowly he did not appear to be moving at all, he saw her pointing her carbine at him. He stepped behind a tree.

  She knew it was him and had already lowered her weapon, but Nate had disappeared.

  Deni searched the woods, breath catching as if it were torturous to fill her burning lungs, afraid the movement would betray her, the sound prevent her ears from detecting danger stalking closer. She was not sure how far behind Nate the killers were.

  Then she saw him. Nate had come closer without her seeing or hearing a thing, despite her best efforts.

  Nate’s attention was on something off to her left. His eyes were hawkish, the eyes of a predator. Deni knew he was hunting, and danger was only yards away.

  Dropping to a squat and turning to look behind her, she prepared to take on all threats.

  Her motion attracted attention. A man aimed a carbine at her. Nate threw his rifle up and fired as soon as the butt touched his shoulder. The man dropped.

  Automatic fire erupted twenty yards from Deni. She caught movement from spent rounds ejected onto brush. Someone was firing at Nate. It took her fewer than two seconds to locate the shooter and fire three rounds. The shooting stopped.

  Deni dropped to the ground and fast-crawled ten yards. Automatic fire sprayed the area she had just left. She kept crawling until her right shoulder slammed against a scrub oak.

  Nate’s rifle cracked the temporary silence. Three rapid shots, then one more.

  Crunching of leaves told Deni more men were maneuvering closer.

  Nate’s rifle spoke, first a double tap, then rapid-fire. He was answered with a roar of automatic fire from several directions.

  Deni needed to support Nate with her covering fire, but could not see while lying on the ground, so she sat up. That was the last thing she remembered.

  Nate knew they were in trouble. Another group had come up on them from behind. Deni and he were between them and the first group. He wondered why Deni stopped shooting. There were plenty of targets.

  Gunfire filled Nate’s ears. No longer was it rapid pops; it had become a solid roar, growing in volume. Nate reloaded and fired into them, guessing their location in the forest’s thick underbrush. Then he ran to another position, seeking out cover and trying to work closer to Deni.

  Already twice wounded, he may have tried to escape, but that meant leaving Deni. No! Not as long as there is a chance that she still lives. He had little hope of saving her. She probably was dead, or nearly so, and he could do little for a serious wound. However, he would not leave her to them as long as she still breathed. He owed her that.

  Nate ran while bent over, keeping as low as possible. In seconds, he had enough trees between him and the hail of bullets to be safe. He ran in a straight line until they followed, firing at him.

  He ran faster, and continued to run until they were so far behind the shooting waned. Turning in a wide arc, he worked around, back toward Deni. They ran on, in a straight line.

  To be quiet, Nate was forced to slow to hunting speed. She was not far, but it took him many minutes to find her. Well hid in thick brush, half a dozen men must have run by her when they went after Nate.

  There she was, lying in her own blood.

  Nate gently rolled her over and checked for a pulse. His breath caught. He laid his right hand on her chest. It rose slowly but steadily.

  Ripping his pack off, he pulled out what little medical supplies he had. A quick check for wounds told him she had taken a hit to the head, but otherwise was not hurt, except for the old wound on her arm. The head wound was a glancing blow, leaving her skull exposed; a slab of flesh hung down above her right temple. He feared brain damage. Her brain could be swelling in her skull as she lay there.

  Nate put on his last pair of surgical gloves. First, he cut her hair away and cleaned the wound with the last of his antibiotic. Then he swathed her head in gauze, holding the loose flesh in place as he made the first wrap. Nate planned to suture it the first chance he got. He had to get her out of there before they both were killed.

  When he first threw her across his shoulders, she seemed surprisingly light and small. However, three miles later, his body was reminding him he was not in his twenties anymore. He had once carried a wounded soldier much heavier than her from sunup to dark through jungle, but that was a lifetime ago. A life he had left behind—or so he thought, until the world went to hell.

  Another four miles and Nate had to rest. Gently, he put her down under an ancient oak.

  She was breathing still. Worried he might be carrying a dead woman, that discovery was a relief. Her head had bled for nearly an hour, dripping down his right leg at times. When it stopped, he didn’t know whether to be glad or stop carrying her. He hated to remove the gauze and start it bleeding again, but the wound had to be stitched up, and he wanted to do it while she was still unconscious.

  He had no surgical gloves left, so before starting the task, he washed his hands as best he could, using most of a canteen of water and some bar soap that he kept in a plastic bag in his pack. Where her hair would hide the scar, he used a larger gauge needle and Dexon thread for its strength. There was no telling what she might go through if she ever woke. There was more fighting to do, and he wanted the sutures to be strong enough where the wound was deepest. He used a finer needle and thread where the scar would show. A hemostat in his modest medical kit was put to use holding the half-circle needles. He knew it was nearly impossible to hold a bloody needle with bare fingers while pushing it through flesh, and kept the hemostat in his medical kit for that purpose as much as clamping off a blood vessel.

  After he finished closing the wound, he bandaged it and lifted her to his shoulder again.

  After two hours of screaming muscles, Nate just managed to get them both to the motorcycle they left by the road. How do I ride double with an unconscious woman? It would be dark soon, and then he would find out.

  Deni lay in the woods, while Nate kickstarted the Harley. After giving the motor time to warm up, he carried her onto the road and sat her on the seat, held her up, and sat behind her. Nate prayed none of the men were near while he used rope to strap her legs to his, leaving her feet on top of his boots. Then he tied her upper body to his, keeping the top of her head leaning against his chin. He kept thinking he would feel a bullet slamming into his back at any moment. They were an easy target out on the open road, even in the dark.

  At first, he had to use both hands, letting Deni’s head dangle. She could not breathe well with her neck like that, so as soon as he had the Harley in third gear, he held her head up with his left hand. He held her head the whole way. Several washouts caused him trouble. He was forced to carry her around one and then retie her in front all over again. She never showed any signs of waking.

  Nate was worried she might never wake again.

  Nate followed the trail of flattened brush Deni had left when she rode around the mound of dirt in the driveway, until they came out of the woods and back onto the drive. He gunned it and they were soon in front of the farm house.

  He left Deni lying by the Harley and took a quick look around, rifle in hand. Finding no sign anyone had been around since Deni’s trip, he pumped water and took a long drink. After filling both his and Deni’s canteens, he hurriedly fed and watered the chickens and cow.

  Days of going on little to no sleep and dealing with the stress of combat had left Nate so tired, he could no longer think well enough to carry out complex tasks. His movements were involuntary, just animal instinct. He wanted to lie in his bed and pass out, but there was still one thought burning in his head: Get Deni to the bunker. Get her to help.


  Once more, Nate got her back on the bike and headed for the river and a canoe hidden in the swamp.

  ~~~~

  Where in the hell is that creek? Nate asked himself. The night was overcast, and he could see little as he paddled upriver, keeping to the shore, out of the main current. Deni lay in the bottom of the canoe, still unconscious.

  A quarter-mile farther and he realized he had missed it. He turned back, letting the current catch him with full force. Sometime past midnight, he recognized a fallen cypress that jutted into the river. How in the hell did I not see it the first time? Nate turned the canoe into thick cattails and entered the creek, paddling with all the strength he had left.

  ~~~~

  Brian mopped sweat from his forehead and kept vigil, searching the dark. He could see nothing but dark on this night. He kept his eyes constantly working anyway. This was his watch, and no one would come up on the bunker without him knowing. The past months had taught him what responsibility really was, even more so than his father’s gentle lessons.

  A rough voice came bellowing from out of the black. “Brian, Ben, don’t shoot, I’m coming in.”

  Brian snatched his shotgun up to his right shoulder and prepared to shoot out of the loophole. “Everyone wake up! Grab your guns.”

  Ben scrambled to his feet, shotgun in hand. Martha was asleep beside him. She grabbed a carbine and was awake nearly as fast.

  Cindy took longer to wake, but made it to her assigned loophole before her parents, carbine pointing into the dark.

  “How many?” Ben asked.

  “It’s my father, but he sounds different.” Brian yelled out of his loophole, “Are you hurt?”

  Nate answered. “No, but Deni is. I’m carrying her in. Open up. It’s safe. There’s no one out here but Deni and me.”