by John Grit
If he was going to fight these young men, it wouldn’t be over something as trivial as giving them a chance to test their manhood. Screw that. The loud one reminded him too much of young guys he’d known in the Army, early on, before they tasted war, before most of the training even, before they had earned their ‘rewards,’ a bullet or a bomb or a rocket at a time. Everyone in the bar was armed, and if fighting broke out, someone was going to die, and Nate wasn’t about to kill or die over nothing.
Nate stepped closer to Tyrone. “Let’s back out of here and let this cool down.”
Tyrone must’ve had the same thoughts. He stepped back. “Okay. We’re leaving guys. Just keep it safe and peaceful.”
Atticus and Chesty covered them with shotguns until they were all out the door.
The loudmouth laughed and taunted them, though it was obvious he was relieved they were leaving.
Chesty stood to the side of the door in case someone decided to send a bullet through it. He mopped his forehead. “I expect we’ll be back to investigate a killing or at least a fight, but for now we should be patrolling the streets for that pervert and the militia nuts.”
Still keyed up, Tyrone turned to Nate. “Thanks for defusing that.”
Deni walked up, six soldiers with her. “Well, do you need any help?”
Chesty looked back at the closed bar door. “Nah. You guys might as well go on your way.”
Deni ordered the soldiers to go back on patrol. They piled into HUMVEEs and drove away. She looked up and smiled at Nate. “I have the rest of the day off.”
Nate started to say something when the four drunks emerged unnoticed from the bar. A bottle flew by his head and hit Deni in the face and temple area, knocking her to the ground. He rushed to her, kneeled down and held her face, turning it to appraise the damage. She was out cold, and a knot the size of an egg was already growing just above her eye. He put his ear to her mouth but couldn’t hear if she was breathing or feel her breath. The one who’d thrown the bottle was laughing. The same one who’d laughed inside. Nate took her wrist and felt for a pulse. In his panic, he wasn’t sure he felt any.
Nate’s mind raced so fast it was tripping over a hundred thoughts and left him not able to react in a productive way. Movement caught his attention, and he looked up to see Brian charging, his rifle shouldered and murder in his eyes. He jumped up and raised his outstretched hands. “No!”
A shot split the air and Brian fell. Without any voluntary thought, he turned, and in one motion pulled his pistol. The front sight flashed in his vision, centered on the loudmouth’s chest.
Tyrone’s thick arm swept under his hands just before he squeezed the trigger. The shot that would have killed instead flew into the sky.
“It was Atticus shooting in the air!” Tyrone yelled. “Brian just fell.” He held Nate’s arm, keeping his hand and the pistol up. “Brian’s okay. He just fell.”
Brian’s voice brought Nate out of his rage. “You’re dead, you son of a bitch!”
Nate turned his head to the left and saw his son standing, pointing his rifle at the loudmouth. He blinked, yanked his arm from Tyrone’s grip, and ran to Brian. “Don’t shoot. Just keep your rifle on them.” He motioned with his pistol. “Disarm yourselves or I’ll kill you where you stand.”
The eyes of the man who threw the bottle widened and he reached for his pistol.
“I’ll kill you!” Nate warned.
The man froze, then slowly reached to his belt buckle and let the holstered pistol fall to his feet.
“That was close,” Atticus said. “I came within a hundredth of a second of blowing your guts out.”
Someone opened the bar door. Chesty threw down on him with his shotgun. “You don’t want to join this party. Close that damn door and stay inside.”
The man turned white and slammed the door shut.
Nate ran back to Deni. He found her still unconscious. Snatching her radio up to his mouth, he informed anyone listening that Deni had been injured and needed medical attention, his voice surprisingly professional under the circumstances. He checked her breathing again and was relieved to feel her breath on his hand. He could hear her heart beat slowly when he held his ear to her chest. Nate looked over and saw the worry in Brian’s eyes. “She’s breathing.”
The tension somewhat released, Brian began to sob as he held the rifle on the one who threw the bottle.
Soldiers raced up in HUMVEEs. They bailed out ready for trouble, surrounding Deni. Sergeant First Class Quint Bartow checked her injuries. He looked up at Chesty. “What happened?”
Chesty pointed at the loudmouth. “That drunken idiot threw a bottle. He’s under arrest.”
“Oh, he’s under arrest alright,” Bartow said, his voice carrying a threatening edge. “If she dies he’ll be executed.”
The drunk swallowed. “Hell, she isn’t dead. The little bitch just got in the way of my bottle. I was aiming for the big asshole.” He started to say more, but what he saw in Nate’s eyes took his breath away.
Chesty tried to stop him but got flung across the parking lot, not even slowing Nate down.
The only person there who had a chance of stopping Nate without shooting him stood in his way.
All it took was one word. “Dad.”
Nate stopped.
“Remember Slim? You said it was a mistake to make an enemy of him and leave him alive. If you’re going to kill him you might as well have let me shoot him.”
“We’ll take them off your hands, Mr. Williams.” Bartow stared the four drunks down. “All of you put your hands in the air and march your asses to the HUMVEEs. Any of you give me any shit; I’ll shoot your ass.”
Chesty brushed himself off. “Holy shit.”
Nate started to apologize to him, but Chesty held his hand up. “No time for that. You and Brian hop in my truck and I’ll drive you to the clinic. I expect that’s where they’re going to take her.”
The soldiers put Deni on a stretcher and loaded her in a HUMVEE. The column took off with Nate and the others following in trucks.
Chapter 25
Half way there, Nate saw Deni sitting up, holding her head. A soldier spoke to her and she turned to look back at the truck following. Struggling to smile, she waved at Nate and Brian.
Brian waved back. “She’s going to be all right.” He saw his father’s reaction and looked away.
“Hey!” Chesty said. “She’s already awake. She’ll be okay.”
Nate was relieved but still not so sure. She’d taken a severe blow, and he expected she had fractures and might suffer after affects from the concussion. Damn that punk!
~~~
Deni sat on the examination table in the clinic and glanced at Dr. Brant. “These two guys look like they’re about to cry.”
The Doctor didn’t risk a response, changing the subject instead. “No fractures. You got a heck of a bump on the head and the side of your eye socket. When you first came in, I was concerned because the skull is thin there and you could have had damage to your right eye.” She gave a reassuring smile. “But I’d say you dodged the proverbial bullet.” She patted Deni on the shoulder. “You’ll be fine in a few days. Sore as hell and carrying around a nasty bruise, but otherwise, no lasting damage.”
Nate sat down on a folding chair against the wall. He still felt shaky and needed to rest his legs. “To think you came so close to dying or losing an eye over bullshit makes me sick.”
Brian addressed Deni. “The idiot who threw the bottle must have nine lives. I almost killed him and Dad almost killed him twice.”
Deni gingerly felt the knot on her head. “Twice?”
Brian glanced at his father and noticed the look on his face. “I’d better not get into that. Dad’s still upset. Best to leave that alone, I think.”
There were ten seconds of quiet in the room.
“Well,” Dr. Brant said, “the Army has the four of them locked up in the courthouse. I have no idea what they’re going to do with them. Mayb
e a public flogging.”
Someone knocked on the open door. It was Chesty. Tyrone and Atticus were with him. They walked in, awkwardness and concern on their faces. A few seconds later, Mel walked in.
Dr. Brant answered them before they asked. “She’ll be fine in a few days.”
Relief visibly washed over the men.
Chesty stepped closer to Nate. “Donovan says he’s going to let the other three go tomorrow morning. The one who threw the bottle, well… he’s not sure what to do. He’s a civilian and there are damn few civilian prisons in operation. Hell, people are going hungry. Who has time and resources for jails and prisons? If he was in the Army, it’d be different.”
Deni stood, holding onto Brian for support. “Since the good doctor says I’m okay, I want to go home.” She smiled at everyone in the room. “Shouldn’t you deputies be out patrolling the town? There’s still a child killer out there and the anarchists… or whatever they are.”
Tyrone rubbed his chin. “And there’s still that damn bar. I never believed in prohibition. All historians say it was a mistake and total failure.” He shook his head. “But by God, that bottle-throwing fool almost got killed in the bar and then three more times outside. The trouble is I’m thinking the fool still hasn’t been cured. Sometimes the only way to cure a dog of sucking eggs is to kill him.”
Atticus scratched his head. “Tyrone, where did all this countrified wisdom come from all of a sudden?” He shot an inquisitive glance at him. “Egg-sucking dog? Huh?”
Tyrone laughed. No one else in the room felt like laughing, but the two thought it was funny.
Dr. Brant’s tone changed. “Deni, I wish you’d stay the night for observation. You took quite a blow to the head and I’d feel better if we kept an eye on you until tomorrow at least. Certainly, you shouldn’t go back on duty.”
Deni started to protest.
Dr. Brant raised her hand. “If I have to, I’ll ask Dr. Millhouse to have a talk with Col. Donovan.”
Deni’s shoulders slumped. “Oh hell. I’ll be bored to death.”
Nate stood. “I think you should do what Dr. Brant says.” He caught a flash of something in her eyes. “I’m not telling you what to do. I mean like an order or something. But she’s a good doctor and I think you should listen to her.”
Deni reached back and slapped the examination table behind her. “I’m not sleeping on this thing tonight. The pad’s only an inch thick. Might as well get out my sleeping bag and stretch out on the floor.”
“I’ve got a comfortable couch in my office,” Dr. Brant offered. “That way I can duck in and check on you every hour. This examination room will be needed for new patients coming in, anyway.”
Nate stepped up to Deni. “Are you dizzy?”
“Are you offering to carry me?” Deni put her hands behind his neck and pulled him to her. They held each other. “Stop worrying. I’m okay.” She let him go. “Now all of you get back to doing whatever it was you would be doing if I hadn’t caught a bottle upside the head.”
For some reason, Atticus thought that was funny. “You’re alright, young lady. No wonder everyone likes you.”
“Not everyone.” Deni carefully touched the knot on her head.
~~~
Three days later, Deni seemed to be recovering well. There had been no complications, and the swelling had gone down to a degree, but a nasty black and blue mark an inch or more wide and three inches long remained. She had taken to wearing sunglasses to help hide it.
Nate had spent a lot of time with her, leaving Brian with their friends. She noticed he remained more alert than usual, and that meant he expected trouble. Since he never let his guard down even under normal circumstances, he must have had a good reason to be noticeably more alert than usual. Not an hour went by he didn’t scan the area around the house for trouble. Any sound in the night prompted an immediate armed response from him. His edginess wore off on her to some degree and prompted her to wear a pistol in the house and keep her rifle in her hands at all times whenever they went outside for a walk or to check on Brian at Chesty’s place. She was in the habit of taking precautions, but Nate seemed to think they were in a war zone. She chalked it up to the anarchists and her being hurt at the bar. She didn’t know that Nate had Brian stay with the others because he considered Deni to be a target of the bottle-throwing punk.
Chesty, Tyrone, and Atticus also seemed to be on edge, keeping a close watch on Brian, and Mel stayed with him also. Deni correctly assumed they had promised to take care of him for Nate and were taking their promise seriously. Still, they too seemed to be on edge and expecting trouble.
Then the day came.
The Army released the man who threw the bottle. Donovan had asked SFC Bartow to give him a rough lecture on staying away from Deni and Nate, explaining how if he was found in a ditch with a bullet in his head, the Army wasn’t going to waste time trying to learn who did it. In fact, it would be smart if he left town and never came back.
Unfortunately for the bottle-throwing punk, he let it all go in one ear and out the other.
Nate learned the man’s name was Lance Vitrano, but he didn’t care what his name was. The memory of his face was all he needed to ID him when he came after Deni, and Nate was certain he would.
When they’d stared at each other after the punk had thrown the bottle, a moment passed between them – a moment when the punk looked into the eyes of death and it looked back in rage. It was then Nate had taken the punk’s measure and realized he’d been too generous inside the bar. And when Vitrano didn’t apologize or show any hint of remorse – Nate did believe he wasn’t aiming at Deni – he knew no amount of testing or maturing would change this punk. If Brian hadn’t been there, he would’ve killed him at that moment. The next move was Vitrano’s.
~~~
Nate hadn’t been much company all afternoon, muttering something about the hairs on the back of his neck, and Deni had to go back on duty in an hour, so she went to her bedroom to get ready.
Nate made his rounds and scanned the neighborhood with his binoculars, slowing to look down the street. The weather had turned warm again, a respite from the winter that was coming. If it turned out like last year, it would prove unusually cold and not let up until far into spring. A scratch in his throat reminded him that he hadn’t had a drink in hours. His eyes narrowed as he took another look, emotionless as he clutched his civilian version of the M14 rifle, then shifted his weight to another foot and glanced over his shoulder. A half-gallon plastic jug waited, sweating in the middle of the little dining table. He debated whether to go get it or keep watch.
Then he heard them coming, their airbrakes screeching and exhausts rumbling as only a big tractor trailer rig could. But he knew these trucks were sans the trailer. They slowed to make the turn and head toward the house, coming for Deni.
He watched through binoculars as the first one turned the corner and swung onto their street a quarter mile away, the big motor’s throaty roar coughing during gear changes as the truck sped up, charging closer. A head-hurting, earsplitting racket pounded from inside the cab, generated by large speakers – angry music for angry punks.
Both trucks overshot the house. They must not have been sure of the address. One thing was certain, Nate had reason to believe they had spies in town and they had told the punk and his friends where Deni was staying.
The racket from inside the truck cab stopped, and chortles of laughter replaced it. They anticipated lots of fun coming their way.
Nate spoke without turning from the scene on the street. “Deni, prepare to defend yourself. Men have come to kill us.”
The sound of Deni scrambling in her room came to Nate’s ears as he watched the first truck come to a halt. The second truck slowed, its brake lights broken. Nate stepped out of the front door and flattened the nearest tires on both trucks with one shot each. It had taken him less than three seconds.
They bailed out; rifles in hand, and Nate got a glimpse of the punk as h
e frantically dove behind a chinaberry tree. There were six of them when they bailed. Four seconds later there were three behind cover and three who didn’t make it before Nate put a bullet in them. They lay in the street dead or dying.
Deni fired from an open window. Her rifle chattered on full auto, keeping their heads down. The wall she was behind provided concealment but not bullet-stopping cover, so she moved to run out the back door and find a better place to fire from. She yelled, “Repositioning to the rear,” as she ran.
Nate yelled, “Moving to the front,” and ran to the large oak in a neighbor’s front yard.
As the firefight went on, Deni managed to pick off one more of the attackers, putting a bullet through his head as he rose above cover to fire at Nate.
Nate bounded forward to new cover while Deni provided cover fire. Then she reloaded and moved forward while he kept their heads down.
Two bullets buried themselves in a tree to the left of Nate. He saw one of them dash for the trucks and took a shot as soon as his front sight was on target. The man fell screaming. More rounds passing his head forced Nate to duck back behind cover. He shifted position and checked on the wounded man. He was gone. Looking to his right Nate saw him under the nearest truck. He dropped to the ground and prepared to fire from prone while still out of the last attacker’s sight. Deni was faster. Two rounds into his upper body finished him.
That left Vitrano. Nate just thought of him as ‘the punk.’ Okay punk, how long before you realize you’re alone and lose your nerve?
A high-pitched voice screamed from behind the chinaberry tree, “I give up! I’m surrendering. Don’t shoot!”
That was quick: five seconds.
“Throw your rifle out,” Deni yelled.
Vitrano complied, throwing his rifle five yards. It clattered into the street. “I’m coming out!” He stood.
Nate rose up, his rifle shouldered and aimed at Vitrano. Two HUMVEEs turned onto their street, but Nate’s attention was on the punk.
