by AJ Powers
Rhett breathed heavily through his nose as he shifted his clenched jaw side to side. “Fine,” he grunted. “Fine! Screw it, they ain’t worth dying for.”
“That’s a good boy,” Dusty said as she set the flashlight on the ground and leaned back on the palm of her left hand, while the other rested the gun over her knee, still aimed toward Rhett. “Go on.”
After some angry grumbles, Rhett started talking. “Head south from here, in about two or three miles you’ll come out on a big field. On the other side of that field is a rural highway—can’t remember the name but it’s the first one you cross. Take the road east about another mile then you’ll see a sign for Texas Premiere Cattle Auctions, take a right at the driveway and you’ll find them inside,” he said, his nostrils flaring as he growled through the pain.
“See, that wasn’t too hard, now was it?”
“So, I kept up my end of the deal,” Rhett said as he shifted his weight, trying to get to his feet.
“Whoa there, slugger, you aren’t going anywhere just yet.”
Rhett sat back down, his face red. “You said that you would let me go when I told you what you wanted to know.”
“No,” Dusty replied sarcastically, “I said that I wouldn’t kill you. Do you really think I am dumb enough to just take you for your word? I’m going to make sure you actually held up your end of the bargain before I cut you loose. So, on that note,” Dusty said as she pulled out a zip tie from her pocket and tossed it over to Rhett. “Never leave home without one. Now get to it.”
Rhett started laughing. “Boy, you must think you’re pretty tough there, don’t ya?”
“Well, I’m not the one with a bullet hole in my arm, so…”
Rhett leaned back as he laughed loudly, but when his body came back forward he leapt toward Dusty, knocking the gun out of her hand. The two of them wrestled around the tent as each frantically searched for the pistol. Rhett managed to get on top of Dusty momentarily, but his slender frame did not give him much advantage over the girl. As he used his left hand to try and choke her, Dusty managed to land several blows to his injured shoulder.
While Rhett was dazed by the pain, Dusty knocked him off her and anxiously resumed her search for the gun. Her hand had found a handle—it wasn’t the one she was looking for, but it would do. As Rhett stood to his feet, the Hi Power in his hand, Dusty’s arm swung around and plunged his own knife deep into his stomach. The air rushed out of his lungs with a look of horrific surprise plastered across his face. He tried to bring the pistol up but Dusty batted his arm away. She drove the Tanto blade deeper into his abdomen as she twisted the handle—Rhett’s blood poured out onto her arm, splattering all over the tent floor. He made another feeble attempt at shooting her, but Dusty once again defeated his efforts.
With another good push, Dusty shoved Rhett back, causing him to fall out of the tent. He made noises that no human being long for this world could make, and it was only a matter of time before the man would take his final breath.
With the knife still lodged in his gut, Dusty easily overpowered the dying man and regained control of her pistol. She stood up and towered over the gangly man as life drained from his body. She looked at his face, the subtle glow of the flashlight inside the tent revealing nothing more than a scared little boy as he saw death approaching. Unable to find his voice, he pleaded for help with his eyes.
She lifted her arm and leveled the Browning’s sights on Rhett’s head. Images of Morgan staring up at her flashed through Dusty’s mind as she curled her finger around the trigger. Her breathing was irregular, her heart pounding rapidly. She closed her eyes and fired, ending Rhett’s suffering.
The echo of the nine-millimeter seemed to go on for days as it made its way through the forest.
Dusty leaned against a nearby tree and slowly slid down to the ground, folding her arms across her bent knees. Her stone-like exterior had started crumbling the moment she learned of Morgan’s death. And after her scuffle, it was merely a heap of ruins surrounding her. At that very moment, Dusty experienced a plethora of emotions: anger, fear, sorrow, satisfaction and accomplishment. It was like a tornado of emotions tearing through her mind and soul. She had no idea how to feel, but her body had its own response in mind. Confident that nobody was around to witness such vulnerability, Dusty buried her face into her crossed arms and sobbed.
Chapter 43
Sitting in the bed of an old pickup truck just a few hundred feet from the driveway, Dusty propped her elbows up on the truck box behind the cab, and observed the old livestock auction house through a pair of binoculars. The binoculars had been glued to her eyes for nearly a half hour before she saw any sign of activity—a man walking out from a side entrance of the large building. It was promising, but it was going to take more than one man smoking a cigarette to convince her that Rhett had told the truth. It could just as likely be a coincidence that someone else had taken up shelter there for the night. However, as the rising sun washed away the contrasting shadows, Dusty spotted an armed man walking the perimeter of the roof.
Guess he wasn’t lying after all.
Dusty watched as the man by the side door took one last drag on his hand-rolled cigarette before flicking what little remained into the snow. He walked toward a rusted-out cattle trailer parked just beside one of the dozens of corrals on the property. She could see the man had shouted something as he approached the trailer, but there was no guessing what he had said. By the time he had reached the trailer, a man holding a scoped M76 was hopping down from the back.
The man from the trailer quickly dumped the Yugoslavian rifle off on the other man before he placed his hands on his sides and stretched out his back. They chatted for a few minutes, laughing and joking as they fired up more cigarettes. Passing the baton in the form of a slap on the shoulder, the man from the trailer walked back toward the building, thus completing the shift change. His replacement stepped up into the trailer and found as comfortable a position as he could on the rotting, wood floor, his hard-hitting rifle aimed straight down the driveway leading to the road.
As the morning passed, Dusty continued to spot more sentries patrolling the area. She also discovered two additional sniper nests, realizing that there were likely even more still hidden. As much as she hated these people, she couldn’t help but be impressed by their current arrangement. With very little in the way of actual borders to protect their stronghold, their defensive strategy was quite remarkable. Although the location was far from ideal for a long-term place to call home, it did seem to be more than adequate to serve as a Forward Operating Base.
Dusty spent hours watching the property, scrutinizing every little detail so she could provide as much intel as possible to Captain Kohler when she returned. Though she was far from an experienced soldier like Kohler, she already knew this would not be an easy place to assault. With multiple snipers covering the area, and miles of open sightline in every direction, attacking this compound without incurring heavy casualties would be a logistical nightmare, probably an impossibility altogether. Liberty just didn’t have the manpower to be able to absorb that kind of loss. Arlo had chosen an ideal location to station his men.
Swinging her binoculars to the back of the building, Dusty watched as one of the garage doors shot upward, revealing a large group of armed fighters standing just inside. The man at the front, holding an AR-15, briefly turned around and said a few fiery words to his troops before signaling for them to move out.
The group, consisting of at least fifty men and women, poured out of the garage door and funneled their way between two of the cattle pens. Dusty watched as they walked down the long driveway, heading toward the road—the road she sat on.
“Please turn right,” she whispered to herself as Arlo’s men approached the rural highway, knowing it was wishful thinking. Once she saw the point man turn left—coming right toward her—Dusty slithered her body down into the bed of the truck, making herself as small as possible between the wheel well and t
he cab on the driver’s side. “This is bad,” she whispered.
The sound of the marching soldiers produced a violent tremble throughout her body that made her queasy. Just one glance inside the bed and she was dead. She could be cradling a belt-fed M240b right now and still not make it out of that gunfight alive. Closing her eyes, all Dusty could do is wait, and hope that they wouldn’t hear the thumping in her chest that eerily matched the marching feet headed her way. She took a deep breath in, and held it.
The chatter amongst the fighters was minimal, as many of them were still waking up, but Dusty heard one man say, “I’ll tell you what, these guys put up a much bigger fight than I thought they would.”
“No kidding,” another man said. “Hopefully the Judge will give us some reinforcements for the final push…” The man’s voice trailed off as he walked away.
The Judge, Dusty thought to herself, trying to recall why that name sounded so familiar.
Moments later, the last of the footsteps faded, bringing with it a very thankful exhale from Dusty’s tired body. Arlo’s plans for reinforcements were critical intel, perhaps even more crucial than finding the stronghold itself. She wasn’t sure what Kohler would do to prepare for increased waves of attack—she wasn’t sure if there was anything he could do—but she needed to relay that information to him as soon as possible.
Dusty fought the urge to leap out of the bed of the truck, dump her pack, and sprint all the way back to Liberty, warning them of the attackers that just passed by. However, the information she had collected over the past few hours was far too valuable to risk such a dangerous move. In this snow, and with no real cover to move between, those rooftop snipers would spot her like a hobo at a gala before she could make it to the other side of the road. She would have to wait until nightfall, which would give her plenty of time to dwell on the nauseating game changer she had just overheard.
Chapter 44
Clay growled through the pain as every muscle in his body constricted. His face turned red and a jolt of pain shot through his jaw as he clenched his teeth. Having expended all his energy for the moment, Clay’s body relaxed as he gasped for air. Feeling lightheaded, he sat down on the edge of the bed and took several slow, deep breaths as he tried to flex the pain out of his fingers.
“Need me to loosen it up for ya?” Megan chuckled as she leaned against the doorframe.
“Be my guest.” Clay held out the pry bar toward Megan. After several seconds of Megan ignoring his offer, Clay’s arm got tired. “That’s what I thought,” he said as his hand, along with the pry bar, plopped down to the mattress.
He had made good headway on prying the safe door open, but either the door was getting tougher with each pull or he was quickly losing steam; it was probably a combination of both. Either way, he had already spent twice as much time on it than he had expected, but he wasn’t about to walk away now.
Taking in another deep breath, Clay got off the bed and wedged the pry bar between the door and frame. He placed a shirt over the pry bar and then used a framing hammer from the shed in the back yard to wedge it further inside. The impact was loud, but the shirt dampened the high-pitched ting it would have made, reducing the chances that anyone who might be in the area would hear it.
Tossing the hammer onto the bed, Clay began to push then pull the bar again. His grunts evolved into a full-on scream as he felt the door starting to give. The gap between the door and frame was now large enough that Clay could peek inside, ensuring that he wasn’t wasting any additional time or energy on a fruitless endeavor.
The safe wasn’t going to be the treasure chest he had been hoping for, but he did see a rifle toward the back, as well as a few boxes of ammo on the top shelf. He also noticed a plastic bag on the floor, on the left side of the center divider; he was hopeful for some more ammunition. Motivated enough by the discovery, Clay kept prying, pulling, and hammering at the budget safe. Twenty minutes later, he bested the steel box.
The door swung open and Clay immediately went for the rifle. He pulled the bolt open, revealing a small, empty chamber.
“Sweet!” Megan said, “Good find?”
“Hmm, maybe not,” Clay said as he read the etching on the barrel. He shined his light inside, and looked at the six boxes of Hornady on the shelf—all of which were 30-30 cartridges—before looking back at Megan. “This is a .204 Ruger. I know for certain we don’t have any ammo for it back at Liberty. So, with the exception of the…” Clay trailed off as he counted the .204 cartridges on the rifle’s stock sleeve, “nine rounds here, this rifle is as good as a club.”
“You still gonna take it with us?”
Clay chewed on the pros and cons of her question. On one hand, anything that goes bang would be useful. On the other hand, the added weight to an already oversized load plus the very finite amount of ammo did not make it a likely contender for the trip back. “Nah, I don’t think it’s going to make the cut.”
Tossing the gun onto the bed, Clay turned the flashlight back inside and grabbed the plastic shopping bag off the floor. At first, he was disappointed when he saw that there were no ammunition boxes inside. Once he actually processed what he was looking at, however, he thought he was dreaming.
“What is it?” Megan asked, intrigued with the enormous, if not mischievous, smirk on her brother’s face.
With his eyes remaining glued to the bag, Clay laughed in disbelief. “I can’t believe it.”
“Okay, you’re killing me, Smalls,” Megan said, referencing one of their favorite childhood movies.
“It’s Tannerite.”
“Tannerite? What’s that?”
“Remember when Uncle Ted had that old tree stump right in the middle of where he wanted his new carrot patch to go?” Clay asked. “So, he had Dad come over to help dig it up, but Dad had other plans…”
“Uhm, maybe,” Megan said as her mind went back in time. “Wait, oh…OH! Yeah, I remember that now. Wait, that is the same stuff?” she asked, pointing to the bag.
“Yup,” Clay said as he nodded, “the very same.”
Clay’s smile had become contagious, causing Megan to join in on the excitement. “Is it dangerous for us to be carrying around?”
“No, the way it’s packaged, we’re totally safe. Besides, it needs a good hit from a fast bullet to ignite it.
Megan wasn’t too reassured with Clay’s explanation on how the explosives were detonated, seeing as shootouts during the travels were not a terribly far-fetched reality for them. However, Clay’s relaxed demeanor as he handled the bag put her mind at ease. A little. “So, what will you guys do with it?”
Clay shook his head. “No clue. I’m just going to hand it off to Captain Kohler when we get back, I’m sure he’ll have a few ideas.”
Reaching in and grabbing the ammo boxes—five full and one missing six cartridges—Clay dropped them onto the bed next to the Tannerite before he grabbed the varmint rifle and placed it behind the safe. Megan gave him a look that told him she wasn’t convinced that was a great hiding spot.
“Hey, if we were the first people to stumble across this place in the last ten years, what are the odds that someone else will in the next couple of months? Besides, even if someone does find the place, I’m hoping they’ll see that the door is destroyed, the safe is empty, and just turn around and walk back out.”
Megan shrugged. It made little difference to her whether that gun was still behind the safe or not when Clay returned. In her mind, Northfield was equipped well enough to outfit a small army.
Picking up the Tannerite and ammo, Clay and Megan headed downstairs and grabbed their bags sitting on the dining room table. The duffle bags could be carried by handles or slung over the shoulders like a backpack. With Clay’s duffle weighing upwards of seventy pounds—with spare space saved for the items back at the FEMA camp—he opted to shoulder the weight and carry his backpack with his left hand while his right stayed on the handle of his ARAK-21 hanging from its sling.
Megan’s pa
cks were full, but considerably lighter. As they divvied up the goods, Clay intentionally gave her items which took up more in volume, but less in mass, such as their clothes, sleeping bags, foil packs of pink salmon, and so on. It was all still vital to bring with them, but would be less taxing on her much smaller frame.
After trying to wear the duffle bag like a backpack, Megan decided to carry it instead. The long, canvas bag felt awkward on her back, making her feel off balance, and slowing her movement. She, instead, opted to wear her backpack on her shoulders. However, since Clay had severed both shoulder straps after pulling Megan out of the lake, a very crude surgery involving his knife and a length of paracord was necessary. The end result was surprisingly strong.
Walking out the back door, they decided to follow—as best as they could tell—the path the former owners of the cabin would have driven in on—which headed away from the lake. With the snow on the ground, they only used the unnatural gaps in the trees to chart their course. After a twenty-five-minute hike, they came out to a road, and started heading south.
Clay was already feeling the rigorous effects of the added luggage strapped to his back. He felt as if he was inside his favorite RPG game and had just picked up one bottle cap too many. He moved like he was smothered in molasses walking through wet cement.
