“You said these things were like a tank. I’m just going to wreck the fences and bug out, ok?”
“Michael,” his mother’s voice on the radio said, “Please turn it off and come back.”
“Sorry Mom, Chad’s driving that one and, unless Sergei is a driver, I think I’m the only other qualified person.”
There was a silence and then the second APC fired up. Michael let out a whoop and gave the twin diesels some pedal. The APC almost leapt out of the enclosure. Michael clipped a support beam coming out, not realizing how hard the steering was.
“Ooops,” he said into the radio and then laughed as Michael’s mother commented, “You drive like my grandma.”
The engine roared as he took off in the opposite direction to the gate. Chad had told him that the supply depot was back there. He didn’t want to ruin it, but it backed up to a swampy area, making it easy for people to melt away into the bayou. He didn’t plan on going far off the grass, not knowing whether APCs got stuck easy, but it wasn’t worth finding out.
“Time to shake things up,” Michael said as he rammed the fence, sending chain link and razor wire scattering as the machine tore through it like a hot knife through butter.
* * *
“He is the best one for what he is proposing,” Chad said, sitting in the driver’s seat and firing up his own ride.
They watched as the APC leapt forward and clipped one of the poles that supported the structure. The wooden beam crunched and the roof sagged in that direction.
“Ooops,” Michael said in the radio.
“You drive like my grandmother,” Michael’s mom was saying, laughing from happiness and nerves and choking down feelings of pride for her son.
“He’s going to be OK in there?” she asked King.
“The thing’s a tank. Nothing but a rocket would have a chance to… Oh, Momma, check the boy out!” King pointed, even though he was looking through a slit where the shooting port was.
Chad gave the APC some gas and it roared forward before the roof collapsed on top of them. It came down in a crash that was barely audible over the roar of the twin diesels. Driving down to the base, they had taken it easy, but for the breakout they were using full power and accelerating quickly to the top speed of almost 55 miles per hour. It wasn’t hard enough of an acceleration to throw a person back in their seat, but the torque involved in getting such a heavy war machine moving made as much noise as it did when the panicked guards fired on the APC as it refused to slow, and barreled towards the gate.
King stuck the rifle out of the port and fired. He missed, but the dirt erupted and the guards quit firing, jumping out of the way as the heavy vehicle tore the gate off its hinges.
“That was easy,” Chad said, coming to a stop a hundred yards beyond the gate.
“Too easy.” Amanda said.
“Michael, do you think?” Chad asked.
They winced as more bullets dinged off the armored sides and King pushed the port closed so a lucky shot didn’t ricochet inside.
“I feel bad about leaving everyone as well. Rear monitor shows the women starting to flee. The guards are trying to round them… Oh, Gods!” Chad saw chaos erupting.
King strode forward and looked at the small monitor. Michael’s APC was crashing through a guard tower, only to reverse and let it fall as he backed into another one. Somewhere, flames were taking hold and the destruction and chaos caused by the women had the handful of people on duty scrambling to try to regain control.
“Want to go back and run over some things?” King asked Michael’s mother.
She nodded.
King opened the gun port on the other side as something flashed past the APC and an explosion rocked the night, ringing their heads.
“RPGs!” Sergei screamed.
Chad pointed the APC towards the camp and took in the sight.
Four men had all lined up at the gate. Three of them had RPGs held high, and the fourth was reloading.
“Will that kill us?” Sergei asked.
“No, armor up front is thick. Takes something bigger to do that, unless all of them hit us in same spot. I think. Shit, I’m not a driver normally,” Chad complained as Rose rubbed his shoulder.
“What’s the kid up to?” King asked.
“Oh Michael,” his mother moaned.
* * *
Michael was lining up to follow the other APC when he saw a stream and explosion in front of him. He lined his APC up square on the gate and gulped. Four men were standing there, each of them armed with what looked like a bazooka or an RPG. One of them was lining up to fire on Michael, who slid out of the chair and dropped to the floor as the rocket hit the front of the APC. The armor absorbed the explosion, but the concussion of the blast was enough to make his ears ring and his head hurt.
“Shoot at me?” Michael said, but he couldn’t hear anything.
He’d never fired anything as big as the gun on the APC, but he’d watched war movies. He’d even seen a John Wayne or Elvis movie where they were in the Navy. The ship had fired off huge bullets that took quite a few men to load. It was nowhere near that big but it looked like what he’d seen in that movie. He looked around and saw the rounds on the shelves to the side and smiled. Big gun or little gun? Being 17, and fascinated with things that went boom, he worked the lever on the breach of the main gun and opened it. A shell fell out and he pushed it back in, locking the breach.
“Already loaded,” he mumbled to himself, though he couldn’t hear.
Another rocket impacted against the front. He heard that one, and it knocked him off his feet.
“Handles, check.” He turned some switches on until the handles turned the turret...
“Up and down,” Michael murmured, noticing how hot it was getting inside, and wiping sweat away.
The sweat trickled down his arm and he saw it was a red smear. He wiped at his ears and shrugged. Not much he could do about it.
“Now, how do I fire this thing? Where’s the trigger?” Michael said, aiming about ten feet in front of the soldiers, trusting the blast to take them out.
He found a button with ‘огонь' printed on it. It was the only red button and red buttons usually meant…
“Fire,” he hollered, rocking backwards as the main gun went off.
Through the viewfinder he saw that the men didn’t blow up in a fiery explosion, they exploded in a red gore.
Michael went and sat back down in the driver’s seat, trying to listen to roar of the motor to see if it had been damaged, but he couldn’t hear anything. Wiping his ear out with his sleeve he put the monster vehicle in gear and drove forward.
“That wasn’t so hard, now was it?” Michael said, his head hurting horribly now.
Nobody in the APC next to him got out so Michael looked and waited. Soon a flood of bodies started fleeing and he could see from them surging past his unit on the monitors. People banged on it in thanks, but he couldn’t hear them. He realized the reason for the blood and the reason everything was so quiet.
“This is Michael,” he said into the radio, not able to hear himself, “I’m ok. I got my bell rung there. I’ll follow you guys when you’re ready, or pop the hatch when it’s safe. The last rocket… I can’t hear anything right now.” He put the mic down and waited.
The hatch of the APC next to him popped open and he went and unlocked and popped his as well.
His mother was the first one out, and she jumped from one to the other, almost pulling her son off his feet as he tried to get out. He could feel her running her hands through his hair as she pulled his head tightly against her and then felt her pause. Michael looked up to see his Mom talking but he wasn’t getting any of it.
“Can’t year you. Love you, Mom,” he said.
She pulled him and he was climbing down the hatch when his foot slipped. Big strong arms caught him and lowered him to the floor gently. Nice soft floor, he thought, one that would be perfect for sleeping on. Michael laid down a moment, to shut his
eyes and was out cold.
* * *
“Is he ok?” His mother asked king.
“Bell got rung. Concussion, probably burst eardrums.” King told her.
“That means he is ok, yes?” Sergei asked, losing some of his language as he dogged the hatch down firmly and held on as Rose helped navigate for Chad.
“Yes, he is ok,” King told Michael’s mother, pulling her son into a sitting position, letting his head rest against his legs.
“You don’t talk much, do you?” she asked the gentle giant next to her.
“Nope,” King said, ignoring the sharp glace he got.
* * *
“Where are we now?” Michael asked, sore and uptight from being on the road for close to two weeks.
His hearing had started to come back and he was turning into a nonstop chatter box, showing his mother how much of the boy was still left in her young man.
“Almost to Kentucky, boy.” King said.
“Cool. What’s in Kentucky?” he asked them.
They’d stopped and were resting on the side of the road while Sergei went to drain fuel from a tanker truck that had stalled.
“People.” King said.
“What kind of people?” Michael asked impatiently.
“Good ones.”
“Say, Michael,” Chad asked, “How did you know to use the AP round at the gate guys? I’ve been dying to ask you but we’ve been driving and you’ve been deaf...”
“What’s an AP round?” Michael asked.
His eyes got wide when all the color drained out of King and Chad’s faces.
“What?” Michael asked.
“Anything else would have blown us all up,” King said, his voice slow and gravelly as if two boulders were rubbing together… Angry boulders…
“Well, glad that worked out then. I feel bad we couldn’t take the other APC but…”
“One more hit from that rocket and you would have been dead,” King told him, “The armor couldn’t take no more. You got something kid, I don’t know if its luck, or balls the size of… Excuse me ma’am,” King said when he noticed Michael’s mother’s disapproving stare.
“You got something kid. Something. We had more luck than anybody should have a right to have. Lukashenko, Chad here, a plan that didn’t backfire. You figuring out how to operate the gun and having the right shell. That’s some big luck there boy, big luck.” King said, one of the longest strings of words anybody had heard from him in a while.
“Or it was his faith, and God’s hand guiding him,” Michael’s mother’s voice was calm and soothing.
“So you can hear good enough now? Not just couple words here and there?” King asked.
Michael’s hearing had been returning in snatches until he could make out the steady thrum of the diesels as they were moving. Sometimes bits of conversation. He’d gotten an ear infection, but the first aid kit in the APC had syringes with a generic penicillin and morphine. They’d shot him up full of penicillin when his ears started to hurt, discharging fluid, and he slept for a couple days. That healing did the trick and the infection began to dry up. It would be the first day out of the APC without the motors running. He could hear them, but not as loudly as he’d hoped.
“Without the motors running, guys sound faint, but yeah, I can hear you all,” Michael said.
“Good, no permanent damage.” King said.
“So what’s in Kentucky again?” Michael repeated the question, knowing there were some people there John had worked with to help bust him out of the FEMA camp.
“Here boy, want you to listen to this now that we’re stopped,” King said, handing him the handset.
“What is it?”
“Rebel Radio. Dudes from all over the country are going to the heartland. Organizing. Getting ready.”
“Ready for what?” Michael asked, a little breathless, realizing it was the same people John had talked to.
“Some real badasses who fought against all odds,” King told him.
“To protect our borders,” his mom said, hugging him, “They’re coming in through Mexico right now.”
“Who is?” Michael asked, hating that he was two weeks behind in information. If he’d only thought to grab a notebook and pen at some of their stops, maybe he’d know and wouldn’t be so bored all the time.
“The people who did this to us,” King said pointing to the sky.
“The terrorists,” Rose said, hugging Chad close.
“What are we going to do in Kentucky?” Michael asked, confused.
“Get organized,” King said.
“Then what?” Rose asked.
“We take the fight to them,” Michael’s mother said, closing the subject, “and we fight to win.”
Chapter Ten
The Homestead, Kentucky -
Sandra awoke to a ton of curious faces surrounding the front porch. She felt strong arms holding her and a gentle swinging motion. Blake held her across his lap, cradling her head and body on the swing.
“Hey,” Sandra said, her voice dry and coming out in a croak.
“Hey, yourself. How you feeling?” Blake said.
The silence was eerie; there must have been twenty people standing around or sitting on the railings, but everyone was so silent, it seemed like they were holding their breath.
“Sore. Stomach and head hurt some,” she admitted.
Blake handed her a cup of water. It was still cold from the well, and she had to force herself not to gulp it down.
“They got you with a tranquilizer dart of some kind,” Blake told her, pointing to the small blood stain on her shirt.
“Yeah, fast acting. Never saw them,” she said between sips.
“Do you think the drugs will hurt the baby?” Blake asked.
“I don’t think so,” Sandra said, “at least, I hope not. I can still feel him moving around in there,” she said, a tired, lazy smile on her face as she put her hands on her stomach.
“Hey,” she said after a moment and looking around, “where’s Chris?”
“Took a nap, he should be up any time now,”
“How late is it?” Sandra asked, noting that it was either dusk or dawn.
“Almost dark,” Blake said, running his hands through her hair.
“Hey, Blake, is my daughter awake?” Duncan’s voice came out of the handset on the small table that Blake had fashioned out of old pallets, startling everyone.
“Yes sir,” Blake said, grabbing it and handing it to Sandra.
“Daddy?” Sandra asked.
“Yes baby, how you doing?” Duncan said, his voice sounding happy now.
“Good. Daddy, we have to stop Davis. The man must be insane to keep trying this.”
“Didn’t Blake tell you where Sgt. Smith and I are at with some of the men?” Duncan said with a chuckle.
“No… I just woke up.”
Sandra looked up at Blake who suddenly seemed interested in the sky, the ceiling, or the roof or anything else he could look at but her.
“We uh… Well… I’m in Greenville and we broadcast on all frequencies that we’re coming for Davis. Anyone who stands with the lunatic is going to… Well, you know.”
“What did they say?” Sandra asked, her voice dry and crackling.
“Davis himself came on, cussing and screaming. Almost sounds like the rats are deserting the ship. Probably doing the right thing finally. Even merc’s don’t like dying for no reason. Many of them asked for an hour to flee the area.”
“Blake, how much artillery did they take?” Sandra asked.
“All of it,” Blake said softly, “As well as the APC/MRAPs. They got them tipped over with the help of the old transport truck we stashed.”
“Daddy?”
“Yes, dear?”
“Call in the fire, don’t get too close.”
“None of us are, hon. I’ll be on the air with you soon. I’ll let you know when it’s done. Duncan, out,” he said before changing frequencies.
Blake could hear the base set in the house get turned up.
“Hey, kid with the music, you got some Rage Against the Machine handy?” Duncan asked the airwaves of Rebel Radio.
“Always man, always,” a teenaged voice replied immediately.
“How about Bulls on Parade?” Duncan said, “Lisa suggested it for this and we’re going to be playing it on the loud speakers on the APC’s. Part of my daughter’s psy-ops thing.”
“You ready?” the kid asked.
“Yes, son.” Duncan said.
The music drifted out of the radio, covering up the muted sounds of a berserker chainsaw on PCP, as Blake listened to the tactical net at the same time the house was playing the Rebel Radio feed. Corinne was calling in the shots and Duncan was barking orders to reload, cover fire. It was chaotic, and it sounded like a video game, but it was real life. Men screamed, muted shouts were heard over the tactical net. Soon a new song came on. Blake recognized it from the few times he’d dialed to the rock station by mistake. The unmistaken sound of “Freedom” started blasting.
The feedback was tremendous and the radio crackled as the signal distorted from the nearness to the loud speakers. When the song was done, the heavy machine guns pounded out their thunderous songs of death for another few moments and then fell silent as the final verse was sung. Blake and Sandra had heard it before, but never before had it felt so poignant to hear the meaning happen in real life.
“Mop up, sir?” Corrine’s voice asked.
“No, that was an old school building. Nothing inside could have survived that. Let’s pick up and go home,” Duncan radioed back.
“Is it over?” Sandra asked into the handset.
“Yes baby, it’s over.” Duncan said.
* * *
The night that Sandra had been drugged and Blake and Bobby had taken off at a dead run, Melissa had hesitated. She was a reserve squad member, trained with the others, but because of her only being 18, she was left to the less dangerous roles. She’d gone to the pile of guns and, despite everyone’s objections, she took off. She’d gone without Intel or a handset to listen to developments, but the guys’ path was easy to follow and, despite things, she’d made it there in time to put two bullets into the man holding Bobby hostage.
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