Copperheads

by Joe Nobody

  Smiling slyly, May said, “You’re thinking it’s better to ask for forgiveness than permission – right?”

  Guilty as charged, Butter nodded. “Sometimes a man has to do what a man has to do. Right is right.”

  May was clearly overjoyed at his words. Taking a quick glance at her watch, she urged, “We’d better get going. She’s being held near the main plantation house, and that’s almost two miles away from here.”

  “No problem,” Butter responded, checking his own watch. “We have plenty of time. It will be dawn before I will be missed.”

  Butter caught his first glimpse of the plantation after they had hiked for nearly an hour. While it had been easy to avoid an occasional security patrol using infrared optics, the effort had required an indirect course. More than once, the couple had been forced to hide while a party of sentries passed.

  The crest of a large hill, combined with the high moon, eventually provided an astounding view of what appeared to be a mansion straight out of Better Homes and Gardens magazine’s antebellum edition.

  Peering down at the colonial columns and the assortment of outbuildings, the entire setup reminded Butter of pictures he’d seen of pre-Civil War Mississippi or Georgia. May had told him that the locals called the estate the Castle, and now he could understand why.

  “She’s down there in one of those long buildings according to what I’ve been told. The stranger said her sleeping quarters were in a structure marked #11,” May whispered.

  They continued downward, passing through a field of waist-high corn, Butter’s head always on a swivel, scanning left and right to avoid any human contact.

  Less than half a mile from the Castle, the duo arrived at the first significant obstacle.

  A large, wide irrigation ditch blocked their path. Butter thought the waterway would be easy to swim or wade across but quickly determined that wasn’t a very good option. “With the bright moonlight, any guard would notice the ripples we would make while crossing. That water is glass smooth, and we would send little waves rolling for hundreds of yards in both directions.”

  “There has to be a bridge,” May suggested. “Let’s work our way along the bank.”

  A short distance later, the pair approached a footbridge, the old wooden structure barely wide enough for two people to pass. Right at the peak of the slight arch stood a sentry, the steel of his machete glinting in the yellow light.

  “Shit,” Butter growled, studying the lookout. “He’s going to be difficult to take out without making a lot of noise.”

  As the two intruders deliberated the situation, a pair of men approached the bridge from the opposite direction. “Hola,” they greeted the sentry, who promptly stepped aside to let them pass.

  “We need to look like the locals,” May whispered. “We need to look like we belong.”

  Butter glanced down at his load vest, carbine, and high-tech optic. “That’s going to be a little hard to accomplish. My gear doesn’t exactly fit in with this year’s fashion line.”

  “Maybe not yours, but I think I could fake it in the dark,” May offered. “If I distract him for a second, can you do the rest?”

  Butter didn’t like it. “That’s really, really dangerous. You might get hurt, or he might be shout out a warning. I don’t think it’s a very good idea.”

  Another few minutes passed while both of them tried to think of an alternative. Finally running out of patience after checking her watch, May maintained, “We have to try my plan. It’s the only way we’re going to find out if they are holding my sister.”

  May began pulling out her shirt and rustled her hair. Next came the undoing of the top two buttons of her blouse. “I’ll get his attention and try to make him turn his back to you,” she said, and then was gone, sauntering casually toward the bridge.

  Shaking his head in disgust, Butter moved down into the shadows near the bank, trying to get as close as possible to the passage and be ready when May put on her show.

  “Hola,” she greeted, strolling casually onto the crossway.

  Like before, the guard merely nodded as she came closer, not identifying the lone female as a threat. May continued past the sentry and then paused a few steps to his rear. “Nice night,” she continued in passable Spanish. “It’s a shame we both have to spend it alone,” she added with a sultry tone.

  The guard turned, suddenly intrigued by her words. Butter, despite his enormous girth, was up and moving, his boots hardly making a sound.

  By the time the guard heard the big kid’s footfalls, it was too late. The heel of Butter’s palm slammed into the man’s neck just as he began to turn, the blow so powerful it nearly knocked the sentry over the railing.

  Butter effortlessly scooped the unresponsive fellow onto his shoulder while May retrieved the guard’s blade. Less than 10 seconds had passed before the two were scrambling off the opposite side of the bridge and darting into the shadows.

  Producing a small role of duct tape from his kit, Butter quickly bound and gagged the unconscious sentry, dumping the man’s body in a shallow draw were it wouldn’t be discovered until daylight, praying they would be long gone before either the guy woke up, or someone stumbled across his prone frame.

  The rescuers encountered no additional security as they made their way toward the main compound. It took them only a few minutes to locate the building labeled #11. There were no lights, and the building was quiet.

  Butter went in first, his carbine high in one meaty fist, his flashlight in the other. He was hopeful neither would be necessary. Inside, the two Texans found themselves staring at two long rows of cots lining the walls. There had to be over 200 people sleeping inside the moderate-sized building.

  The fact that it was extremely dark inside was a two-edged sword. Butter and May’s un-plantation-like appearance was somewhat hidden from the occupants. The duo was, however, going to have a very difficult time identifying April amidst the rumpled blankets and belly sleepers.

  May took the lead, walking down the center aisle, scanning desperately right and left. Some of the occupants were easy to eliminate due to facial hair or clearly-male shape. More than once, she stepped closer to a particular cot, anxiously searching for the familiarity of April’s face.

  Some minutes later, they arrived at the opposite end, May beginning to get desperate. “I didn’t see her,” she murmured in the lowest of voices.

  In the narrow space, Butter started to turn, thinking they should take a second pass. He would risk using his flashlight. As he tried to pivot his large frame, an elbow caught in April’s curtain-door, revealing a dim candle lit inside.

  “What’s in there? Another room?” May whispered. She pulled back the curtain and froze.

  April heard the footsteps outside her threshold. When her drape was pulled back, she expected Castro’s lust-filled face to come barging in.

  Instead, the doorway was filled with the shoulders of one of the largest men she had ever seen. While April hadn’t visited every part of the plantation, she knew instantly that the giant in her doorway wasn’t one of Castro’s men. His clothing, bulging vest, and futuristic-looking weapon were as out of place as if he were wearing an astronaut’s spacesuit.

  Another face appeared over the Goliath’s shoulder, bobbing up and down on tiptoes to see past the big man’s frame. In the dim light, she couldn’t be sure … thought it was impossible … it had been so long … May!

  April’s silence had nothing to do with a desire to avoid alerting the sentries or arousing her dorm mates. She was simply too stunned to breathe, let alone speak.

  May burst into the small space, pushing past Butter and nearly knocking the big fella into the rickety wall. “April! Oh my God, Sis. I can’t believe we found you!”

  The sisters embraced, both pairs of eyes growing damp with emotion. Butter kept by the doorway, his eyes and ears working overtime, worried that the noise would draw unwanted attention.

  “What are you doing here?” April finally whispere
d.

  “We came to rescue you. To take you home.”

  April seemed taken aback by the concept, a scowl asserting itself on her face. “To take me home? Rescue? Why? I’m just fine, can’t you see? I’m teaching school and eating every day.…”

  “You’re a slave!” May hissed in disbelief. “All of these people are slaves. I’ve come to set you free and take you back home to Mom and the lake.”

  Confusion manifested itself April’s eyes, her sister’s words coming far too fast. The entire encounter was just so unexpected – so weird. “But, but, but I’m fine. I miss you and mom, but can’t you see that I’m happy here?”

  “I saw them put you in a cage the day you disappeared. You’ve been in a cage ever since. Can’t you see that?” May pleaded.

  April shook her head, “What are you talking about? There was no place else to ride in the truck. I volunteered to get behind the bars.”

  Standing near the opening, Butter began to worry about the racket they were making. “Can we hurry this up?” he asked nicely. “These people out here are starting to take notice of the noise.”

  May flashed him a dirty look and then said, “She’s suffering from Stockholm Syndrome. Give me a minute.”

  Tilting his head, Butter considered his partner’s statement, Bishop having mentioned the condition before during SAINT training, briefing his team that the condition was sometimes called capture-bonding. Basically, those held against their will for extended periods could begin to identify, empathize, and defend their captors.

  He didn’t care. “Can we have this conversation somewhere else? Like back at our camp? If we don’t get out of here quickly, we are going to be knee-deep in shit in short order.”

  “I don’t want to leave,” April shakily countered. “But he’s right. You two had better run like hell before Castro and his men discover you are here.”

  “Come with me, April. Please. If you want to come back later, that’s fine,” May pleaded, trying to reason with her sister.

  “No!” she responded, panic apparent in her tone. “Being out after hours is against the rules. Leaving the plantation is against the rules. The punishment is swift and severe.”

  Butter was at the end of his rope, now regretting the entire adventure. With a move as quick as lightning, he pushed May out of the way and scooped up April onto his shoulder. “Come on,” he growled, “We’re out of this pop stand.”

  April, for her part, was so shocked by the behemoth’s brash move, she didn’t make a noise until they were nearly a third of the way down the aisle and rushing for the door. Finally, she found her voice, “Put me down, damn it! Right now! I demand you put me down.”

  When Butter didn’t comply, she tried to wrestle away, clenching a fist and striking the big man in the back. When that didn’t have any effect, she kicked and squirmed, trying to wiggle out of the vise-like grip that held her fast.

  As it became clear that Butter wasn’t going to comply, April started pleading with her dorm-mates, “Help me! These people are kidnapping me! Help me!”

  There was a mixed reaction from the residents, some ignoring the ruckus, other rolling over to see what all the fuss was about. Many thought that it was just Castro coming to visit the shapely, young gringo woman who taught school. Others were convinced that April had violated the rules and that the plantation’s security forces were taking the woman away for punishment.

  Realizing that none of her roommates were going to do anything to assist her, April’s desperation reached a new level – she started screaming at the top of her lungs.

  In some recess of her mind, April was stunned that none of the plantation workers were moving to help her. For a flash of time, she wondered what was wrong with them. Why wouldn’t they help one of their family? It all served to motivate her struggling.

  Butter was about to pull the kicking, loud-mouthed woman off his shoulder and knock her out cold when May stepped up and slapped April hard across the face. The blow temporarily stopped the older sister’s earsplitting pleas, but only for a moment. Blinking the shock from her face, April inhaled deeply and began shouting for help as they bounced out the door marked #11 and burst into the plantation’s courtyard.

  Moving quickly toward the unguarded bridge, Butter could sense movement around him. In the distance, he could hear alarmed voices – somewhere a horse’s hoofs pounded the earth. It was obvious April’s shouts had been heard.

  He was less than 100 meters from the crossing when two men stepped out from a tree line, blocking the direct route. The cold steel of long machetes was clear in their hands. Butter could hear more people chasing them from the cluster of barracks and outbuildings to their rear. A horse’s unhappy whinny wasn’t far away. People were yelling Spanish words from what seemed like every direction.

  With his head spinning left and right, Butter raised his carbine with his one free hand, hoping the threat of a firearm would make the two guards retreat. They held their ground.

  Out of the darkness came a sound that sounded like a sizzling, pissed, super-sized insect. The last four feet of a bullwhip instantly wrapped around the barrel of Butter’s weapon and then jerked with significant force. The action pulled the big kid’s finger tight against the trigger and the thunder of gunfire rolled across the plantation.

  Barely managing to hold onto his weapon, Butter dropped April unceremoniously to the ground to free his other arm.

  The man with the whip kept pulling hard on Butter’s rifle, so the kid decided to go with the flow.

  Charging like an enraged bull, Butter rushed directly at the whip-wielder. The surprised sentry didn’t have time to react before the Texan’s shoulder slammed into his chest, crushing his solar plexus and breaking several ribs. He let go of the whip.

  Pivoting to bring his weapon back into the fight, Butter was struck in the thigh by another guard intent on tackling the intruder. The angle was bad, barely knocking the rescuer off balance.

  Two more guards arrived just then, both of them having the same idea. One was introduced to Butter’s rifle butt, the other easily tossed aside like a hamburger in a greasy spoon.

  Now, there were at least a dozen guards rushing into the fight. A second bullwhip hissed through the air, slashing squarely across Butter’s back. The sentry seemed stunned by the lack of reaction, realizing too late that his leather had no effect through the thick body armor protecting the introducer’s torso. By the time he had recoiled the length of rawhide, a huge fist had crushed his jaw.

  Still, the sentries poured in, a half-dozen rushing the stranger that had been so bold to trespass onto their plantation. One man managed to wrap his arms around Butter’s legs as another hurdled onto his back. A second later, a wall of sentry-flesh bowled the big kid over.

  Landing in a heap of entangled limbs and struggling muscle, Butter’s priority changed from making an escape to surviving. Nearly 300 pounds of highly skilled, desperate strength began wreaking havoc on any body part that came within his grasp.

  He snapped one man’s neck, broke another’s arm. Howls of pain and agony came from the dog pile as Butter’s feet, fists, and elbows crushed bone and tore tendons. In seconds, the pursuers began crawling and scrambling, trying to get away from the fury of hammering blows.

  Flinging the last body aside, Butter stood and found a grip on his rifle, the weapon’s sling keeping it within reach. Despite their number, the guards began backing away. None of them were armed. None of them had ever encountered anything like this mountain of flesh rising like a Phoenix from the earth.

  “Stop! Stop, or I will kill the girl!” shouted a voice in clear English.

  Butter pivoted to see a man holding a pistol to May’s head, the revolver’s hammer already cocked and ready to fire.

  For a second, Butter made eye contact with the gunman, boring into his soul and trying to gauge if the local would actually pull the trigger before he could aim and fire his own weapon.

  Castro’s gaze was empty and cold, his e
yes holding less emotion than someone who was preparing to swat a fly. This man is a killer, Butter realized. He doesn’t care. May’s life means nothing to him.

  The kid then glared at the pistol’s barrel, the metal so dark against May’s fair skin. The girl was terrified. The muzzle was rock steady against her temple.

  Butter relaxed, holding out his weapon in surrender, the barrel pointed downward. “Okay, mister. You win. Please don’t kill her.”

  Castro’s mouth curled in a cruel smile, and then he nodded at the ring of guards. A moment later, Butter was knocked to the ground. At least a dozen boots began kicking and stomping on the kid’s prone frame, the recovering sentries now extracting their vengeance.

  Grim’s voice carried alarm. “Bishop, our local contact is approaching in that old pickup. He doesn’t have any trucks with him.”

  It took a moment for the sleep to vacate the Texan’s eyes, a bit longer before Bishop blinked in confusion. “It’s probably nothing. He’s probably just stopping by to let us know the day’s schedule.”

  “There’s more, sir. Butter is missing,” Grim reported, justifying his urgent tone.

  “Huh? Missing? Where did he go?”

  “No idea, boss. I saw him after Kevin relieved him of guard duty. He was going to eat and catch some rack time. No one has seen him since. His bedroll is nowhere to be found.”

  Again, the Texan wasn’t quite sure there was an issue. “He’s probably off digging a cat hole. After that terrible stew last night, I’m surprised the entire camp doesn’t have a bad case of the runs.”

  “I don’t think so,” Grim replied, trying to make his groggy boss understand. “We heard some distant gunfire a few hours ago. At first, I thought it had nothing to do with us. Now, I’m not so sure.”

  “Why didn’t you wake …” Bishop started to scold, but Grim interrupted.

  “You’ve been working double shifts planning and getting the convoy ready. I decided to let you get a full night’s sleep unless I had proof there was trouble afoot. Our perimeter remained quiet.”