DRUMS OF WAR: A Dystopian Thriller Series (Broken Patriot Book 1)

by Long, Timothy W.

  He pushed past a family of four who seemed to be struggling with indecision.

  He moved around a cluster of organizers who met and spoke in loud voices.

  “Do we stay?”

  “This isn’t legal!”

  “They can’t do this.”

  “What does martial law mean to us?”

  Idiots. It meant get the hell out of here.

  Bradley found a break in the throng and headed for open field. Ahead of him, dozens preceded him. He glanced at his watch and found it was 8:29. If they were going to move in on time, the order could go out in seconds.

  Clumps of men in BDU’s, wearing body armor, carrying weapons and bottles that looked like pepper spray, formed a long line. A second group moved through them, carrying plastic shields.

  Panic rippled through the mob as the first retort sounded.

  Bradley looked skyward and nearly yelled, “Incoming!” but someone else beat him to it.

  Loud bangs exploded around him. Smoke rose into the morning air, sending people into a panic. Bradley moved his feet apart into a fighter’s stance, lowered his upper body, and got his hands up, because he didn’t want to be knocked over and trampled.

  “Dad!” someone yelled.

  Bradley turned and was nearly knocked to the ground by a young couple holding hands.

  He pushed them aside and strode into the crowd toward the direction he thought Junior had called.

  Then a terrifying noise echoed. Sharp retorts. Someone had fired a gun from the inside the line of protesters.

  Within seconds, more gunfire rippled into the morning air.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  James Briggs advanced with his squad.

  They had been placed behind a line of Guardsmen from Alpha who had been tasked with carrying riot shields. Behind them, a number of squads fired off tear gas canisters. They landed with whumps among the protesters and exploded, releasing clouds. Many of the people in the crowd pulled bandannas and T-shirts from bags and quickly wrapped them around their faces.

  “Disperse and return to your homes,” sounded over the loudspeakers over and over again.

  James’ stomach was in knots. When he had signed on as a National Guard reservist, he had thought he would do drills, march around, earn a little money and have his school paid for in the process. He would never had expected he would be marching on private citizens, threatening them with violence, and chasing them out of a park. Not to mention the fact that he had been under fire by looters in Chicago.

  The protesters hung back, perhaps unsure how what to do. They would have been best served by leaving when they had been told to.

  The park stretched out with one gentle rise in the center. A hundred or so yards to the west, a line of trees faded into the horizon. Groups of the milling people broke away and made for their parked cars. Some headed for the safety of the trees.

  There was a large scale fight underway in the middle of the two masses. Men went at each other with round house swings, kicks, and even flailed with signs.

  A dozen more tear gas canisters landed among the fighting people and sent them scrambling.

  His squad was less than twenty-five feet away when the first gunshot sounded.

  Then a blast of an automatic weapon rippled. One of the men with a shield directly ahead of him screamed and dropped to the ground, clutching his ankle. Skip ducked and swung his M4 up.

  Two more Guardsmen fell to the ground. Someone from his side returned fire.

  Smoke rose into the air as guns discharged.

  “This is fucking crazy,” Cooper yelled.

  More automatic fire blasted from the protesters. At least three, possibly as many as five, guns fired. Guardsmen dropped. Cooper spun and fell on his back.

  “Medic!” James yelled.

  He rushed to Cooper’s side and checked his rifleman for a wound. Cooper grabbed his chest and sucked in breath.

  “Plate took the damage. I’m not hit, just hurt and pissed,” Cooper wheezed.

  James dug his hand under Cooper’s IOTV and was relieved when he didn’t feel wetness. Cooper stuck his finger in a hole in the bottom left quadrant of his vest, then blew out another deep breath.

  “Son of a bitch,” Skip muttered.

  Something sailed back out of the crowd. It landed among a squad thirty feet away from James. Jesus, someone had picked up a tear gas canister and lobbed it back at them.

  Then the earth shook with an explosion. One of the men lifted into the air and flew backward. He landed in a heap and James realized part of the man’s left leg was shredded.

  Two more grenades flew and landed. He grabbed Cooper and dragged him backward.

  Explosions tore up the earth and flung men around. Blood splattered his face, and something sharp struck his leg. He staggered back, and then sat down on his ass. The pain quickly told him he had been hit. He grabbed his left leg and press his fingers in to find the wound. Automatic gunfire toppled more soldiers.

  They dropped to their knees, and then opened fire.

  James rose and tested his leg. It didn’t give under him, so he grabbed Cooper again and dragged him away from the fighting.

  Sprouts appeared at his side, face white. Skip covered them but his line of sight into the protesters was blocked by their own men.

  “This isn’t happening,” Sprouts said.

  James wished that was true, but it wasn’t.

  Someone had shot at them.

  He’d been hit by shrapnel.

  He got back to his feet, lifted his M4, and advanced on the crowd.

  Chapter Forty

  Bradley dove for cover as gunfire sounded. He dug his fingers into the earth and prayed.

  Then he was nearly trampled as the protesters turned and ran in every direction. What had been organized chaos, became a full-scale flight.

  Bradley fought back the narrow vision as it tried to set in. He held onto reality and managed to stagger back to his feet.

  “Dad!” Junior called from somewhere.

  A man ran into Bradley, knocking him flat. He went to his knees, then used a panicked protestor as an anchor and dragged himself back to his feet as the woman tried to run toward the gunfire. He stopped her, and yelled, “Not that way!”

  He pointed in the opposite direction, but her eyes barely registered him. She barreled past him, and then went down under a dozen people running in terror. He got one last look at her as he fought toward the direction he had heard Junior. She tried to go into a fetal position, but someone’s foot caught her in the face, and she rolled away with blood squirting out of her nose.

  “Junior!” Bradley yelled over the noise of people screaming, yelling to each other, and gunfire.

  A couple held hands, as the much larger man dragged her, fighting to break free of the throng of people. Then they dropped like rocks as bullets punched into their torsos.

  Bradley stayed low and fought to breathe. The pepper spray canisters had played havoc among the thousands of people and filled the air with a noxious smell. His eyes burned, and his nose bubbled snot.

  Someone grabbed his hand. Bradley was about to shake them off, but the grip was fierce. He turned and found Junior just before the two of them were knocked to the ground. Bradley rolled over and used his much larger body to protect his son. He heaved himself to his feet and picked up Junior. Adrenaline blasted through him as he turned, lifted his son, and then set him back on his feet.

  “Don’t let go of me,” Bradley yelled over the noise.

  “I won’t. I’m sorry, Dad. So sorry,” Junior said.

  “I’m here, Son. I won’t let anything happen to you,” Bradley promised. “Where’s Kirk?”

  “He left as soon as the guys in tan started showing up in trucks. Said it wasn’t worth it,” Junior said. “I was getting ready to leave. Then this started happening.”

  Junior’s eyes were wide and filled with terror. Bradley clutched his son’s hand and pulled him along.

  He didn’t
have a destination other than anywhere but here. The military had blocked off most of the park, but there was a clearing that would take him near a public rest room. Then he would angle away to the west and make for the trees. They could hike out of it, circle around, and come back for the car when all of this was clear. He’d hide out at a fast food restaurant if he had to.

  The moved with the flow of the crowd, fighting to stay mobile and on their feet.

  A man brushed past him, someone familiar. He was being followed by three other men, and each kept their hands inside their jackets. They wove through the crowd. Then Bradley recognized one of them. It had been the hard ass who had tried to start some shit with him.

  The guy pulled out a gun, lifted it high over his head, and sprayed a dozen bullets toward the military. Then the group of men disappeared from view.

  What in the hell was happening? The gun was a Heckler and Koch MP5, a military weapon and that made Bradley’s neck shiver with dread.

  More gunfire from their rear as they broke out of the crowd and moved toward the public restroom. Faces looked out of the men’s doorway, then ducked back in as more shots were fired.

  Bradley nearly went down when his son clutched his hand tightly, and then his son’s grip was gone. He spun to grab him again.

  Someone nearly ran into him, cursed, and then faded into the mass of people.

  Bradley couldn’t see his son. He pushed a woman with a bloody gash on her neck aside, and then stopped stock still.

  Junior lay on the ground holding his side.

  Bradley fought to reach his son and picked him up, turning to run again.

  “What happened?” Bradley said, even though the sense of dread that crept through his soul told him.

  Junior groaned. They were nearly knocked over yet again. Bradley turned toward the street and turned his body into a battering ram as he fought to get free.

  He looked down at his son’s face, but Junior’s eyes were vacant.

  “You’re okay. Just got the wind knocked out of you,” Bradley whispered.

  He hugged his son’s body to his own and kept running.

  Junior didn’t respond, nor would he ever again.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chris Miller was certain he knew what was going to happen, but he was still shocked when the gunfire started. As he suspected, at least one team had been embedded with the protesters and they had opened fire on the military from a short distance. Then grenades had joined the chaos and tossed bodies around. That part had been unexpected, but it was a brilliant way to add to the confusion.

  The National Guard responded by opening fire on the crowd. Bodies dropped, men and women screamed, and the scene became a nightmare as the protesters turned into a mob, crushing each other as they fled along the streets, broke out, and headed into alleys or simply ran back in the direction of the huge parking lot. Mothers and fathers picked up kids and hugged them to their bodies.

  But Chris had found a target. Four of them to be exact. It was the way they peeled out of the crowd, shedding clothing that was clearly covering weapons that were tossed on the ground. The men also wore blue nitrate gloves.

  One of the men was larger than the rest and, as they drew closer, Chris realized it was none other than Lawson himself. Son of a bitch.

  The problem was, he was too far away, and wading into this mess would probably get him killed.

  He tracked their path and scanned the area they would shortly arrive in. There were no black vans or SUVs in that direction, the telltale sign that a team was waiting to take them out.

  He hadn’t abandoned his perch up on the rooftop. He still kept an eye out for Bradley, but he also tracked the team of shooters. Soon they were just four more people in a frightened mob. But he didn’t let them out of his site.

  Had to be pure fucking luck. They made for the duplexes that were under construction, and the same area he was using as cover. The house they had chosen was mostly completed. It had a roof, walls, but no siding yet. There was a for sale sign in front and the grass had grown to knee height along with a mass of weeds.

  Then Bradley came into view, and he carried his son. He must have sensed the four men knew where they were going because he followed, but he wasn’t able to keep up.

  Chris took out his cell phone and called Bradley, but the man didn’t answer.

  “Shit,” he said.

  He climbed back down from the roof for the second time and went to assist Bradley.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  It was a massacre.

  As the protesters had taken to the streets, James and his squad had followed, then angled around them at a quick clip so they could flank the throng of people and pick out troublemakers. Then the gunfire had begun.

  Cooper was back on his feet, although he bitched about his side.

  “Do you need to go to medical?” James asked.

  “I’m just banged up, but the round didn’t penetrate. I’ll be fine in a few days. There are people in need of a lot more help than I am,” Cooper said.

  James sat down and unfastened his pants, then he dragged them down to look at the wound. Sure enough, something had penetrated, and it hurt like a bastard. James gratefully accepted a hemostat patch from Cooper and applied it to the wound. He’d have to get the metal extracted but right now, he had to make sure his squad was safe.

  “Put your pants on, you perv,” Skip said.

  “Damn, this hurts. Wonder if I’ll get a purple heart,” James said.

  “Yeah. Right after I get one for getting shot, twice,” Cooper said.

  James buckled his pants up, and then got to his feet. He and his squad moved away from the fleeing mass, toward the rally point that Wells had designated.

  There hadn’t been nearly enough National Guard on the scene to deal with so many people so they were stretched thin. Medics moved among the bodies, patching up what they could and summoning stretcher-bearers to take the wounded.

  Tempers were hot and gunshots still rang out as the protesters fled, leaving bodies on the ground. Some moved, but too many of them did not. After the grenades had exploded, James had taken his squad farther away from the throng of protesters in case they kept lobbing explosives. Where in the hell had these people gotten actual grenades from?

  “Did you see that?” Cooper said.

  He pointed in the direction of a series of two-story homes that sat forlornly under wilted red oaks.

  “What?” James asked.

  “Four of guys on the run. One of them wrapped something in a jacket and tossed it in the bushes.”

  “What was it?”

  “Looked like a gun to me,” Cooper said with venom in his voice.

  James’ eyes narrowed. He motioned, and his squad followed.

  The men disappeared between a pair of buildings.

  “Yeah? Let’s sort them out,” James said.

  “Hooah!” his team replied.

  James led the way by breaking into a light jog, he kept his M4 ready in case they came under fire.

  Sprouts breathed heavily as he kept up. Skip covered their right flank, and Cooper kept his eyes on their six. A family of five, the husband and wife dragging their crying kids towards a minivan parked on a side street, broke from cover. They reached their vehicle and the father, hands shaking, managed to trigger the locks. They were barely inside the little van when it started and tore away from the side of the road.

  James trained his gun on them, but they were no threat, and he let them go.

  He was more interested in what Cooper had seen.

  “Here, it was right here,” Cooper said.

  He stopped at a bed of flowers that had seen better days and he dug under a hydrangea.

  “You find it?” James asked as he kept his eyes peeled.

  “Bingo,” Cooper said and pulled out a thick black jacket.

  Cooper rolled the overcoat out and a military style gun fell out. James frowned.

  Cooper ejected the magazine, and then ej
ected a shell in the breech. He slung the automatic over his shoulder.

  “Let’s find those assholes,” James said.

  “Hooah,” Sprouts, Skip, and Cooper echoed each other again.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Bradley’s eyes filled with tears as he moved toward his Bronco. His son was heavy, but Bradley ignored the strain on his muscles and marched Junior to his vehicle so he could take his body home. His silver Bronco was in sight so he made for it.

  “Why did you leave, son?”

  Junior’s eyes were completely vacant, and something wet dripped down Bradley’s hand from his son’s back and onto his pants. He should stop. He wasn’t thinking clearly at all. The first few seconds were so important. He needed to perform CPR, get his son breathing again, and get him to a hospital.

  Someone broke free from a line of trees and made for Bradley. He put his son’s body on the ground next to the Bronco, and then reached into his jacket and placed his hand on the stock of his Kimber.

  “Brad, we got trouble heading this way,” Chris said.

  Bradley nodded at Chris and released the gun.

  “What happened?” Chris asked.

  “They shot him. They killed my son,” Bradley said.

  He leaned over and checked Junior’s neck for a pulse. Bradley pushed open the tan Dickies jacket Junior had nearly outgrown and lifted his shirt. There was a pool of blood on his chest, just to the left of his sternum. Bradley put his palm over Junior’s chest, and then placed his other hand on top. He pushed down in rapid succession, then leaned over and breathed into Bradley’s mouth while holding his son’s nose.

  Chris dropped to his knees and helped tilt Junior’s head back. They worked on him in silence for several minutes. Chris checked for a pulse, and they repeated CPR.

  “He’s okay, just needs a minute. I’ll get him to a hospital,” Bradley said, then leaned over and breathed in Junior’s mouth again.

  “He’s gone, Brad. He’s not coming back,” Chris said.