Fire From the Sky: Brotherhood of Fire

by N. C. Reed

  “Bear's hit!” he pointed at the Hummer. “Pancho! Help him! Chip, get the hell outta here! Rally point two. Ten minutes!”

  “Got it!” Gordy replied and revved the big rig once before he hit the gas. Rally point two was just a fancy name for a pull off both he and his Uncle Clay were familiar with. It lay about half-way between Peabody and Jordan.

  “Get him down!” Clay heard Maseo shout behind him. “You, get the hell outta the way!” This likely to Abigail. “Get up front then!”

  Clay had swapped magazines and was now looking to where the man who had shot Barnes was trying to reach the rifle he had dropped. Moving deliberately, a white rage consuming him as he went, Clay drew his knife as he neared. He kicked the rifle just out of reach of the man and knelt to face him.

  He didn't recognize him, but that meant nothing. It didn't matter anyway. He looked at the man for a minute, enjoying the look of sheer terror in the man's eyes as he came face-to-face with an apparition from hell in the flickering light of fires he had helped light.

  Clay allowed that terror to settle on the man for a few seconds before simply drawing his knife slowly across the man's throat, relishing the action the entire time and wishing he could do it again and again. As the man choked on his own blood, Clay took the time to look at the rifle the dying man had used to shoot Big John. He frowned as he shined a light on it, and that frown turned to fury as he realized what he was looking at. He took the gun from the ground and examined it closer, suddenly gripped by a mad urge to dash it on the ground or against the nearest brick wall.

  “Bossman, we gotta go!” he heard Juarez's voice call, breaking him from his trance. Anger gone, he turned to run for the Hummer, rifle in hand.

  “Doc's doing what he can but he needs better than we can give him back here,” Juarez admitted.

  “Get the truck and follow,” Clay ordered. “We 'll use it as a gift to that bunch at the church. Let’s go.”

  “Roger that,” Juarez ran for the truck as Clay slid behind the wheel of the Hummer.

  “How is it Doc?” he asked even as he started them moving.

  “It's bad,” Maseo said calmly despite the strain. “High chest wound. I think it was just a ricochet off the tub. Round went in under the arm and his armor was loose because he had hung it on the tub, I think. I've got it sealed for the moment but he's still bleeding and is gonna need surgery. I doped him to keep him still but. . .we need to get him back.”

  “We're on it,” Clay promised. “Do what you can.”

  “What did-”

  “Don't open your mouth again,” Clay cut Abigail's statement off before it got started good. The raw fury in his voice was enough to make even her think, and she fell silent.

  The ride out was uneventful, though Abigail did give a little cry when they passed her now wrecked truck. Clay didn't even slow.

  “Doc, we're going to stop long enough to change out drivers so I can go with them to the church,” Clay warned. “Take seconds is all. Okay?”

  “Fine,” Maseo nodded. “Just hurry,” he added.

  “Chip, how copy?”

  “Loud and clear Bossman,” Gordy replied instantly. “Rally two and standing by.”

  “Be ready to take this ride to the barn for me as soon as I get there,” Clay told him. “I'll carry the rest to the church, but I need this rig home ASAP. Bear is down. He needs a doc stat. Copy?”

  “Copy all. I'll be ready,” was the simple reply. Clay looked at Abigail then.

  “You 'll drive that truck to the church in Jordan for them to use,” he told her flatly. “You will follow without hesitation and you will not deviate from following the vehicle in front of you. Nod if you understand. None of this requires you to talk.”

  She nodded meekly, finally cowed by her uncle's anger. She was sure it was her uncle by now, but was far too afraid to say anything out loud. The mask he was wearing did nothing to help her regain her calm.

  Two minutes later Clay slid to a stop, the door already open. Gordy was in and moving before Clay had a chance to say anything, tearing for home as quick as he could. Abigail crossed from where she had emerged from the Hummer as Juarez pulled up in the truck.

  “You will be silent about what you think you know until we get you home,” Clay warned her. “Don't even think of saying anything or arguing. When we arrive, you will park that truck, hand me the keys and immediately get into the passenger seat of that vehicle,” he pointed to the MRAP, “where you will remain until we deliver you to your home. Defy me at your peril.” She nodded and crawled behind the wheel of the purloined vehicle.

  “How's Bear?” Juarez asked.

  “Not good,” Clay said simply. “Doc has him stable, but it's stable at critical, sounded like. I could tell he's worried.”

  “Let’s get this done so we can be there when he wakes up,” Juarez slapped Clay on the arm. “Besides, this was his idea so he can't even blame you for it!”

  “Yeah,” Clay sighed. “Let’s go.”

  Juarez climbed into the driver's seat while Clay rode shotgun. He didn't know why he had Abigail driving the truck other than he didn't want to be around her at that moment. And really, that was as good a reason as any.

  -

  It was still dark when they arrived at the church though dawn was starting to peek over the horizon. Clay wanted to get this over with as soon as possible so they could check on Bear as well as get out of public view. He got out and directed Abigail to pull the truck into the parsonage drive way. He left the MRAP in the care of Juarez, who was unloading the passengers, and Thompson, who had secured the Mk 19 and gotten his rifle to stand watch. Abigail didn't even look at him as she went past to get into the truck, dropping the keys into his hand without looking up. She crawled into the passenger seat and shut the door.

  “Miss Walters, you stay,” Juarez said behind her and she heard Samantha gasp. She turned in her seat.

  “It's okay, Sam,” Abby told her quietly. “I've asked them to take you to my house. You can stay with me.”

  “I…my parents,” Samantha said hesitantly. “I need. . .I have to check. . . .”

  “We can look for a way to do that after you've had a chance to clean up,” Abby told her gently. “I'll lend you some clothes and you can rest. Okay?”

  “All right,” the other girl leaned back against the wall of the MRAP. Her eyes closed and she began to tremble in her seat. Risking the wrath of her uncle, Abby slid from her seat and went to hug her friend. Samantha lay her head on Abby's shoulder without a word and began to weep.

  “Hey,” Juarez heard from behind him and turned to see a rugged looking young woman giving him an appraising look. She was short and slightly stocky though in no way fat. She was more of an athletic build that you would see on a woman who played volleyball or lifted weights. Short cut black hair framed a pair of brown eyes that showed both fire and intelligence, and a tan face that spoke of someone who stayed outdoors as much as possible.

  “Yes, Miss?”

  “CTG, right?” she asked. Nothing she could have said would have shocked him worse.

  “Excuse me?” he asked her.

  “Your part of a CTG unit, right?” the woman repeated. “I'm with the 278th ACR, Tennessee National Guard. I saw one of your teams in Iraq in '13 when I was on TDY.”

  “You've seen action then?”

  “Three times,” the woman nodded. “What's a girl gotta do around here to get a rifle?”

  -

  The Reverend Preacher Roger Williams of the Jordan First Baptist Church was not keen on being awakened from a sound sleep by what appeared to be an actual demon from the pits of hell. Nor did he take it well at first.

  “Easy preacher,” Clay roughed his voice a bit to disguise it as best he could. “Word is your church is trying to provide shelter for victims from Peabody.”

  “We are doing what we can of course,” the man nodded warily. “Why?”

  “We just took down a bunch of the people that set fire to Pe
abody and these women were captives of theirs,” he motioned to the women even now standing in the drive. “We lack the ability to care for them so we brought them to you. I understand some of the neighbors are trying to help, so perhaps they'll help a little more. We literally have nowhere to place them so it's either you take them or. . .I guess they're on their own.”

  “I see,” the preacher sighed. “It's true one or two families have helped but that's all. Still, we can't turn away people in true need. Can you help them at all?” he asked.

  “We got nothing to help with but what we're wearing,” Clay more or less told the immediate truth. “What you see is all we have. We live off the land and that's getting more difficult by the day. One more good frost and we 'll be down to what game we can shoot. We can't even provide a safe place for them to sleep as we are now.” Again, not a lie, just a carefully crafted statement.

  “We do have this for you, though,” Clay added, pointing the truck and handing the preacher the keys.

  “This is a great gift indeed,” the preacher almost breathed, looking at the keys placed in his hands. “Let me. . .Terri? Terri Hartwell? Is that you?”

  “Hello Reverend,” a tall brunette smiled weakly. “Sorry to drop in like this.”

  “Not at all my dear,” Williams assured her. “I had thought you were gone back to school when this happened.”

  “Extended my stay with Doctor Phelps to get another credit done,” she admitted with a sad shrug. “Maybe I shouldn't have.”

  “She was an intern for the veterinarian in Peabody, Mister. . .?” Williams explained to Clay.

  “Mister is fine,” Clay told him. “If you need a name just call me Smith.”

  “Mister Smith, then,” Williams nodded. “Terri give me only a moment and we will get you somewhere warm at least.”

  “Thank you,” the shivering young woman nodded. Clay went to the MRAP and motioned for Abigail to come to him.

  “See her?” he said without preamble, and Abby nodded.

  “Reverend says she's a vet in training,” he told her.

  “She is,” Abby confirmed. “She made the trip out to the farm to help Doc Wells inoculate the last batch of calves.”

  “Find out if she's interested in putting her talents to use on the farm,” Clay ordered. “Don't let on you know who we are. We're just taking you home because you're the only one that still had a home to go to. Got it?”

  “Got it,” she nodded, stepping down from the truck. “What do I offer her?” she asked.

  “Room, board, clothing and safety,” Clay told her. “In exchange for hard work. About all we can offer ourselves.” As Abigail walked away, Juarez called him.

  “Bossman, this lady would like a word.”

  “I'm not a lady by any stretch,” the short, powerfully built young woman snorted. Clay noted the scars on her arms and another on her left leg showing through pants that had been ripped open. Old scars, not something she had gotten here.

  “Yes?” he asked.

  “I'm 278th ACR, or was,” the woman told him. “Specialist Victoria Tully, Troop B, 278th Cav out of Columbia. I was wondering if you guys were hiring.”

  She had an almost impish quality about her that made Clay want to like her immediately.

  “What do you specialize in, Specialist Tully?” he asked her.

  “Ordnance sir,” she almost snapped to attention which made her rather sturdy bust line bounce. “I'm also EOD qualified.”

  “Is that right,” Clay was suddenly much more interested. “So, you were trained to take apart IEDs, disarm our stuff, what?”

  “All of it, sir,” Tully replied at once. “I can do either, or.”

  “I guess you can build them too?” Clay asked as casually as he could manage.

  “Have to learn to build them before you can take 'em apart, sir,” she grinned at him.

  “What is it you want from me, Specialist?” Clay asked her.

  “I want to be where this can never happen to me again, sir,” she said frankly. “It was embarrassing to be caught out like this when I've got two tours on TDY overseas during EOD training and one deployment with the unit in '10. If I'd had my rifle, this wouldn't have happened,” she added bitterly.

  “What is it you want from me that you think will accomplish that, Specialist? And not to be rude but one of my men took a round a few minutes ago so I am understandably in a hurry. Please cut to the chase.”

  “A job, sir,” Tully replied at once. “I want to be part of your outfit.”

  “I'm afraid that's not possible Specialist Tully,” Clay told her at once. “There's no room among us for outsiders. I don't doubt your sincerity but I'm sure you can understand that we can't just throw a newcomer into our operation like that.”

  “You can still use a trained and experienced grunt, can't you?” Tully didn't back down. Clay would have been disappointed if she had. “I can stand a watch, I can do minor repairs on rifles and side arms assuming you have the parts and tools, and I'm qualled expert on the M-4, M-9, M-19 and M-249. Sir.”

  Well.

  “I don't know anything about you, Trooper, and there's no way to check you or your story out the way things are anymore,” Clay said carefully. “Say we take you along and you don't work out. What you've told me turns out to be a crock of shit and you were just trying to get something better than being dropped at an overcrowded church. Or even that you're a plant from that bunch in Peabody and are doing this to get inside our outfit and report back. What do you think will happen then?”

  “Considering you're probably a former CTG unit I image I'll be dead a few seconds after you figure that out, sir,” Tully's reply was immediate. “It's not bullshit though, and I damn sure don't intend to help that bunch unless it's a A-ticket ride to hell. Sir.”

  Damn but he liked this girl. Girl hell, she was probably his age or older if she had been in Iraq in '10.

  “Load up,” he told her suddenly and was rewarded with a brilliant smile.

  “Thank you, sir!” she snapped too and rendered a salute. Clay waved her off.

  “We never salute, Specialist, regardless of where we are. Get out of the habit.”

  “Will do, sir,” she nodded.

  “Don't call me sir, either,” Clay chuckled. “I'm Bossman, this is Pancho,” he indicated Juarez. “You can meet the rest later. For now, load up and try to get warm.” Her nipples were clearly visible through the ragged shirt she was wearing and her lack of a bra was obvious. He wondered if anyone at the farm would even have one she could use. She'd be about a…

  Bad Clay. Bad, bad, bad. Think about something else.

  “Yes, Bossman,” Tully nodded and scrambled back into the MRAP.

  “You sure about this?” Juarez asked once the woman was out of earshot.

  “No, but if she's telling the truth then she's right; we can use her. Having an extra hand qualified to operate will only help us, especially standing a good watch. We 'll keep an eye on her for a while and see if she's okay.”

  “I imagine everyone will keep an eye on her if she keeps bouncing around like that,” Juarez chuckled.

  “Including you?” Clay asked.

  “I do like 'em short and stocky,” Juarez kept laughing.

  “Better be careful amigo,” Clay warned as he turned back to where his niece was approaching with the Hartwell girl. “Get you in trouble if Martina heard you say it.”

  “This is Terri Hartwell,” Abigail said before Juarez could frame a comeback. “I've invited her to my family's farm if you'd be willing to let her ride along with me.”

  “That's fine,” Clay nodded. “Make sure that's what you want to do, cause we won't be back this way,” he warned.

  “I've met her family and they're good people,” Hartwell nodded. “Unless and until I can manage to go about getting home, I can't think of a better place to be.”

  “Get aboard then,” Clay nodded. “You too,” he added for Abigail. “Take the wheel,” he told Juarez. “We're done
here I think, and its past time we were going,” he nodded to the growing stream of people leaving the church building. Without a word Juarez climbed inside and started the engine, signaling Jody Thompson to get on board.

  Clay took one more look at the ragged group of women they had saved and then climbed into the rear door, closing it behind him. It was time they went home and checked on their friend.

  “Ready,” he banged twice on roof. As refugees streamed from the church toward the obviously military style vehicle, the MRAP pulled away, heading back toward Peabody before taking a back road around out of sight to head for the Sanders' farm.

  The sun was just coming up as they headed home.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The Sanders farm came alive at the same time it usually did. Even with the end of the civilized world there were certain things that had to be done no matter what. With no other future open to him now, Gordy had slowly been taking over for this grandfather in the day-to-day labors of the farm, working alongside his Uncle Clay and now days alongside the others as well.

  So, when Gordy didn't roll out for breakfast and to head out to the pastures, it attracted attention. When his mother, who had been awake all night worried about her daughter, went to see where her son could be, she found him gone.

  The advent of a second missing child in less than twelve hours developed quickly into an all hands search for fear that Gordy had gone out early and been injured. A thousand and one things went through Patricia Sanders' mind as she searched for her son. Finally, Gordon decided that Gordy had probably gone after his sister. The fact that neither had returned did not bode well so far as he was concerned, either.

  With Angela returning the night before telling her tale of how Clay had evicted her, Robert and Patricia from his home, Gordon assumed there was no reason to check and see if Clay would be willing to help go to town in search of Gordy and thus had taken his shotgun and fired up his own truck, intending to make his way to town and see what could be seen.

  Angela of course pleaded with him not to go but that plea fell on deaf ears as Gordon said good-bye and started down the drive.