The Reaper: No Mercy

by Sean Liebling

  Scott had taught her the rudiments of marksmanship. How to hold the weapon tightly and how to aim it properly. Making sure you breathed in and out slowly, then to fire as she exhaled. Wait, the safety. Janet mentally cursed and, using the thumb of her right hand, rotated the rifle off safe and prepared to fire as once again she sighted in one of the marauders near them. Come on, Scott, she thought, exhaling again.

  "Fire!" he shouted, and immediately seven rifles opened up, and before them, seven figures fell. Some remained down, others jumped back up only lightly wounded, but Janet kept firing.

  *****

  “Holy shit,” Shue muttered to himself as he continued to release bursts of three and four rounds. He was aiming for tires, windows, and the figures crouched in the back of the trucks, when suddenly an explosion occurred under the lead vehicle. Then another, this one the bright actinic flash of willy pete. Someone was throwing grenades, and it wasn't at him and his men. Hooah!

  Settling down again, he started firing on individual marauders as the vehicles ground to a halt, men piling out, weapons ready. Beside and behind him, his men continued to release controlled bursts of deadly accurate fire. The marauders were dropping as 5.56 tore through drunken bodies. Two of the trucks exploded from lucky hits to their gas tanks, and Shue started to stand. Christ, they were running away!

  "Advance under cover," he shouted as he dodged to the tree in front of his position and dropped three rounds into a running figure, watching as it tumbled to the ground. A round hit the bark above his head, causing him to involuntarily duck behind the large bole of the tree. Then after a pause, he swung around the other side to fire another burst at two figures lying prone and firing back.

  It was time to get some payback on these motherfuckers, he thought as he did a forward scuttle to get behind yet another tree. This one smaller, and he cursed his momentary lapse in judgment as he felt the pluck against the side of his coat. Bastards were getting too close for comfort. It was irritating when gangsters and drug addicts learned to shoot somewhat straight.

  "Forward, eleven o'clock. Two prone," he shouted again.

  "On it!" Adams shouted, and Schuster watched as rounds stitched the ground beside, then over the firing figures of the marauders. Almost instantly, their guns went silent and Shue was moving again.

  "Adams, Hendrix, echelon right. Grady, left on me!" and he was diving to the right as they semi-circled through the remaining tree line, the few remaining figures directly ahead and under fire from the unknown group across the road. Shue was half-relieved and half-disappointed that most of the marauders had run as fast as their legs could carry them.

  "Hands in the air!" he shouted as his carbine pointed at the last three. Slowly they rose to their feet, arms stretched overhead.

  *****

  Tom fired through the broken ground floor window at the last of the marauders that had tried to gain entrance, and watched as the wild-looking man ran away. Tom didn't know if he'd actually hit him or not, though he had tried. Raising his rifle, he stepped to the side of the broken frame, preparing to fire at those near the southeast corner of the walled-in property, when more shots rang out from somewhere down the street. Someone else had come to their rescue!

  In amazement, he watched as the broken and wounded forms of marauders ran in all directions under the concentration of fire. The best part was, every one of those directions was away from the manor. Within seconds it was over, with not a marauder in sight, as the sounds of gunfire ceased. Shaking with relief, Tom headed to the front door. He had people to thank.

  *****

  The Reaper watched as the last of the functional marauder vehicles turned around and away from his position. Looking out over the streets below him, he saw that the attack against the manor had ceased, and in the distance he saw scores of the enemy heading back to the cemetery. Briefly he said a prayer of thanks to the Lord as he placed his rifle on safe, then he slowly climbed to his feet.

  Standing tall, his rifle cocked against his hip, he continued to watch as they drove away. He wanted them to see him. It might help to perpetuate a myth that only one man was out here, a man seeking revenge. He did not want the marauders fixating on the soldiers, even though it was obvious he'd had help. He doubted his plan would work but it certainly didn't hurt. His gaze traveled downward and he saw two groups emerging into the street far below. The one on his left he recognized as his men, along with what appeared to be prisoners. He frowned at that, as he turned his attention to the group on the right, instantly recognizing the distant forms of Andy and Bruce.

  Time to get down there.

  *****

  Shue and his men were in diamond position, the captives zip-tied and on the ground within their formation. He knew the Reaper would be along soon, and ordered his men to carry the captives away from the vehicles and to get under cover. Just then, two figures appeared around the corner of a house across the street.

  The acrid stench of burning vehicles and pungent odor of phosphorous were heavy in the air as Schuster advanced forward, his M4 ready, as the figures continued to approach. Shue eyed them warily.

  "Hey, I'm Andy, and this is Bruce. We helped! Are you with the Reaper?" shouted the foremost figure as they drew closer. Shue could tell they were excited, like this was a game, and he scowled before replying.

  "We noticed, and right on time with those grenades. I'll wait to answer the second question." Shue called back.

  "Well, he's on top of that cell tower next to us," and Andy was pointing, his voice lower as they drew closer. "Hey, you're military," he suddenly said.

  "No, we're civilians."

  "Right. Just using that word means you’re military, and I know you're helping the Reaper. Here he comes now!" Andy's pointing finger indicated the form that was approaching them at a leisurely pace, long sniper rifle cocked over one shoulder, forcing Schuster to shrug.

  "Yeah, okay," Shue sighed as he gave up the subterfuge. As the Reaper reached them, Schuster stepped forward and remarked, "Textbook, sir. We didn't even have to fall back to secondary positions. No casualties and three mikes as prisoners."

  "Good work, Shue." The voice was deadpan but the warmth behind it unmistakable, and Schuster felt a sudden pride overcome him. He did not need praise, but the fact that it came from a man that had turned their mission around made it important to him. No longer did he feel impotent, turning a blind eye to the evil around him. Today he had made a difference, and hopefully would continue to do so. He stepped back as the newcomer, Andy, started to speak.

  "Mikes? Why call the prisoners mikes?"

  Briefly Shue considered explaining the phonetic language the Army used along with the military in general indicating combatants—for instance, mikes meant marauders, and the Viet Cong were Charlies, etc.—but then he simply muttered, "Mikes, means marauders, it's how we talk," and scowled again at the heavyset man. Andy seemed to accept it and stepped back as the Reaper strode forward into their midst.

  "Prisoners? Why?"

  "Well. They surrendered."

  "Do you feel there’s useful intel to be gained by interrogating them?"

  "No sir, we know their setup and system."

  "Do you have a place for captives and are you willing to feed them?" the Reaper continued as his hand slid over to rest on the handle of his old-fashioned Navy Colt.

  "No sir." And suddenly Schuster knew what was about to happen. He wasn't too surprised and certainly wasn't put out by it.

  "I thought not," and the Reaper’s hand rose, .45 in hand, as he shot all three bound figures lying on the ground as they tried to squirm away. After thumbing in fresh cartridges, the Reaper holstered his revolver and turned to Schuster. The smell of feces hung heavy in the air, temporarily overpowering the stench from the nearby burning vehicles.

  "Staff Sergeant. Approve or disapprove?"

  "Approve, sir." And as simply as that, it was all right in Shue's mind. This was a new, harder world. Examples needed to be made, and eventually thos
e of evil inclination would learn that rough men stood ready to do them violence in return. Vaguely he tried to remember a similar quote, but gave up after a moment.

  (The actual quote was from a conversation between George Orwell and reporter Richard Grenier of the Washington Times, where Grenier paraphrased Orwell's statement as "people sleep peacefully in their beds at night only because rough men stand ready to do violence on their behalf." Orwell had a sound grasp on the nature of our freedom within the United States of America.)

  "Good. Now why in the Lord's name are you here, Andy? I thought you said you wouldn't become involved." The Reaper had turned to the other and was now directing his questions in that direction.

  Andy, shaken from what he had just observed, but not surprised or disappointed, shrugged and responded, "Well, it seemed like the thing to do, Reaper."

  "Thank you. Let's get over to the manor though. We need to assess casualties and get them out of there, and find out who else helped, but I have an idea." As the Reaper spoke, he nodded in the direction of the manor. In the distance they could make out the forms of multiple people walking up to the residence. Oily flames and smoke still rose into the air from the effects of the Molotov cocktails, and in the distance, they saw the door open slowly.

  *****

  Chapter 15

  Duane limped into the office, a heavy bandage wrapped around one thigh, the darkening red stain spreading even as Ringo looked at it. The other’s expression was contrite, worried, and above all resigned. Ringo had seen those looks before on people who had failed him miserably.

  "More bad news?" he asked calmly. He was anything but calm, but he didn't want to scare his right-hand man too badly.

  "Did not go as planned, Ringo," Duane stated as he collapsed in the chair across the desk.

  "Then explain it to me. I sent you with sixty men. Almost thirty vehicles, and our two snowplows. Explain what part of ‘take out that damn manor’ confused you.”

  "That fucking sniper shooting the shit out of us, again, confused me, Ringo." Duane started to rise but Ringo waived him back into his seat.

  "What sniper?"

  "Some guy on the cell tower was taking us out from a thousand yards away and might have been the same fucker that hit us yesterday. Fuck dude, you couldn't move fast enough. My guys were dropping all around me! Jesus Christ, don't you think I tried?"

  "So one man took out how many?"

  "Well we came back with almost thirty!"

  Then Ringo exploded. "You lost thirty of my guys on a simple job to one man?"

  "No, no, damnit! Listen, boss. We were taking them out. That old house was falling. I had a few wounded but that was it, and I know we took out a bunch of theirs. Then all hell broke loose. Shots coming in. They never fucking missed, dude! My guys driving the snowplows were the first to die and they died quick. Headshots! Then others started dying. We had just broken through the boards over one of the windows and were getting ready to go in when most of the guys there dropped in seconds. Un-fucking-believable! It was insane! What do you want me to say? So I did the only thing I could. I pulled most of the guys to go after that asshole. Take him out quick and we'd finish the job. No joy, man. Soon as we got close to him, we were hit from both sides. Grenades and a bunch of guys with rifles. They were fucking waiting, man! They knew we would come after this sniper dude. Fuck!" Dropping his head in defeat, Duane ran his hands over his face in frustration.

  Ringo, who had been toying with his .44 Magnum in its holster, possibly preparing to shoot his right-hand man, deliberately calmed himself. Something was going on. He didn't know what yet, but he was smart enough to figure it out.

  "So the soldiers broke our truce."

  "Yes, No. Hell, I don't know. Only that sniper dude standing on the top of that fucking cell tower was wearing Army gear, but even a couple hundred yards away as we were getting our ass shot to shit I could tell he was old, and no one we've seen at their hangout. I didn't see anyone else that looked Army, including the ones hitting us from the side."

  "Then who were they, and who was hitting you from the side?"

  "You're asking me? Dude, we've done some shit together over the years and you know I'm being straight. I really think I was lucky to get out of that guy’s way."

  "I don't like this, Duane. This is not in the plan. Find him and kill him!" snarled Ringo.

  "What? Where and how, and if I did find him how many men do you want to lose? What part of ‘he took out almost half of us’ is unclear? In minutes, Goddamnit!" Duane struggled to rise, his face beet-red, and Ringo rose with him, his .44 Magnum pointed at Duane's chest, anger written plainly on his face.

  "I need excuses like I need a heart attack."

  "Fuck you! I've ..." The roar sounded loud in the small room, impacting Ringo's eardrums as he watched Duane’s lifeless body slump to the floor. Damn, that was going to leave a stain on the chair, not to mention the hole in the center of the wall. He only hoped it hadn't hit one of the girls waiting for him just outside.

  *****

  Tom watched from the doorway, a guarded expression on his face as everyone who had helped his small group approached. Seven were climbing over the barricade to his right, four guys and three women, and before him he saw another group of seven, one of whom was the Reaper. He carefully viewed the assembled people arrayed before him as they finally came to a stop, then stepped forward, addressing the Reaper first.

  "Thank you."

  "Welcome." The reply was taciturn, yet Tom sensed this was just the Reaper’s way.

  "Please introduce your friends. That was the end for us. I saw it coming. Then ..." his voice broke as emotion overcame him, knowing that the harrowing experience of barely surviving death’s door was over, and they’d been rescued by these people he didn't even know. Why they would take such a risk was beyond his capability of understanding, but he was thankful for the risk they’d taken.

  "Easy now, it's cool, man. We were in time," spoke one of the men. Tom's gaze instantly fastened on him as his body started shaking. The adrenaline rush of the last hour was having its toll, and he was suddenly having trouble standing. The man who had spoken stepped forward quickly and grabbed him under one arm, his own arm going around Tom's back in support. "Hey, easy, easy, you're OK. It's over, buddy."

  "It's not over. Not yet, Shue. The fight has just begun," commented the Reaper.

  "Hey, the guy just got over the fact he's still alive. Give him a minute," Shue responded as he helped Tom sit down.

  Tears cascaded down Tom's face as he looked up at the others in wonder. "You have no idea how many people you just saved," he murmured. As he sat there, shivering, a lady approached; she handed her rifle to the Reaper, who accepted it with obvious surprise as she sat down beside Tom and draped an arm over his shoulders.

  "What's your name?"

  "Tom Garnet."

  "Mine’s Janet. You gonna be OK?"

  "Yeah sure, I just didn't think we'd live. Coming to grips here. Give me a moment, sorry for the display." Tom's world was swirling but slowly everything was coming back into focus. The man referred to as Shue by the Reaper leaned close.

  "How many wounded do you have, and are they serious?" he asked.

  "Ahh, seven or eight wounded. Most seriously. One of the kids got hit," Tom responded, and immediately Shue was directing his commands to another who stood beside him.

  "Get on the radio. We’ll evac their wounded and bring the others in. Tell the sergeant we need a triage set up to handle inbound. Tell Nancy to prep for surgery." The other man nodded, then slung a bulky pack off of his back and started opening it.

  "Wait! What are you doing?" stammered Tom as he gained the strength to stagger to his feet. Then it dawned on him. Short haircuts, muscular bodies, and a very competent attitude. They were military. "You're soldiers!"

  "Of course! But we need to get your wounded treated. Grady, are you on comm yet? Did you tell them to prep?"

  "Yes, Sergeant."

  "A
dams, Hendrix. Get in there and assess the wounded. Tom, can one of your people clear the way?"

  "Ahh, yeah. Terri, go with them and tell everyone they’re friends." Tom's last words were directed to a short, stout, middle-aged woman with a no-nonsense attitude, and a deer-hunting rifle slung over one shoulder. She nodded and beckoned the two men to follow her. In the background, Tom heard the other solder talking to someone over his radio, then Shue was holding his hand out for the microphone. Shue was working at lightning speed, and as Tom looked over, he saw the Reaper smiling. Wow, that was a new look for this deadly man, he thought, then listened in as Shue took over. Still the smile and obvious look of pride was unnerving.

  "Give it to me," Shue commanded and the microphone was instantly placed in his beckoning hand.

  "Charlie six, this is Charlie two, we need evac for possibly eight critical. My men are assessing them now."

  "Charlie two, Charlie six. Preparing an LMTV with stretchers and additional personnel now. Should be your location within five, over."

  "Good news. We'll be ready, Charlie six."

  "Charlie Two. Can you give me a brief situation report. Should we button up?"

  "Total smack down, Sergeant, and that's an affirmative."

  "Well, bring everyone in. We'll lock down until the drop."

  "Roger that. Charlie two out."

  "Charlie six, out. See you in a bit."

  Then Shue was handing the microphone back and turning to the Reaper, who held out his hand.

  "Thank you, Staff Sergeant."

  "No reason to get all formal, Reaper. This was needed a week ago when we arrived. Without your support, there was simply no workable solution."