“How you feeling today, Len? Are you excited?” Mel asked.
“Not so much, don’t like needles.”
“I don’t blame you. I don’t care for them much myself but you’re awfully brave to be the first one to get this shot. We’re quite certain it’s going to make you feel better,” she said, trying to mask her skepticism. The medical officer looked into the corner of the room, where Godfrey sat, a clipboard resting on his knee. He was prepared to take notes with a pen positioned over a blank sheet of white paper. “Have you met Mr. Whitcomb? He’s going to help me today and take some notes so we can follow your progress. How does that sound?”
The little boy leaned forward so he could get a better look at Godfrey and waved, “Hey. That sounds okay to me. What do I have to do?” he inquired, leaning back on his hands while swinging his feet back and forth at the edge of the table.
“Nothing really, I just need to get your blood pressure and stuff. Same things we’ve been doing with you for the past few months, and then I’ll administer the injection.”
“Is it gonna hurt?” he asked, looking to his mother for an answer.
“I don’t think so, dear,” Mrs. Allen replied, looking to Mel for help.
“Oh no, won’t hurt much at all. Will feel like a mosquito bite and it’ll be done,” Mel winked at Len, offering him some assurance. She could see relief in his eyes and posture as she moved about taking his blood pressure, heart rate, and other preliminary measurements. “Okay little man, you ready to show us how brave you are?”
“Yup, let’s get ‘er done,” the boy said, smiling at his mom.
“He’s obviously been spending some time around your new son-in-law,” Mel said, looking at Rose.
“Oh yes, the two have become fast friends. Isn’t that right, Len?”
“Yeah, Farrell’s my buddy. Says he’s gonna teach me how to ride and shoot as soon as I’m better. Right Momma?” Len said, speaking with a new degree of excitement in his voice.
“I guess that’s right, son. Soon as the snow is completely gone, I’m sure he’ll find all sorts of things that you two can do together.”
“Sounds like Farrell has really stepped up for you and Len?” Mel asked Mrs. Allen, holding the syringe in her right hand, away from where the boy could see her.
“Yes, he certainly has. It’s done wonders for Len, having him around so much, and I feel better knowing that Elva is so well taken care of.”
“Sorry to interrupt, ladies, but Major Ghostkeeper, I need you to be very specific with the injection. Our research found that the chemical is absorbed faster if the medication is introduced directly into the ventrogluteal muscle, rather than the deltoid,” Godfrey said, rising from his seat in the room’s corner, approaching the three in an effort to better oversee the procedure.
“Okay, don’t know why that would make any difference but we’ll do it your way,” Mel said.
“Ventro . . . what?” Len asked.
“In your bottom, young man,” Godfrey clarified, for the startled youth.
“You’re gonna stick a needle in my butt,” Len exclaimed, jumping from the table and backing his behind against the nearby wall. “I don’t want anything stuck in my butt. Momma, tell ‘em they can’t do that.”
“Come on Lenny, it won’t hurt and that way you won’t have to watch what they’re doing,” his mother offered these words of encouragement, as Mel tried to bring Len back to the examination table.
“But is Major Mel gonna see my butt?”
“For just a second and I promise I’ll just pull your pants down far enough to give you the shot, rather than you pulling your pants all the way down. That okay?”
“Momma do I have to?” he pleaded, reluctantly returning to the table.
“Oh come on, what will Farrell say if he hears that you threw a fit?” his mother asked.
Before Mrs. Allen had a chance to slow him down, Len rushed forward, pulled his pants down around his ankles and bent over the table, with his behind lifted into the air. “Okay, let’s get ‘er done!” he said, trying to sound as much like Farrell as he could, before gritting his teeth and closing his eyes.
Mel stepped to his side, ejected the small amount of air from the end of the needle before pushing it slowly into the tight muscle, dispensing the medication and then extracting the needle, all in a matter of seconds. “All done.”
“What, are you serious?” Len asked, pulling his pants back up around his waist and smiling at his mother.
“Yup, told you it wasn’t a big deal,” Mel said, discarding the needle and vial in the process. “Mrs. Allen, I’d like him back here next week to take some readings, but for today he’s good to go.”
“Thanks Mel, let’s hope this does the trick,” Rose said, crossing her fingers at the medic in a sign of hope. The three walked into the hallway where Len issued two thumbs up to the applause of the waiting women.
“Piece of cake,” the little guy said, giving Elva a quick hug as he passed her on the way back to their room.
The women were called into the room, one by one, in alphabetical order, Allison leading the way. Each was run through the same gamut of tests and measurements that Len had experienced, with Godfrey taking notes and Mel administering the injections. Everything was going as planned, there had been no adverse reactions, no allergy issues, and the second to the last woman was bent over the table, when a call for help came over the intercom system.
“This is not a drill! This is not a drill!” Mel could hear the sheer panic in Gary’s voice. ”We need all available men and women to take up security positions around the school. Keep your heads down, for heaven’s sake people, keep your heads down! We have a sniper somewhere outside the wire and Farrell is working to locate and eliminate the threat, but we need every able bodied fighter to prepare for a possible attack.”
A few minutes prior to the panicked call, Farrell had been on the rooftop with Dallas, looking over the compound and discussing possible scenarios if Bullock’s men were to attack. One second Dallas was standing at his side, conferring with the Security Chief, and the next he was almost cut in half as a very large, high-velocity slug struck him in the sternum, tossing his left arm and a portion of his torso to one side, and throwing the remainder of his body back 20 feet. The opening shot left Dallas, a dear friend and confidant, a lifeless mass of quivering tissue. It took nearly two seconds for the sound of the large bore rifle to reach the school, setting nerves on edge and bringing those who heard it to full alert. The Sergeant had seen similar kills in Korea and knew precisely the weapon being used and at what distance: a .50 caliber sniper rifle, probably a Barrett, fired from almost a mile away. Nothing rips a man apart from that range, unless it’s a .50 caliber in the hands of a gifted marksman.
Farrell’s instincts took over, driving him to his belly on the school’s rooftop. He scrambled for the walkie-talkie that hung from the nearby machine gun stand. “Gary, do you copy!”
“Farrell, what was that?” Gary replied, the grip of fear in his voice.
“We’ve got a sniper, about a mile out on the east side. Get people battle ready but tell them to keep their heads down. This guy knows what he’s doing.” A moment later, another half-inch wide slug slammed into the mount holding the machine gun over Farrell’s head, toppling the weapon down on top of the Sergeant. “Bullock, you want to play this game? Then come and get some!”
There was no doubt in the Security Chief’s mind that their days of peace and relative tranquility were over and the battle for Bear River had officially begun.
Chapter 22
A short distance from the school, but far enough away that they could not be seen by the naked eye, two men were going about the business of deciding who would live, and who would die. A cylinder of concrete and mortar rose from the ground among a number of buildings that used to be a gristmill and feed lot. The grain elevator, now empty but for a few scattered flecks of wheat littered among the mouse droppings, stood above the rest. Ste
ps led from the pitted floor up the inside curved walls of the structure to a platform at the top with a tin roof. A large sliding door opened to the surrounding vista and fortunately provided a perfect view of the school about a mile away. At the bottom of the elevator, parked next to the old office, sat a jeep piled high with guns and ammunition.
“You nitwit! You’ve shot the wrong one!” Don yelled at the man lying prone next to him with an overly large rifle pressed against his cheek. Bullock was also on his belly, a spotting scope in front of his eyes. A small tripod supported the ocular device as he looked the distance from the top of the abandoned grain elevator to the school. The Bear River man, standing next to the intended target, had been obliterated into a puff of red smoke and flying body parts.
“Wind, too much. I adjust, make better to kill Fawrel,” Solomon said, a Sudanese refugee who had been using and training with weapons from the time he was a small boy. He’d killed his first man at age nine in ritualistic fashion to prove his strength and manhood, so taking the life of a simple cowboy meant nothing to the hardened warrior. How he managed to find his way into the employ of Don Bullock was a mystery, even to Bullock. The tall, thin, but strong black man showed up a few years back, with nothing in his possession but an old US Army issue .45 caliber pistol, a ratty bag full of his personal effects, which were few, and a talent for death and destruction. Bullock, always one with an eye for the unusual, took the foreigner in, fed him, groomed him, and promised him a place in his command if he would do the fat man’s bidding.
The arrangement had worked out well. The obnoxious leader didn’t have to get his hands dirty when it came time to eliminate those who opposed his power or questioned his methods. A word to Solomon and ‘the problem’ would vanish overnight -- no fuss, no muss. Bullock ruled with impunity, given the support of ruthless killers and those who were willing to do anything to survive for another day. Don Bullock had it much too cozy to risk outsiders trying to slide in and take what he’d accumulated over the past four years in power and relative wealth.
“K, that do it. I try ‘gin,” Solomon said, leveling his eye with the scope and looking for the dark-haired man who should have dropped with the first shot. Solomon was pleased with the initial volley, even though Don was not. At least the bullet had not been wasted and an enemy combatant was blown away. “He no there, boss!” the shooter confirmed.
“I can see that,” an annoyed Don hissed through his nasal passages. “He must be sucking dirt underneath that machine gun. Send him a message! Hit that gun and take it out of commission. We don’t need that thing pouring lead down on our boys when they storm the place.” Don smiled, imagining the fun he would have watching from this vantage point as his men brought vengeance to the people huddled in the high school.
“You want Solomon shoot gun?”
“Yes, hit the gun and if you get another shot at Farrell, take him out as well,” Don grinned, relishing the absolute control that was his. A moment later, the sniper’s rifle roared and kicked, sending the monstrous slug toward the gun, striking the mount and sending it toppling in the process. “Whoooeeee! Got it! Sweet shootin’ there Solomon!” Don kept his eyes glued to the scope, waiting for another chance to see Farrell and end his life. “Okay, let’s see what else we can do from here before the real fun begins,” he said, more speaking to himself than his companion. “Okie dokie, don’t want to hurt any of the ladies if we can help it. Heaven knows we could use some fresh meat.”
“Ya, fresh meat, that a good un, boss. You know Solomon like woman.”
“Oh, believe me, I know. I get complaints every time you so much as swing that thing at one of them,” Bullock said, causing them both to laugh. “Where are they all? Oh, wait a minute, wait a little minute, I can see ‘em scuttling around but they’re doing a good job of protecting themselves. Just watch for an opportunity and shoot when you get one. I gotta check with the squads and see if they’re in position,” Don said, moving away from the opening at the top of the conically shaped building.
The sniper continued to hunt for targets as Don used a communication device, taken from a local Sheriff’s office, to confirm the whereabouts of his units. The big man had spent hours poring over a plan of attack with Solomon and a few trusted others within his inner circle. The outcome and result of these meandering discussions was a full-scale attack, using every possible man and woman who could fire a weapon. Bullock had partitioned his force into two waves. The first would go in, led by his squad leaders and he would follow up with the second wave, directly under his command. There would be no finesse, no West Point military maneuvers, just an overwhelming show of force and firepower to bring the Bear River Community to her knees.
Bullock, however, would watch from what he thought was a safe distance. Taking in the show, moving, and coordinating efforts from his lofty perch and staying away from Farrell and his Chinese assault rifle. He’d almost tasted the sting of that little baby already and didn’t want to give the Security Chief another shot at him. He’d hoped, by now, that Farrell would be an historical figure in the overall scheme of things, but he dealt in life and death daily and knew, that within hours, the Sergeant would be his. Dead or alive, it didn’t really matter to the oversized brute, although carving the strong-willed fighter for the entertainment of his men might prove valuable. He was certain that Solomon had just the skills for such a task.
“Jimmy, your group ready and in position?” Don squawked into the handheld device.
A few seconds later a verbal report was issued back over the same bandwidth, “Yup, we’re in the old Subway store, south of the school. Pretty sure they didn’t see us roll up, at least there’s been no shootin’. I’m leaving Gwen and Candy behind, they’re just slowin’ us down. Gwen’s on the verge of puking and Candy’s crying. Told ya, we shouldn’t have included the women. Nothing but trouble anyway, the boys and me are ready ta go. Gonna give ‘em hell, boss! Wish I could see the look on the smug Sergeant’s face when we hit him with our little surprise,” Jimmy replied, making no attempt to remove the eager grin from his unshaven face.
“Perfect, hope you’re all listening. This better go the way we planned. If it don’t, some of ya better find a safer place to be tonight. Roger, where you boys at?” Bullock inquired, stuffing his hands into the deep wells of his pockets, walking in circles, enjoying the swirl of dust he was creating around his feet. As he waited for a reply, he quickly thought back to his own childhood and the nickname he’d acquired at the hands of the less caring children: ‘Pigpen’. He grinned and almost let out an audible chuckle, thinking of himself as ‘Pigpen, the Great and Powerful’. He’d like to see the scoffers try and call him that now.
“Yeah Mr. Bullock, we’re behind a church on the west side of the school. The men are anxious to get this over with, but are you sure we can’t just talk to ‘em? They didn’t seem like all that bad of folks. After all, there’s going be a bunch of killing today, on both sides and . . . ”
Roger was cut off by Don’s high-pitched bark. “Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! If I hear you whine, one more time, about talking to these ‘good people’, I’m gonna drive across the valley and shoot you myself. You do what I told you to do, or give the command equipment to one of the women. I do believe they’ve got more balls than you. You roger that, Roger?”
“Yes sir, loud and clear. We’ll move out when you give us the command.” Roger knew that opposing the big man would be certain death, but he was not one of them, not truly. He’d gladly switch teams today if he could, but it was too late for that. Too late for turning back and too late to be the man he knew he could have been. He’d lead, and lead well, keeping his platoon under his thumb but he would not kill children or yielding men to please Bullock, or any man for that matter.
“That’s more like it,” Don said, quite pleased with the performance he was giving. “Okay, I can see ‘Red’ just below us on the highway, here on the east side, so that leaves Phil.”
“Yup boss, I’m here.
We had our butts hanging out in the wind, where you first told us to meet up, so we’ve moved over a block to an elementary school. Won’t take us long to hit the high school from this location. I don’t think they have any idea we’re here. Should be quite a show once we get them lit up.”
“Indeed it will be. I don’t have to . . . ” Don was suddenly cut off by the booming sound of the .50 caliber behind him, as Solomon found an opportunity to kill and eliminate another member of the opposing force. The sound reverberated around the top of the grain elevator, almost driving Bullock to his knees. “Holy hell, Solomon!” He caught himself before he berated the Sudanese man for doing exactly what he’d been told to do. “Good work,” he said, waving a hand toward the school as if to say, do it again.
“Sorry gentlemen, as I was saying, before Solomon wasted another Bear Riverite, our main objective today is to find the medication and remove it. If we have an opportunity to reach our second objective, we do it. Save the women - take out the men. If we happen to catch Farrell alive, save him for me and Solomon.” The boss looked at his watch: 12:47 p.m. “At one o’clock move in fast and hard, Blitzkrieg Baby! I’ll have something special for any man that brings me the medication, or Farrell. Check your watches, and may lady luck shine on us today.”
Chapter 23
In the very instant that Farrell heard the big sniper rifle sound, for the third time, he knew another friend was dead. The Security Chief had crawled to the roof’s exit, and passed Allan on his way up, as he was headed down. “Keep your head down up there but let me know if you see anything,” Sarge had yelled, as they passed at a full run, Farrell headed for his room and the weapon hidden there. The Sergeant had arrived in Bear River with more than good intentions. He’d stocked up along the way, trading here and there, taking what he could find and disarming every National Guard facility between the coast and his final destination. Somehow, he knew the world his mother had painted for him, full of peace and harmony, would not be his to enjoy, but that his would be one ruled by barbarous men bent on power, corruption, and greed. Even with the resources of the world destroyed, and the commodities of wealth measured in canned goods, wheat and women, it did not stop evil, self-serving butchers from rising to the top, destroying the good and the weak.
The Living Hunger Page 18
