The Living Hunger

by Dennis F. Larsen

  As expected, the sound of gunfire snapped and popped around the school’s perimeter. Ahead, Farrell could see a red pickup weaving down the road, attempting to avoid the fire that the entrenched defenders were now shooting incessantly. As the Chief got to the protective structure, he yelled at the woman controlling the claymores, “Hit ‘em! Trigger all three of the mines!” A second later, the young woman double clicked each of the controlling devices that exploded the hidden claymores strategically placed along the roadside, ripping into the advancing vehicles and men. Hundreds of small, steel balls flew from the C-4, sailing 100 yards across the roadway, except for those that struck metal or flesh. The red pickup veered hard to the right, catching the curb and screeching onto its side, the men riding in the back, dead before the fall, torn apart by the shower of steel. A second truck ran the gauntlet unharmed but the trailing unit was not as lucky. The claymores evened the odds as the cab and bed were caught in the full force of the explosive device, the metal balls shredding and maiming as they flew.

  The result was much the same at each of the four approaching roadways. The Bear River people held their positions as they watched in unspeakable horror as the lives of the men and women, who should have been their neighbors, were ended. Even with fifty percent of their force eliminated in the first few minutes of the battle, the hardened followers of Don Bullock were not discouraged from accomplishing their task. If anything, the loss of life so close to them, spurred them on and solidified their lust for Bear River blood. The truck on the eastern side that had penetrated the first layer of defenses raced ahead, men firing wildly from the bed, as a fighter leaned out of the passenger window, his AK-47 cutting into the sandbags stacked in front of the defenders.

  Farrell looked over to see the female defender slumped over her weapon, with a large exit wound at the back of her head. “You rotten . . . ” his words trailed off as he stepped around the side of the barricade and into the roadway. He stood with his legs apart and the fully loaded 81 MGS at his hip. He immediately began firing at the advancing truck barreling down on them, sparks kicking up all around him, as ricochets chipped away at the black surface. The steady stream of burning, tumbling lead, sailing forth from the barrel of the Chinese weapon was deadly.

  Farrell fought with the forend of the assault rifle, trying to keep it from pulling up and to the right, as it was prone to do. He could see where his bullets were landing, as he marched the slugs up the grill of the truck and into the cab, killing the owner of the AK-47 before continuing the weapon’s climb, over and into the men leaning on the cab for support. One was quickly thrown from the back of the truck, a bullet striking him in the middle of his face, the lead driving through his head and exiting only slightly slower than it had entered. Undeterred, the driver used the truck as a weapon, determined to see Farrell’s face splattered on the windshield. The Sergeant continued to pour his remaining ammunition into the truck, however, he was acutely aware that the target was taking more damage than his gun, alone, could deliver. Finally the truck gave way to the onslaught of lead and rolled to a stop a few yards from the standing gunner. Farrell was pleased to see the other three men assigned to his detachment, standing, with their weapons smoking, a look of wild abandon on their faces. The Sergeant smiled at the three and nodded his approval before he went to the truck looking for survivors.

  A young boy, no more than 15, lay in the bed of the heavily damaged truck. Blood dripped from the corner of his mouth as he tried to speak, a portion of his shoulder missing and an obvious stomach wound creating a pool of blood at his midsection. Farrell called to one of the three men to assist him with the boy. He handed his assault weapon to the farmer in advance of climbing into the bed of the truck and taking the boy’s outstretched hand. The battle-hardened veteran sat on the wheel well and pulled the mortally wounded youth between his legs, cradling his head in his lap. The dying boy was frantic to speak but the blood, collecting in his mouth and lungs, was making the task almost impossible. He finally spat enough blood out that he was able to whisper the final thought of his mortal existence, “I . . . I don’t even know why.” With a final cough and gurgle of blood as it filled his lungs, the boy was taken. The Chief closed the youth’s eyes and laid him to rest in the bed of the truck. His blood, and the blood of so many others lost this day, would rest squarely on the shoulders of one man, and one man alone: Don Bullock. In his mind, Farrell vowed that he would not rest until the evil of that big man was wiped from the face of the earth.

  Farrell pointed to the two men still standing at the barricade. “You two stay here. I’m heading to the north side to see how they’re making out.” The man holding Farrell’s weapon returned it to him, and followed the instruction he was given to hustle down to the south side and provide support, as they needed it. The fight for the eastern side of the school was possibly over but the battle was far from complete.

  Gary and Elva had watched the events at the front of the school unfold: Gary, from his lofty perch in the ‘Eagle’s Nest’ and Elva from a corner of a vacant schoolroom. When she saw Farrell climb down from the back of the pickup covered in blood she called out, “Oh no, he’s been hurt!” She ran from the room, and in the direction she could see he was headed, the sound of gunfire still causing concern and panic throughout the school. At the northeast corner, she exited the building, running to Farrell as she saw him jogging toward the group protecting the northern flank. As he saw her coming, he detached the empty drum from his weapon and pulled a heavy, full drum from his belt, locking it in place and engaging the action to bring a live round into the chamber.

  Farrell watched his wife run from the building, the shotgun she carried appearing over-sized in the young woman’s hands. Earlier in the week he’d filled her hunting vest with magnum sized shells after spending an afternoon shooting clay pigeons. She wore the same vest now, the weight of the ammunition bouncing against her chest as she ran. A sense of pride, as well as worry overtook him, thinking that perhaps those in her care had been taken.

  “Elva, what’s wrong? Has something happened to Len and the others?” he spit out, when she was within earshot.

  “No,” she yelled, still moving toward him.

  “You need to get back into the school. We’ve still got a battle going on out here.”

  “I know but you’re hurt,” she cried.

  As he reached her, he looked down to see his blood-covered attire and grinned at the woman he loved so much. “That’s not mine. I’m fine. Get back into the school and wait for me there! We’ve got this under control.”

  She cocked her head as if to say, Really?

  “Believe me, but I can’t do my job if I’m worried about you running around exposing yourself to gunfire.”

  “Okay, okay, you sure you’re not hurt?”

  “Yes, now get along!” he said, taking her by a shoulder and shoving her toward the school. “I’ll come for you when this is over.” She ran off, briefly looking over her shoulder before she entered the school and ran to protect Len, her mother and the others she’d been given responsibility for.

  “Farrell, I can see you moving north. There’s an awful lot of gunfire coming from the south and west. I think once you’ve checked on the boys up there, you better get yourself over to Rod’s position.”

  “Got it Gary; thanks.”

  The noise level increased dramatically as the Sergeant approached the northern end of the school’s protective perimeter. A pair of bunkers guarded the school, each sitting on either side of the main northern access road. Farrell halted at the corner of the school to assess the situation, before venturing out to his men. The reinforced security post to the right appeared to have been taken out by a well-placed grenade. Two barely recognizable bodies were pitched awkwardly in the confines of the sandbags and 50-gallon drums. The bunker to the left was active, with intense fire streaming away from the occupants. From his vantage point the Chief was unable to see who was still alive but immediately knew they needed his help. F
urther down the street he could see the results of the battle waged thus far. A truck was burning, sending a cloud of thick, black smoke into the air. The stench of burning rubber and fuel licked at his nostrils. Incoming gunfire was tearing at the sandbags that protected the lone defenders, most of it coming from behind a large sedan angled sideways in the road, with approximately 50 yards separating the combatants. From across the way, and to the right, a second point of concentrated fire was coming from a house with a large stone fence encircling the property. From the angles and distances, Farrell determined that the grenade must have been thrown from behind the rock fence.

  If they get flanked it’ll be over, he thought, swinging his weapon up, while he crouched low and ran for the partially destroyed bunker. He fired three-round bursts, keeping the attacker’s heads down and their weapons out of play. Striking the sandbags with his shoulder, he rolled into place, and the faces of the dead men suddenly became clear. A sense of loss hit him like a wrecking ball, knocking the wind from his chest as he fought through the storm of emotions. He pulled the bodies aside and cleared a lane of fire for his heavy weapon. Cory and Clayton were spending most of their ammo shooting at the men behind the car, so Farrell turned his weapon on the fenced-in-lot and opened fire. The heavy slugs from the Chinese machine gun knocked stones from the fence and pushed the men to find more adequate cover.

  “Hey Farrell, I see you’ve come to join our little party,” Cory shouted, from his position on the other side of the road.

  “Yes siree! How you boys holding out?”

  “Not too bad, running a little low on ammo but we’ve got our shotguns. If they get any closer we can switch to them.”

  “Good! Did you use all of the claymores?”

  “Yup, had to. First wave was too many of ‘em. The mines sure did a number on ‘em though. We’d of been overrun in the first couple of minutes if they hadn’t of slowed them down,” Cory responded, taking a minute to fire his AR-15 at the sedan.

  “You boys have done an amazing job up here and I need you to hold on. We got bigger problems on the south side, so I can’t stay long. I’ll try to round up some help for you and send them your way. Hang tight though boys and keep the pressure on.”

  “You know we will, Farrell!” Clayton called out, watching for an opportunity to ventilate another target with his scoped Winchester .270. The blonde-stocked rifle had been a gift from his father and Clayton was proficient with the weapon. Hunting deer, for the good of the community, had honed his edge and the attackers were learning to hate the sharp-eyed defender. Blam! The report of the rifle was much louder than the pop of the AR-15. Farrell heard Cory belt out, over the sound of the battle, “Another one bites the dust!”

  “How many you think we got against us?” Farrell yelled back at the friends.

  “Can’t say for sure but I think there are three live ones behind the car, and maybe six over yonder,” Clayton called back.

  “I was afraid of that. You guys got any grenades left?”

  “Only had two to begin with and we used those quite awhile ago. How ‘bout you?” Cory questioned.

  “Nope, not a one.” A string of bullets ran up the side of the bunker and rattled the framework. Farrell rolled over to get a peek at the shooter. He could see a dark-haired man, standing with his head and shoulders positioned above the fence, with a military style rifle clutched in his hands that was fed by a long, solid clip of ammunition. The Sergeant took a steady bead on the assailant’s chest and squeezed off a quick burst of five shells, three of them striking the man in the chest, neck, and face before he dropped, and the final two bullets sailed overhead. “Make that five!” he screamed, back at his young buddies, above the sound of the gunfire.

  “Thanks Farrell,” Cory yelled.

  “Gary, you seeing what’s going on up here on the north side?” Farrell asked.

  “Nope, too busy trying to find people to send south. I had to leave the roof but I’ll try to get back up there, if I can. What do you need?” he asked.

  “Cory could use some AR-15 ammo and Clayton’s low on .270’s. Find somebody . . . anybody that can run that stuff up here. I’ll try to stay until they get here. Oh, swing by the mortar pit and have ‘em bring a mortar or two, if they can carry that much,” Farrell exclaimed above the sound of the non-stop exchange of gunfire.

  “Just the explosives? Don’t you need the launcher too?”

  “Nope, just bring the shells.”

  “Okay, I’ll see what I can do. If all else fails, I’ll bring them myself.” Gary confirmed, as he ran the halls of the school looking for anyone who could lend a hand. In the medical offices he found Mel gearing up and getting ready to join the battle. It would not be her first dance. She’d seen live fire on several occasions and was not the least bit hesitant to join the fray. “You headed out?” he asked.

  “Yeah, where do you need me?”

  “South side for sure. We’ve almost been overrun. The claymores had little effect at that end and we’ve lost a number of people already. The few who are holding on are giving it their all, but they don’t know how much longer they’ll be able to keep ‘em out.”

  “Gotcha, I’m on my way.” Mel was ready for either the saving, or taking of lives today. Over her back she’d strapped a remnant from her service days; a medic’s bag, complete with bandages, morphine, and any number of life saving provisions. Balancing the scale she packed a 9mm pistol, tied snugly to her right thigh, and a small, but deadly, MP5 submachine gun that fit comfortably into her right hand. She pushed her way past Gary and began the long run to the defenders at the southern barricade. “Godfrey’s in the back, he’s scared to death but get him moving!” she yelled over her shoulder, before she made the first corner.

  Chapter 25

  “Godfrey! Godfrey, we need your help,” Gary called, before he entered the room to see the Englishman, huddled in a corner, visibly shaken. “For heaven’s sake, man. There’s no time, no time to be afraid. The wolves are at the door and we’re running out of fighters and ammo.”

  “It’s too much. Kim is dead. All my friends and colleagues are gone. There’s no end to the violence and the killing!” Whitcomb exclaimed, his emotions eating him alive.

  “Feeling sorry for yourself isn’t going to help matters.”

  “What difference can I make? I can’t shoot, don’t know anything about guns. I’m useless!”

  “Do you want to help Len and his mom? Do you want to see all these people killed? Do you want to survive?” Gary yelled into the tall man’s face, finally getting his attention.

  “Yes, of course I do.”

  “Then get out there and do something. We need you to carry some ammo to the northern post. Can you do that?” again, yelling at the shaken man.

  “Well, I . . . I’m sure I . . . ”

  “Can you or can’t you? I’ve got people dying trying to save your hide right this minute and they need your help. Where do you stand? Do you stand with us?” He’d finally gotten through to Godfrey, who could now feel his blood pumping and could see his own mortality in jeopardy.

  “I’m with you. Where do I go?”

  The two ran about, gathering up the things Farrell had requested and stopped at the northeast corner of the school where, a short time before, Elva had met Farrell. “Stay close to the building and head north. You’ll see them when you get up there. Let them know you’re coming in so they can lay down some covering fire for you. Stay low! Any questions?” Gary asked, as he unbuckled his own 9mm from around his waist and attached it to Godfrey’s. Can you shoot one of these?” Godfrey nodded, as Gary patted him on the shoulder and returned to the school.

  Godfrey ran as best he could, weighed down by the heavy ammunition and mortar rounds. At the corner, where Farrell had observed the battle being waged, Godfrey was stopped dead in his tracks. Cory and Clayton were doing their best to keep the attackers at bay with their shotguns but the two-chill-lead was having little, if any, effect at that range. Farrell,
on the other hand, was pinned down and having a difficult time getting any shots fired without exposing himself.

  “Farrell, I’ve got some stuff for you!” he called, but could not be heard. He tried again, this time bringing the words up from his toes, sending them through the air. Luckily, the Chief rolled over onto his back and acknowledged the arrival of their badly needed help. Godfrey could see, but not hear; the three men communicate before they all rose to their knees and began firing into the ranks of the attackers. It’s now or never, he thought, pushing himself away from the wall and running for the safety of the bunker. Bullets split the air overhead as he concentrated on laying each foot down ahead of the other. His head rang from the sounds and commotion but he managed to make the run successfully, landing in a heap of clanging metal at Farrell’s feet.

  “Glad to see you, Godfrey,” Farrell shouted.

  “Yeah, lovely day for a run,” Godfrey laughed nervously. “Heard you could use some ammo.”

  “Not me. Them,” Farrell said, pointing to Cory and Clayton. “I see you brought the mortars. That’s what I need, give ‘em to me.”

  “Sure.” Godfrey handed two mortars over to Farrell and watched as the Sergeant prepared to use them.

  “Godfrey, my good man,” Cory yelled from the relative safety of his bunker, doing his best to mimic the Englishman’s accent. “Throw a couple of those clips over here.”

  Godfrey did as he was asked. Kneeling up, he threw the first clip woefully short but managed to get two more into Cory’s hands, who immediately loaded his AR-15 and brought the fight back to Bullock’s men. Whitcomb repeated the same with the .270 cartridges, bringing Clayton back into the fight as well. Returning his attention to Farrell, he climbed further into the bunker and withdrew the pistol from the holster, but did not fire.