by Joe Nobody
The two assaulters seemed surprised by the commander’s sudden attack, but they were already halfway over the wall. Jack slayed the first before the intruder could completely clear the top of the complex’s barrier. The second, landing on the ground with a thud, managed three shots in the commander’s direction before Cisco took him out of the fight for good.
Turning to make sure there weren’t more invaders scaling the wall, Jack ducked just as an intense wave of hot lead tore into the top of the mortar and brick. In that brief sub-second, he saw something that turned his blood to ice.
Less than a block away, dozens of painted warriors were pushing a homemade barricade down the street. Jack spied a wagon of sorts, complete with metal rims and a wall of railroad ties facing his position. A small army struggled to roll the behemoth toward the church’s own bastion. “They’ve made a siege machine!” he turned and yelled at the padre. “They’ve constructed a wooden tank… or mobile wall. Get more people up here! Now!”
Eagles were firing from both sides of the monstrosity, using the thick wooden planks for cover. The commander could see another group riding in the contraption’s bed, all of them cued up and ready to climb up and over. The commander knew that if they reached the churchyard’s interior, every man, woman and child inside would die.
Mimicking the two trespassers he had just killed, Jack raised his carbine over the edge and cut loose with several blind shots. His only hope was to slow them down … to give the priest a few more seconds to rally reinforcements.
The answer to Jack’s effort was a blizzard of lead from below, the barrage so intense that he was sure both of his arms were about to be chopped off by a buzz saw of bullets. He knew that if those crazed bastards scaled the wall, the battle was over. He had to hold them off … had to buy time.
He sent three rounds left, four right, three more to the front. Over and over again, Jack felt the M4 buck against his exposed fingers, wrist, and arms. Grit and cement dust rose in a cloud around his limbs, stinging his knuckles and wrists, burning the skin on the back of his hands. Evidently, he was striking something as the bird-men below increased their desperate rally to take his weapon out of the fight.
The volume of gunfire was so intense, Jack sensed rather than heard the five boys scrambling up the brick and concrete blockade to join him. Without hesitation, they shoved their barrels over the top and began raining death on the attackers below.
Soon, another group joined Jack on top of the wall, the chorus of return fire so strong now that Cisco dared to raise up for a brief glance over the barrier, taking a mental snapshot in less than a second of exposure.
There were a few bodies scattered on the street below, but the siege machine kept coming. It was now less than 50 yards from the complex, still advancing despite the hailstorm of lead being sent in the juggernaut’s direction.
Again, the commander exposed just the top of his head, hoping to identify some weakness or vulnerability in the Eagle’s scheme. The men riding and pushing the war wagon were protected from the small arms being used against them. While the front wall of thick wood was splintered from several points of impact, the caliber of the crusader’s weapons simply didn’t have enough ass to chew through the heavy wooden shield. The birdbrains were going to push their tank right up to the wall and use it as a platform to climb over in mass.
Jack looked low, thinking to shoot the legs out from under the pushers, but the angle was wrong. He scanned left and right, hoping to locate a position where he could stream a clear line of fire around the corner of the barricade. Nothing. Nada. The Eagles had picked their spot and constructed their weapon with obvious forethought and considerable planning.
More and more of the church’s crusaders were joining him now on the wall, but their fire was still ineffective. “Commander! Commander! A moment please,” the priest’s voice called out from below.
“What?” Jack barked, climbing down from his perch.
“We are running out of ammunition. We only can keep up this rate for another 15 minutes at most. I’m afraid that without a miracle from above, we’re not going to survive this encounter. We have a secret escape route, and I’m going to try and evacuate some of the women and younger children. I might be able to get you out of here with them.”
“No,” the commander answered instantly. “I’m staying till the end.”
At that moment, an inspiration came to Jack. Brightening, he tugged on the priest’s smock and yelled over the raging battle, “I need five of your best shooters. I have an idea that might just save your flock.”
Father Burke could tell by the look in Jack’s eyes that now wasn’t the time to play 20 questions. The priest had seen the naval officer fight and had no doubt of his bravery or commitment. “As you wish,” he nodded.
A few minutes later, Jack pushed up a storm drain after having crawled through a dank, low, stone tunnel. He emerged nearly a block away from the church’s wall, the exit protected by a thick hedge row. The commander found himself standing in what had been a small park before Yellowstone’s eruption. A minute later, the last of five teenage boys joined him on the relatively quiet western side of the compound.
The small squad scurried across the street.
Using neighboring structures as cover, Jack and his team maneuvered through the streets until they were positioned behind the Eagle’s siege machine. After exchanging looks and nods with his unbelievably young charges, the commander took a deep breath and let out a resounding cry, “Let’s go!”
While they were only six rifles, Jack’s surprise attack from the rear caught the attacking bird-men completely off guard. Most of the Eagles’ manpower was allocated to maneuvering the extremely heavy wagon, not brandishing their weapons. A half dozen of the foe fell before those riding on the bed understood that the burgeoning fire originated from behind. Their realization came too late.
Cisco’s shooters were experienced, raking streams of deadly lead up and down the huddled, painted mass of foe. Before they could recover, Jack noticed at least a dozen of the grey-bodied throng fall.
Less than 30 seconds after they had hit the rear of the war wagon, the scrambling, stumbling throng of feather-heads was in full retreat. Now pushed away from their protective barrier, those who did manage to escape Jack’s team found themselves being chopped to pieces by the crusaders still manning the wall.
And then it was over, only the occasional shot ringing in the distance.
Jack stood drawing deep breaths, trying to replenish his body’s depleted oxygen supply while still wearing the makeshift mask. He noted the barrel of his M4 was still smoking, and a trail of brass cartridges sparkled against the grey covering of ash.
Slowly, it dawned on the defenders that they had snatched victory from what surely had been a well-orchestrated, thunderous onslaught. Jack noticed the children’s voices taking on a new tone as they chatted amongst themselves.
Still, there was no victory celebration. There were injured to attend to, dead to carry off the field, and patrols to mount to ensure the Eagles didn’t nurse their wounds, regroup, and make a second attempt.
“Thank you, Commander. Surely, you are a brave man. Your arrival … your defense of us … your rally … was surely our miracle,” Father Burke gushed as Jack walked back into the compound.
“I was just buying your guys some time,” Jack replied, the full experience of the battle still not resonating in his mind.
After hours of helping the Crusaders with triage, followed by a robust discussion with Father Burke, Jack was escorted back to the base by a party of Chicano child-soldiers. The commander had to admit, they were very well disciplined.
Jack and his new bicycle were met at the communications center by Chief Daniels. “We heard some distant gunfire a few hours ago. I was getting worried about you, Commander.”
“Any idea where I can find the captain?” Jack responded, obviously in a rush. “I’m sure you’ll both want to hear what I discovered.”
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p; They located the skipper a short while later, the two officers and the chief making for Utah’s conference room so that Jack could debrief his crewmates. With a steaming cup of coffee in his hand, the commander described what he had seen – the Chicanos, the church compound, and Father Burke’s offer to become allies.
“They need ammunition, adults, leadership, and all the help they can muster. We hurt the Eagles today, but they will be back. In return, they have an entire church basement full of canned food, a well that seems untainted, and a relatively secure compound. If you can’t solve the air filter problems here on Utah, I think that church is your best bet for a new home.”
“I had hoped we would find out that the government had evacuated the population,” Daniels responded with a faraway voice. “I prayed that we just happened to dock after the citizens had been relocated safely.”
“Do you believe this priest, Jack?” Ulrich asked with a skeptical eye.
“He has no reason to lie, sir. He also couched a lot of what he relayed to me as second-hand information.”
Rubbing his chin, the skipper continued his questions. “How was the Padre burned? Did he say?”
“One of the Chicano escorts told me what happened during the journey back to the base. He said that the priest had tried to negotiate with the Eagles early on and received a Molotov cocktail for his trouble.”
Both Daniels and the captain winced at the mental picture before the chief of the boat responded, “It makes sense that the surviving kids would band together by race, school, or church. They would head to the people and places with which they were most familiar. Add to that the fact that anywhere in the world you travel, child warriors always seem to be the most brutal. It all makes sense to me. Regardless, I think I will pay your new religious friends a visit tomorrow and begin negotiations. It sounds like a mutually beneficial relationship might be in our future.”
Then Ulrich dumped the question that Cisco had been the most concerned about. “After your ‘adventure’ outside the base, are you still going to head for Texas, Jack?”
The commander didn’t answer immediately, staring down at his cup of coffee for nearly a minute before responding. “Yes, sir. I am planning to leave in two days unless you have further need of my services here. The image of my wife and daughters living in a world like the one I’ve just witnessed won’t leave my head, sir. I know it will be dangerous, but I have to go. I have to try.”
Ulrich nodded, “I don’t blame you. As of an hour ago, about half of the crew was making plans to leave. I think a lot of them are waiting to hear your report.”
“How do you want me to handle the public relations, sir?”
“Tell them the truth, Commander,” Ulrich replied with a steady eye. “The days of military secrets and worrying about the crew’s morale are long past us. The men need to know the truth.”
Nodding, Jack said, “Aye, sir.”
The meeting broke up and then Jack began working on a long list of preparations. First and foremost, he needed to ascertain how his new wheels would handle the load of his pack, food, weapons, and water.
The remainder of the evening, Cisco configured, reconfigured, and adapted. Using a combination of straps, bungee cords, and military pouches, he managed to secure the large Marine Corps backpack above the rear wheel.
The saddlebags were designated for food, water, and spare cycling equipment. He stuffed the patch kit and air pump in with a gallon plastic jug full of Utah’s water into one, the other holding as many MREs as he could cram into the confined space.
Daniels stopped by to see if he could assist and made what Jack considered a very sage suggestion. “If you’re riding and get into another gunfight, you are going to need bulletproof protection. Why don’t you take a few more of the armored plates and stick them in your pack? That way, you can lay the bike over and use it for cover to fight.”
When he finally had organized the two-wheel contraption in a workable state, Jack decided to go for a test drive around the base.
He found that momentum helped deal with the additional weight. The oversized tires helped greatly with the ash, drifts up to a foot deep posing no issue as long as he had a good head of speed.
One problem that persisted throughout the trial run was how to carry his long gun.
Given his position on the seat, it was damn uncomfortable riding with the carbine slung over his shoulder. Keeping the weapon to his front resulted in banged knees and bruised shins. Yet, the commander wanted his weapon handy. He’d learned that lesson the hard way just a few hours before.
He tried rigging some sort of quick-draw scabbard, but the M4’s magazine and rails didn’t agree with that design concept. Jack grew increasingly frustrated.
Between battling the weight, ash, and his untrained legs, Jack pulled short to rest. Needing both hands free to work his Camel Bak, the commander set the carbine across the handlebars and opened the canteen’s drinking tube. “That’s it!” he announced.
A few minutes later, he was riding again, the long gun riding comfortably across the handlebars, within easy reach and well out of the way when not needed. Jack felt ready. He would spend the following day double-checking his supplies and then cast off the following morning.
Looking to the west, he announced, “I’m coming, Mylie. Hang in there. I’m on my way.”
You can find Episode 2 here: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01M5E6YU4
