by Steven Pajak
“Jesus,” Lara said and grasped Sam’s arm. “Was Matt with them?”
Sam shook her head. “No,” she said.
Collectively, there was a sigh that went around the room. I was still shaken by everything I’d heard, but this was good news.
“Thank God,” Lara said. “Where is he?”
“He should be here soon,” Sam said. “We had some trouble on the road after the explosion. The noise or vibrations must have got the things active. They came at us from all sides, but we were able to take care of business for a while. Matt sent as many of us ahead as possible.”
“You left him there?” Lara asked.
“It was his call,” Sam said. “He didn’t want those things following us home. And he wanted us to start digging in here, setting up defenses.”
Kat came forward now and put her hand on Lara’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, Lara, he’ll be here soon. Your man walked through a whole army of men to save my pretty ass and we’re here to tell the tale. If anyone survives this damn world, it’s Matt Danzig.”
“And he’s not alone, honey,” Sam said. “Matt has a group of good people with him. More than ten strong. He’ll be back, don’t you worry.”
That was easier said than done. If something happened to him before I had a chance to apologize to him about my behavior last I saw him, I could not forgive myself.
* * *
The next two hours passed slowly for me, although everyone around seemed to be operating in a hyped up state. Lara, Sam and Kat were directing troop placements, picking what they felt were the most strategic spots that would give them the biggest kill zone. Joshua and I were getting our exercise, setting up each of the fighting positions with cover. Lifting the bales of hay and bags of feed was hell on our backs, but we weren’t complaining. The younger girls, Nora and Deirdre, as well as the other kids, were sent back with Mrs. Cleona, Maureen and Stanley to one of the barns furthest away from the main house.
While we stacked bales of hay in front of one of the foxholes and reinforced them with sacks of feed, Joshua asked, “Do you think they’ll give us guns?”
I shrugged my shoulders and sat in the shallow hole we were currently working on to check the placement of the defilade. The occupants of this fighting position had good protection on three sides, facing the killing zone. They could easily stand and fire over the hay or lean out on either side to fire at their flanks. The rear was free of obstacles in case the fighter needed to make a hasty escape.
“I’m old enough to shoot,” Joshua continued. “If Ian put a gun in my hands, I’d kill a thousand of those limey creatures.”
Getting out of the hole, I grabbed the handle of the large wagon and pointed to the other side of the long T-handle. Joshua brushed off his hands and took up the other side. Together we put our backs into it and pushed, directing the wagon toward the next hole about five yards to the west. Although it was cold, sweat broke out at our brow.
As we pushed the cart of hay and feed, I asked, “Do you think you can kill people?”
Joshua paused for a second and looked at me, probably trying to decide if I was kidding him. When he saw I was serious, he started pushing the cart again. At last, without much conviction, he said, “I could kill people. You know, if they were trying to kill me.”
“I don’t know if I could shoot someone.”
“Even if they were trying to kill you?”
I shrugged, not sure how to answer.
“What if they were trying to kill your kin?”
“I guess. Maybe.” Now I was the one who didn’t sound convincing.
“You wouldn’t kill the bastards that killed your folks if you had the chance?”
“I don’t know who killed them,” I said.
Stopping the cart again, Joshua looked at me like I said the dumbest thing he’d ever heard. “Say you did know who killed them? Say you were right there next to them and you had a gun, an AK-47 or something like that and them bastards were drawing down on your parents? Would you kill them first?”
“This is stupid,” I said, dropping the handle of the cart. We were close enough to our next hole and I didn’t want to talk anymore and started to unload bags of feed.
Joshua stood behind the cart still for a moment, probably trying to figure out what he’d done to me. Finally, he dropped the handle of the T-bar and moved to the side of the cart and started to wrangle with a bale of hay. We worked in silence for the next several minutes as we prepped this fighting position. We’d fallen into a rhythm now, first setting up the bales of hay, then reinforcing them with bags of feed all around to keep them in place.
When we finished the position, we both sat on the edge of the hole, taking a much needed break. The bales of hay were easily 90-100 pounds each and the bags of feed were probably about the same. Working on the farm for the last three months, my body had grown accustomed to the work, but it was still hard, and my body still had its limits. We’d been at this for more than an hour already and I could feel my arms getting shaky and the dull ache in my lower back told me I’d be sore tomorrow.
If there is a tomorrow, I thought.
After taking a long drink from a gallon jug of water, Joshua passed it over to me. I hadn’t realized how thirsty I was until I put my lips to the jug and started to chug the cold water, probably spilling as much as I took in.
“I’m sorry about what I said about your parents,” Joshua said suddenly.
“Thanks,” I said.
“Ian said sometimes I don’t know when to shut up. I guess he was right.”
“Yep,” I said.
He was quiet again for a minute and then fished something out of the chest pocket of his overalls. From a white linen napkin, Joshua produced a small loaf of banana nut bread that Mrs. Cleona had baked this morning. Splitting it in half, he handed the larger portion over to me. It wasn’t warm, but it smelled fantastic and tasted even better.
I pinched off a piece of the loaf and tossed it into my mouth. With the toe of my boot, I kicked at one of the bales of hay. To Joshua I asked, “Do you think this will stop a bullet?”
He looked at it for a moment, as though he were sizing it up. “When my pa taught me to shoot the bow and arrow, we used hay as backstops. Sometimes the arrow went through, but mostly not. I guess it depends on the bullet and how far away is the shooter.”
“You know how to shoot a bow and arrow?” I asked.
“Aye. I can take a squirrel at 20 yards if the wind is right.”
“That’s so cool. Will you teach me?”
“Sure, mate. I’ll have you hitting apples at 10 yards in no time.”
Leaning back, enjoying every morsel of Mrs. Cleona’s baked goods, chatting about shooting arrows, we were just two teens hanging out. In that moment, as an outsider looking at us, you never would have guessed that soon we’d be fighting for our lives in a war against evil men and women. Moments of normalness interrupted by terror, violence and death. But this was the world we lived in now.
* * *
At midday, Joshua and I helped run lunches—slabs of oven baked ham on thick slices of homemade bread slathered with mustard—out to the fighting positions, each occupied now by two- or three-person teams. When I first stood on the front porch and looked out at the concentric fighting positions, I was quite amazed. From the field, as we set up each position, we couldn’t see the big picture, the grandness of it all. It was like nothing I’d ever seen. In all, there were thirty fighting positions, row after row, each at five-yard intervals, forming half circles around the main house.
I didn’t see Lara much that morning as she was busy planning our defenses, assigning leaders to squads and setting them at strategic points around the farm where they’d be most effective against what she could only imagine was a far superior group. She’d been on the go since the caravan showed up. We expected her to appear at any moment ordering us to go to Mrs. Cleona and the children.
Sitting at the picnic table just outside the kitchen,
far back from the fighting positions, Joshua and I ate our ham sandwiches and washed them down with sweet lemonade. We’d reinforced three sides of the table with bales of hay and feed, in hopes we could retreat here during the fighting, out of the way, but still close enough to watch and join the fight if needed. Joshua was in the middle of talking about his favorite comic books when Ian appeared, casting a shadow over us.
“Come with me, lads,” he said, turning quickly and striding off in the direction of the ranch quarters.
Joshua and I exchanged a look then we both bolted up and tore after Ian, excited but unsure what he wanted with us. We followed him around the back of the main house, through Mrs. Cleona’s garden (taking care to stay on the stone path). In the empty field beyond, Ian led us to a couple bales of hay upon which lay a compound bow and a small rifle. Out beyond, about twenty yards, more bales of hay were stacked two tall and four wide. On each was a silhouette target.
“We’re going to need all hands on this one, lads, so better get some practice,” Ian said. He knelt down next to the bale upon which sat the small rifle. “Have you ever fired a rifle, Wesley?”
“No sir,” I said, feeling a slight blush in my cheeks.
“That’s fine, lad, we’ll get you battle ready in no time at all.”
“Can I start?” Joshua asked.
“Sure,” Ian said. To me he said, “Joshua learned the bow when he was a wee lad. He still has some learning to do, but he knows enough to take a man at this distance.”
In awe, I watched as Joshua picked up the bow and notched an arrow. The compound bow looked like an odd contraption with pulleys and strings, unlike any bow I’d seen before. Locking back his right elbow, he closed his left eye, and took care to control his breathing. When he was sighted in, he took one last breath and held it for a moment, before finally loosing the arrow. It travelled down range so fast I could not track it with my eye. One moment the arrow was locked into the bow and the next it poked out of the silhouette.
“Right in the gut,” Joshua said proudly and smiled.
“Nice shot, brother,” Ian said. He turned to me and said, “Let’s get you going.”
While Joshua practiced on his bow, Ian talked to me about the rifle—a Ruger 10/22. He showed me how to load the magazines and insert the magazine into the rifle. There were four magazines, each holding 25 rounds of ammunition. After inserting the magazine, he showed me how to charge the rifle and to shoulder it and sight down the barrel.
I was worried that the gun would be heavy and awkward when I aimed, but the Ruger was quite light and the length of pull was perfect. With my right eye, I looked down the sights, lining up the orange fiber optic front post between the rear sight. Down range, I aimed at the center mass of the silhouette. My arm felt shaky and each time I breathed, the sight moved off target.
Behind me, Ian said, “Okay, now once you have your bead, you take a breath and hold it, so you don’t wander off target. Then you slowly press the trigger until the rifle fires.”
“Will it hurt?” I asked.
“No a bit,” he said. “This one doesn’t kick much. You’ll barely notice she bucked.”
Swallowing, I got back on target and held my breath. Slowly I squeezed the trigger, trying not to flinch. The report was much softer than expected and was more of a sharp snap. It didn’t sound like other guns I’d heard fired. Ian was right when he said she didn’t kick. I didn’t feel the gun snap against my shoulder, as I had expected. In fact, it barely moved.
“A little high and to the right, but very good,” Ian said.
“Nice shot!” Joshua said. He set his bow down for the moment and was watching me. “Go, try another. See if you can get a head shot.”
“I’ll try,” I said.
I had a bit more confidence now, knowing what to expect. Still with the rifle shouldered, I aimed down the sight again. Aiming for the neck, I held my breath and squeezed the trigger. I heard the snapping sound and felt the rifle buck just a tad. When I looked at the target down range, there was a white hole on the silhouette right where his left eye would have been if it were a person.
“Looks like you’re a natural, lad,” Ian said.
Excited by the praise, I went back at it, gaining more confidence with each shot. I was learning to judge where to aim if I wanted the round to land in a certain spot. I fired all twenty-five rounds of the first magazine, them most of the rounds in the second magazine while Ian watched. When he felt I could handle it on my own—reiterating sternly that this was not a toy and that I needed to be careful and make sure I engaged the safety after firing and never to point it at anything I did not intend to kill—he was off to whatever duties the ladies assigned him.
After a while, we took a break while Joshua retrieved his arrows from down range. He was really good with the bow. I didn’t know if he really could hit a squirrel at twenty yards, but he sure could hit a target at that range. I examined my target before setting up a new one. With the exception of two strays, all of the 100 rounds I shot were in the rings, most in the center mass, neck and head. I suppose that was pretty good, because Joshua whistled when he saw my target and said I’d killed it one hundred times over.
With the targets replaced, Joshua helped me with reloading the four magazines. Ian left a box of Federal .22lr bullets and it was still half-full. My plan was to practice shooting another 100 rounds, but before I even finished loading my first magazine, Ian was calling for us. Matt and the others had finally arrived.
* * *
I saw him only briefly shortly after he first arrived. He hugged me and whispered that he missed me, and we would talk more later. Before I could apologize for the way I acted, or before I could tell him how happy I was to see him, he was whisked away to the command post so he could be brought up to speed. Most of what you read next is based partly on what I saw, but mostly on testimony of other eyewitnesses who I spoke to after the battle. As for Matt, I only saw him one more time that day.
* * *
“They’ll probably come during the night. That’s what I would do,” Matt said.
Gathered around the table with all of the leaders, there wasn’t much room down in the cellar. Many of the men and women in the room were new faces, but he addressed them all, as though they were his own.
“More than likely, they’re already outside our perimeter, staging for a battle. They likely have superior numbers and experienced fighters. But we know they are coming, we have the advantage of defense, strong fighting positions, and excellent interlocking fields of fire.”
Directing their attention to the large map of their positions Sam created, Matt continued, “We expect they’ll make a direct assault with their point of entry here, through the main gates. With prepared explosives and an assault squad, we will ambush them here, pushing back their first probe, which will likely be a scout group. After engagement, the squad will fall back to fighting positions and our snipers will engage the next wave.
“Assuming they have any brains, they’ll halt their advance and start looking for weakness on our flanks. They’ll try to envelope us. We don’t have enough explosives, so we’re going to rely on our rifles and carbines to halt any attempts to exploit our flanks. Do not let them draw you out of your defensive area. You stay in your positions and defend. If there is any chance of being overrun, we will shift resources from alternate positions to assist.
“I want everyone to study the map carefully and know where all the fighting positions are located, know your fields of fire and know your fall back positions. As you know, in war, things don’t always go as planned. If we have to retreat, we do it in a controlled manner and we cover each other. There are several points of fall back, with the main house being the Alamo. If they take the main house, they take the farm. And they will not take this farm, right?”
“Right!” they shouted, a host of voices in unison.
“Come morning, we will be the ones still standing. And this farm will remain in our control. Of that I ha
ve no doubt. This is our home. This is our family. This is our future and we will fight till our last breath to keep what is ours!”
A murmur went around the crowded room as the men and women broke into nervous conversation, charged by Matt’s words. For more than an hour they studied the maps, each man and woman learning the layout, making visual markers, and getting acquainted with their defensive positions. After a while, under Matt’s direction, they ran drills, playing out various scenarios, including supporting flank movements.
From their support position, Wesley and Joshua watched, wondering when they would be sent away to stay with Mrs. Cleona. But as it turned out, they were soon engaged in a firefight the likes of which they’d never seen before or after.
* * *
Through her scope, Crystal watched the group of men and women as they formed up, filing from the rear of three pick-up trucks that parked across the main road in an attempt to cover their movements. She counted twenty-three in all, each armed with various weapons, some of which she recognized—like the AK-47 and AR-15—and many which she didn’t. A tall man with long silver hair and thick beard talked animatedly to the group. Clearly in charge, Crystal made note to take him out first, should he survive the initial ambush.
After a few minutes, the platoon started to move down the center of the main road. They were not coordinated or organized, which suddenly made Crystal feel more optimistic about this whole fucked up situation. As they neared the choke point of the ambush, she set down her rifle, and from her perch atop the main barn, she signaled down to Randy, alerting him that the platoon would soon be entering the kill zone.
Lifting her rifle again, Crystal peered through the scope, watching intently as the group continued forward. The silver haired man with the grizzly beard wore his long hair pulled back and tied off with a red bandana. He wore a biker’s black leather jacket, blue jeans and cowboy boots. Under his unzipped coat, she could see he wore a Misfits concert T-shirt.
