Mountain Man (Book 5): Final Stand [Last Ditch]

by Jones, Nathan

  Most of those who'd been seriously wounded hadn't had the strength to make it out of camp, but several had and were in serious enough shape to need a horse. Brandon was afraid that in spite of their best efforts, some of those might not live to see morning. More than thirty others with less serious injuries, including broken bones or sprains from running in the dark, had required tending and several also needed to ride.

  A small silver lining was that in spite of the confusion, Carl had made good on his promise to raid the supply tent. Brandon regretted they hadn't hit the armory, but he could understand that panicking people were more interested in escape than fighting, and starving people had only one thing on their mind. They had only been able to take what they could carry, but it would be enough to keep the group going to Camptown, and possibly feed them for a few days after that.

  More ration bars. Hurray.

  Fewer men had managed to pick up weapons from fallen bloodies than he'd hoped for, and only a dozen rifles had been scavenged, half of them empty and few with spare magazines. Unfortunately Brandon hadn't brought much spare ammunition for AK-47s, given that Gray hadn't been willing to part with many of the weapons, so he only had a few spare magazines for them as well.

  That meant his fighting force was made up mostly of severely weakened men with little shooting experience, armed with pistols and shotguns that were no one's idea of long distance weapons. They had numbers, but harsh experience had shown him how little difference that usually made against a more experienced enemy that outgunned them.

  If the bloodies came at them with even as much as a single squad, there was every chance Brandon's entire force would be massacred. Their only hope was speed, and using his few remaining skirmishers to slow and divert any pursuit.

  Brandon heard the situation from Jenny and Carl and a few of the other freed slaves as they worked on the wounded, doing their best to treat their wounds and make them more comfortable in the dark using their limited medical supplies.

  One of those who needed attention was Andy, in spite of his insistence that the gunshot wound had just pushed his flak jacket's material in enough to puncture the skin. To Brandon's relief his friend was correct, although the wound was still ugly; located high up on the chest, it had pierced an ugly gash that had then been abraded by chafing during the march, to say nothing of the material that had gotten into the wound.

  Still, there was no sign of undue swelling or the beginning of blood poisoning, and Jenny was confident that now that it'd been properly cleaned and bandaged it should be fine.

  At the moment, the young woman was doing her best to treat Jared's arm. The kid wasn't freaking out about her touching him like Brandon expected, but that didn't mean he was a happy camper. He refused to let her cut away the sleeve of his filthy, tattered coveralls to look at the gunshot wound, twisting away with a snarl when Brandon and Carl came to help her calm him down.

  “You're wasting your time,” he spat. “You should've just left me to die!”

  Brandon glanced at Carl helplessly. The freed slaves' unofficial leader shifted, expression uncomfortable. “Hey, don't be like that,” he said, doing his best to sound cheerful. “Things were bad, but you're away from it now. Things'll get better, and there's nothing you suffered that you can't get past.”

  “Easy for you to say,” the young man shot back with surprising bitterness.

  “Well I'm saying it too, and it's not so easy for me,” Jenny said, not sounding particularly sympathetic considering the trouble Jared was causing her. “You had to carry stuff around, got starved and beaten at worst. You didn't have to go through what I did, or any of the other women Sangue's taken for that matter.”

  Jared flinched, and even in the darkness Brandon could see the baleful glare he gave the young woman. “Who says?”

  There was a shocked gasp from Jenny, although the wounded men around them simply shuffled uncomfortably, much like Carl had. With awful realization Brandon thought of the painful way the wounded kid had walked to get here, and his insistence on not being touched by other men.

  Jenny struggled for words for a moment. “They did . . . that to you?”

  Jared looked away. “Guards at a hard labor camp with nothing but guys. You do the math.” He lowered his voice bitterly. “Although there were plenty of bloodies who preferred that in the slave camps, too.”

  The confirmation sent a surge of the same sort of helpless fury through Brandon that he'd often felt as he struggled to deal with what Fiona had suffered; that urge to go out and find a group of Sangue and start shooting. He'd known that sort of thing happened, of course, even with younger slaves. But it still churned his gut to hear of it.

  It could've just as easily been Logan who'd suffered that horror.

  An uncomfortable silence settled. “I'm sorry,” Jenny said awkwardly.

  The freed prisoner snorted. “Yeah, I could feel the sympathy pouring out of you right from the first.” He pushed to his feet with a pained noise, turning to Brandon. “Screw getting my arm fixed, is there some place I can crash where I'm not squeezed between two other dudes?”

  He nodded, uncomfortably aware of the heavy silence around the fire, the way people looked away. Jared seemed to sense it too, shoulders hunched in shame and resentment at everyone's response.

  Brandon gave the kid his own blanket and led him over by one of the makeshift tents they'd made with tarps, a spot where none of the huddled freed slaves had opted to sleep. The kid rolled up in the blanket as far from everyone else as possible, making more pained sounds as he searched for a comfortable position on the hard ground.

  Brandon turned away to begin organizing the night sentries, heart heavy. Every time he had to look into the well of suffering Sangue caused, it seemed to be a bit deeper and darker.

  Chapter Twelve

  Rumblings to the South

  Second Lieutenant Jean Kristof sat away from his men, staring down from his platoon's temporary camp at the valley below, stretching away into the distance to the east with ever-increasing desolation.

  He wasn't sure he'd ever get used to just how dry this area of central Utah, bordering southern Utah, was. Not to mention hot, with a blistering sun beating unbearably down from overhead from late morning to late afternoon. He'd thought parts of the Northern League's territory could be barren, like the badlands of what had once been North Dakota, but even there you could find plenty of green.

  And the craziest thing was, it just got worse the farther south you went, turning to barren rock and sandy red soil as far as the eye could see not all that far from where they sat in these mountains. It made him miss his family in southern Alberta, struggling to keep their electronics fabrication business going without his help, all the more.

  The men were finishing up morning routines like shaving and washing up. A few had even eaten breakfast already, and were either busy cleaning and repairing their gear or were simply lounging, in silent contemplation of the rising sun like Kristof or chatting with buddies, depending on their temperament.

  None of them seemed all that bothered by the weeks of relative inactivity. They showed none of the antsy restlessness Kristof himself felt, knowing there was so much more they could and should be doing. He was sure they all wanted to take the fight to the enemy just like he did, and were equally committed to defending their home and loved ones, but what could he say?

  They were enlisted soldiers, just happy to have a reprieve from fighting or backbreaking labor. Worrying about the big picture wasn't in their job description.

  Still, they were all instantly attentive when the radio in the cab of one of their trucks squawked, the usual Sangue mixture of Spanish and Portuguese drifting out the window. Specialist Hobbs, their radioman and translator, instantly abandoned his shaving with his face still half lathered and headed closer so he could hear more clearly.

  Kristof stood as well, making his way over to join the man as he listened intently. “What's going on?” he asked in a quiet voice.

>   Curtis, his platoon sergeant, was heading over as well, along with the other noncoms. Several of the men casually drifted over to where they could listen in unobtrusively, without getting snapped at for crowding.

  Hobbs held up a hand for a second before also speaking quietly, still listening. “Some sort of slave revolt along Highway 29 in the middle of the night. Apparently the slaves raided the work camp's armory and blew up a bunch of stuff, including the command tent with all the radios, before half of them stole all the camp's vehicles and fled and the rest bolted south into the mountains. The bloodies are in pursuit of the ones on wheels.”

  Kristof frowned. His radioman had relayed Sangue chatter about the destruction of the highway, apparently the second such sabotage in the last couple months, a few days ago. In fact, Kristof had even considered hitting the Sangue convoys bringing in slaves to clear the damage, or possibly even the camp itself.

  Not that Captain Raleigh would've let him do anything that far south, of course.

  Hobbs was starting to look uneasy. Kristof knew enough Spanish to catch snippets here and there, but listening over the radio added an extra challenge for barely conversant speakers like him, with all the static and broken transmissions and rapid fire speech. It frustrated him that he had to wait to hear what was going on, when it was obviously worrying his radioman. “What is it?” he demanded.

  “The slaves in-”

  “Prisoners,” Kristof corrected. He hated calling citizens of what used to be the United States slaves, especially when they'd managed to free themselves.

  “Prisoners,” the specialist repeated, looking annoyed. “The ones in the vehicles tried to flee east on small roads, only to be headed off by Sangue patrols. If I know this area and I'm hearing their descriptions of the pursuit correct, it sounds as if the sl-prisoners are being chased towards the small roads in the foothills along these mountains, not far south of here.”

  “Exactly how far?” Curtis demanded.

  Hobbs was slow to answer, listening to the radio again. He was starting to look more uneasy. “Sangue's tightening the noose. They've got a dozen soldiers on ATVs sweeping the roads north of their quarry, the original pursuit to the east, and a couple trucks coming in from the south.” He swore. “They're practically chasing the poor suckers right down our throats.”

  For a moment Kristof was worried that meant the bloodies knew his platoon was lurking in these mountains, and were carrying out some convoluted plot to kill two birds with one stone. That seemed unlikely, though, so he chalked this up to bad luck.

  Or good luck; Raleigh could hardly argue about him engaging the enemy south of the designated perimeter when not only was he coming to the aid of civilians, but his platoon was in imminent danger of discovery themselves.

  Kristof turned to Curtis. “Saddle up.”

  The grizzled man frowned. Like a good platoon sergeant should, he ensured his platoon leader's orders were carried out efficiently, and gave advice about the soldiers under his command and the small picture aspects of battlefield engagements and the platoon's operation.

  Apparently this seemed to qualify in one of those areas. “This tiptoes dangerously close to breaking the letter of our standing orders, and fairly well tramples the spirit of them. Especially since we could just as easily flee farther into the mountains and stay out of this.”

  It was hard not to scowl at that. “We're spinning our wheels up here while the rest of the 26th makes nice with the locals up north,” Kristof snapped. “Organizing them into a force that might or might not soil themselves when the bloodies come knocking. I'd rather not miss an opportunity when it falls right into our laps.”

  Curtis hesitated for a moment longer, then shrugged and turned towards the gathered men, raising his voice to a roar. “You heard the LT! SADDLE UP!”

  With the sort of speed that only well trained soldiers under competent leadership could manage, a few dozen men in various stages of undress transformed into two squads of men plus drivers, their radio specialist, and Kristof and his platoon sergeant, all kitted out in combat gear and loaded into their respective vehicles. Part of the men's morning routine was clearing up their part of camp and packing up to travel, and while that hadn't been completely finished it took only a few extra moments to get everyone's packs loaded. The lone tent that had yet to be taken down was hastily disassembled and tossed under a bench in the back of one of the trucks, with Curtis promising dire retribution to the young private who'd been slow in his duties.

  Within three minutes the trucks were on their way, bumping down the almost impassably eroded mountain road towards the foothills below. Hobbs was in the lead vehicle, relaying directions to his driver and pertinent information about the disposition of the enemy to the rest of the platoon.

  The platoon's camp had been concealed up a narrow canyon, with a virtually nonexistent road leading into it. The appearance of that road was deceptive, however, since with a lot of backbreaking work Kristof's men had cleared it so it led all the way up into the mountains, connecting with other roads that led south to Highway 31 and north to Highway 6.

  As far as he was aware, Sangue didn't operate much at all in the mountains aside from using the highways through them. With the exception of the area south of Highway 29, apparently, and there only because they were being harassed by a group down there. The enemy did occasionally sent scouts on ATVs along the smaller roads and trails to make sure there was nobody out there preparing any nasty surprises for them, as well as likely hoping to catch small groups of refugees unaware and attack them for sport and slaves.

  Those scouts were easily diverted from his platoon's hidden canyon and more obvious network of hidden roads by the expedient of fallen logs, cut to look natural, which made the blocked roads seem unused. It was harder to hide the tire tracks of his trucks on the roads themselves, but thus far the bloodies either hadn't noticed them or assumed they came from their own vehicles.

  It didn't take long for his platoon to exit the canyon, going up over a last rise that gave them a good view of the valley beyond. Almost as soon as they did, he received reports from the lead vehicle that they had eyes on the escaped prisoners' trucks and the vehicles pursuing them, as well as the ATVs moving to cut them off from the north and the trucks doing the same from the south.

  Kristof hardly needed the report, since his truck was soon in position to see; he watched the unfolding tableau below with a cool eye for a moment before tapping his headset.

  Every day he blessed the fact that the League had recreated encrypted radios, allowing them to use them in the field with fair confidence that their communications wouldn't be compromised. With the bloodies still using vulnerable radios, or not using radios at all to prevent their communications being intercepted, that gave Kristof and his soldiers a major advantage. One that had saved their lives on multiple occasions, and allowed them to set up engagements like the one that was about to happen to their advantage.

  “Deploy up on that hill just east of here,” he ordered his platoon. “Make it look like we're going to join the ATVs in pinning the freed prisoners and laying down a crossfire. Hobbs, get on the Sangue channel and tell the bloodies what we're doing to help sell the deception.”

  His earpiece crackled. “If we present as bloodies, the freed prisoners we're trying to help are going to shoot at us,” Curtis pointed out.

  “Good thing part of the deception will be positioning ourselves to be covered from fire in their direction, then,” he replied grimly. “Hopefully once we start gunning down the ATVs and the bloodies pursuing from the south, the prisoners will get the hint and realize we're on their side.”

  His truck's driver cleared his throat. “All due respect, sir, but considering our encounters with folks in this area up til now, I'm not holding my breath.”

  Kristof grimaced, thinking of all the times they'd made contact with groups in these mountains, only to be shot at by panicking refugees while they hunkered behind the reinforced glass and metal of
their trucks, desperately shouting their peaceful intentions.

  “If the bloodies figure out we're the enemy before the prisoners do, get on the bullhorn and try to talk some sense into them,” he replied firmly, then got back on the radio and continued. “Less than a minute to contact, people. Surprise and confusion are on our side, so let's gun these bloody SOBs down and get out of here with our new friends before the enemy has time to figure out what happened and do something about it.”

  His platoon's three trucks tore up the hill, skidding to a halt at the top with their sides pointed towards the trucks of the freed prisoners below. Those poor beleaguered people had also screeched their four vehicles to a halt, forming a crude diamond shape. Raggedly dressed men grimly clutching rifles hunkered in the backs peeking out from above the steel bed walls, or in the space between the trucks hunkered behind wheel wells or beneath the trucks positioned to shoot from prone positions. The single machine gun mounted on one of the trucks was manned by a huge guy, heavy with muscle in spite of his emaciated frame, who swiveled the big weapon around with ease.

  The freed prisoners were planning to make a last stand. Kristof couldn't help but be inspired by the sight, although he regretted the fact that his platoon's arrival was what had led the poor men to that desperate extreme.

  The Sangue soldiers on their four-wheelers, a driver and a shooter on each vehicle as usual, were operating in the usual fashion, maneuvering to circle the trucks at a distance and take potshots at them while in constant motion. They were the scouts and raiders of Sangue, more distraction than effective threat, and would be relying on their buddies coming from the east and south to dig in and slug it out with the freed prisoners.

  And Kristof's platoon, of course; boy weren't they in for a surprise.

  His soldiers boiled out of their trucks and took up positions, making it look as if they were gearing up to open fire on the four trucks below. Instead, Charlie squad on the left would be lining up shots on the four-wheelers, starting with the most distant ones and finishing up with the closest, while Delta squad on the right would be getting ready to go after the bloodies coming up from the south.