Families First: A Post-Apocalyptic Next-World Series Volume 6 Battle Grounds

by Lance K Ewing

  We all responded in unison, and each grabbed a small gunnysack handed out by Rico and his chefs-in-training as we headed to our predetermined spots. There was a radio for every third man, leaving some information to be passed the old-fashioned way.

  * * * *

  My job was two-fold. I was stationed at the cemetery I had been to more than once as a kid for burials, and my second job was to pour and light the gasoline if it came to that. Setting up, I saw my traveling friends on both sides, probably given the upfront detail due to our former scuffle with Baker’s group.

  I wasn’t surprised to see Mac and Cory head up the Rimrock, past me, to take the closest defense possible, risking everything they loved to do so. They radioed every fifteen minutes for the next hour, giving updates on the valley below. A part of me hoped they would wait for another day or two before the attack, so I could tell Joy and our boys some things I just thought of, in case we never spoke again. The other, more rational, part of my brain said to get it done and, God willing, have the next half-century to live the simple, clean, but hard-working rancher’s life with my family. It was so close I could taste it.

  As it would turn out, it wasn’t my call anyway, and the radio chatter was ablaze. It started with a call from Drake.

  “They are lining up!” he shouted—“hundreds of them!”

  “Let’s go! Let’s go!” called Sergio to Mike.

  “Where?” Mike asked—not that it really mattered.

  “To cut the head off the snake!”

  “How do we find him?” asked Mike.

  “In the very back,” replied Sergio, matter of factly. “He is not a leader but a talker. We will find him safely tucked behind the children.”

  * * * *

  The men in front, followed by the women second, and children of all ages behind them in a line spanning across part of the valley, started to march.

  “My God,” added Drake, still over the radio without thinking. “Are they using women and children in the battle?”

  Facing them once already, I knew the answer quite clearly. The men would fight first, then the women, and finally the children, if it came to that. Baker wasn’t the first leader to instill this tactic—and probably wouldn’t be the last.

  “Front line only, everyone,” I called back on my radio, not worrying about overstepping my bounds with Mac or anyone else. “We’re not shooting at women or children,” I added, hoping to hear an immediate response.

  Nearly a full minute of radio silence ensued, with muffled voices—from where I couldn’t tell.

  “This is your leader.” John came through loud and clear. “We will engage the front line only; I repeat—only the front line. Should we be successful, I will attempt a treaty of sorts with the rest. Bill and I will make our way to the Rimrock now.”

  The chatter erupted again for nearly two more minutes, with Mac finally getting control of the radio.

  “Sir, I wish you would reconsider,” he pleaded. “We need you and Bill to lead us in the next step, and you can’t do that if you’re not around.”

  “I have never led from behind, and I won’t start now,” replied John.

  “Neither will I,” came a voice I knew well.

  Samuel picked up John and Bill on the main road, and they all walked up from the Rimrock’s base. I waved to them, not thinking it was the best idea but respecting their decision and understanding it to a T. They stood atop the Rimrock, tall and proud, but didn’t interfere with Mac’s work.

  “Tell us what to do,” John told a surprised Mac.

  “Uh, okay, sir. Uh…we need scouts on that ridge just up there,” he pointed, to watch with binoculars and radio any and all information as to what’s happening below. It’s absolutely vital to our survival.”

  “Okay,” they all replied without question.

  Bill, being a former Forward Observer in Vietnam, was asked by John to take the lead and tell him and Samuel what to look for. Vlad kept an eye on the sky for his friend, hoping they would be here in time, if at all.

  “They are up!” called out Mac over the radio, talking about Hanson and the two Shetland twins in one of Baker’s former helicopters and two biplanes. “Fly high!” said Mac into the radio, knowing full well the pilots couldn’t hear him.

  The three aircraft flew across the valley, gaining speed and height before disappearing over the far ridge. Everyone saw it, even Willie with his wife and Whitney sitting out on the front porch, waiting nervously to see what happened today, and Whitney saying, “I’m with you, Drake. Come home safe,” out loud, to the surprise of her grandfather.

  * * * *

  Each pilot knew to stay out of rifle firing range and knew any likely shoulder-fired missile would be fairly easy to dodge from a distance. They were to gain intel only, for now, hoping to locate Ronna’s group and get eyes on the other one the Colonel had eluded to. Baker’s pilots were doing the same but didn’t have any restrictions on engaging either other aircraft or civilians. A total of 8 aircraft zigzagged across both valleys, all looking for an advantage.

  * * * *

  After 30 minutes, the pilots on our side landed safely and radioed Mac with the report.

  Hanson started. “We have news. I’m not sure what’s good or bad, but there is a whole lot of movement within five miles of here. You can see Baker’s people clearly enough, and there’s nothing more to report there.

  “Three miles to the south is a large group…not as big as Baker’s, but still a large group of people with trucks and other vehicles mixed in that are walking this way. From the pace, I guess they will be here in an hour at the most.”

  “Okay,” replied Mac. “That should be Ronna’s group.”

  “And to the north,” said Hanson, “just above my place in the big open field across from the Masonville General Store, there is another group—but all are in the air, it looks like.”

  “Okay,” replied Mac. “That must be the Colonel; he said they were close.”

  “I don’t think so,” replied Hanson.

  “What do you mean?” asked Mac, confused.

  “They are flying flags…and not ours,” Hanson replied soberly.

  “What flags are they flying?” asked John, jumping in on his radio.

  “Well, sir…the UN…and uh, well I’m...”

  “Let’s hear it,” said John.

  “China, sir. They are flying the Communist flag of China.”

  “Are you sure?” asked Bill, borrowing John’s radio.

  “I’ve seen it before in Beijing. Yes, I’m sure.”

  * * * *

  I overheard every word, and my knees felt like they could buckle at any moment.

  “The UN and China…the UN and China!” I said again, out loud to nobody.

  For the first time since the day, I was alone, with nobody to talk to—just me and my radio. The first time we met some of Baker’s men, I still had a hole mate, at least for a bit. Now I felt utterly alone and couldn’t see anyone or anything but the graveyard I stood just outside of. Crazy thoughts flew through my mind—like grabbing Joy, the kids, my mom, dad and brother, and anyone else who would listen, and just running into the hills.

  “No, no, no, no, no!” I shouted, surprised at how my voice echoed across the Valley.

  “Shhh,” I heard from a large bush nearby, to my right, sending me out of my skin. Who, when they are already on edge, wants to hear voices in a graveyard?

  I instinctively raised my AR but kept my finger off the trigger.

  “Hey, buddy. It’s okay,” said the familiar voice. Lowering my rifle, I was glad to see my old new friend.

  “Remember what I said,” Jake spoke, coming out from behind the bush. “We started this together, and it ends together, but not today, tomorrow or next week. We still have too much life to live.”

  He had been positioned on the end of the Valley but traded spots three times to get closer to me.

  “If this is it,” he said, “I’m not dying out here alone,” as if h
e had read my mind.

  “Me neither, brother…me neither.”

  We both turned behind us to see Bert headed straight our way, stopping a minute later right in front of us. Vlad popped his head out moments later.

  “Hey guys, why the sad faces?” he asked, as if he had just been cruising around in Bert for the fun of it, like the Mayor of Breckenridge used to do. I guessed everyone knew but told him the news we had just heard.

  “Oh, that’s not good,” he agreed, hearing it for the first time. “Even in my own country, we were leery of those two flags, in particular. So, you think they are really here for our resources—China, I mean?”

  “Yes, and with the UN behind them they can sneak in like a thief in the night and take over this beautiful country,” I replied.

  “How many aircraft are at Masonville?” I asked over the radio.

  “More than fifteen, less than thirty. They were removing camouflage tarps as we flew over,” replied Hanson.

  “Fifteen to thirty,” I said, shaking my head. “Plus Baker’s—the ones he has left.”

  “Baker’s front line is advancing now,” we heard Mac say. “They are coming straight over the Rimrock. Heads up, northern border. You have at least eight trucks headed your way. Southern border, you look okay for now; hold your position.”

  The minutes dragged on before another announcement.

  “What do you think is going on?” Jake asked me.

  “I don’t know, but something is about to start, because once Baker’s boys get to the top, our guys need to retreat before we set it on fire. They sure don’t want to get caught in the middle.”

  “We’re going to keep moving, guys,” said Vlad. “Keep your heads up.”

  * * * * * * *

  Chapter Twenty

  Saddle Ranch

  Loveland, Colorado

  The first gunshots were heard up on the Rimrock, and soon the skies would be filled with death machines, all trying to make a lasting impression.

  The next report was not over the radio. Gunfire could be heard at the northern part of the Valley, presumably at the north barrier.

  I recognized the semiautomatic fire, a few shotguns, and what sounded like hunting rifles that could have come from either side. I instinctively looked to see Vlad, but he had Bert already headed that way.

  The shooting stopped briefly enough for me to tell Jake I’m glad it was at that end. He hadn’t seen the south barrier and had no idea how open it still was. The way we came in through the north entrance was so narrow already from the sheer Valley walls that they would have to bust through the entire blockade to get their trucks through. The gunfire continued, but this time over the Rimrock.

  “Here we go,” I called out to Jake, lifting my gas can and waiting for the call.

  * * * *

  It came nearly five minutes later, after sustained gunfire from what sounded like Baker’s side—with some, almost as much, from ours.

  “Prepare to light it up!” said Mac. “Wait until we are safely behind the line,” he added, referring to the fire break line we had cut in front and across the ridge only days ago. “Then, Lance, you and the rest of the lighters are on the front lines!”

  I didn’t mind, and neither did Jake. We were always on the front lines before, and if I was honest, I didn’t feel right about hanging back in the first place. But this wasn’t my show today, and Jake and I followed orders. I said a silent prayer for my father, Bill, as well as John and the others on our side of the hill, for a safe return.

  Mac’s truck came first, barreling down the rocky road, fishtailing at the end before stopping briefly to let John and Bill out. Samuel was driving, I could see through the driver’s side window, and took off fast towards the main road.

  “Where is he going?” I asked Mac, as he ran up to Jake and me.

  “The hospital,” he said soberly. “We have two down.”

  “Let’s get the gas poured and ready to light on my signal,” he said, running down the road and calling on the radio.

  I saw others running on foot down the back of the Rimrock and hoped they were all ours. A low roar rose above the Valley, and even though I had heard it before and expected it, I still had a moment’s thought of thunder in the already-smoky sky.

  “It’s about to get a lot darker,” said Jake, looking like I was for a source of the steady rumble.

  “Light it up—now!” yelled Mac. “Now! Now! Now!”

  I wondered how quickly it would take to start the fire and hoped it moved the right way. Minutes before, Jake had held up some sand, letting it fall from between his fingers in a whisp. Some grains went left, some right, and some straight ahead towards the Rimrock.

  “It’s a swirl for sure,” I told him, “but at least it’s not blowing back this way towards the fields.”

  * * * *

  The gasoline did its trick, as usual, when paired with a flame, and I used a barbecue lighter to start at the end of the ten-foot trickle I laid out from the main pour. It seems most down the line did something similar, and fire shot across the ridge in both directions. I was mesmerized by it, forgetting all about the skies for a moment, when the first plane came down.

  It was one of ours, or what used to be one of Baker’s. Our man—one of the twins, but I wasn’t sure which one—had no chance as his small aircraft spun around and around, smoke pouring out of the front and back. Jake and I looked for a parachute, as I’m sure his twin brother did from high above, but saw none. It crashed, nose to the hard ground, 100 yards from where we stood in the field, immediately starting a small fire.

  Mac called for the fire truck, the only one the Ranch had and thankfully was always kept full of water. The classic 1950s firetruck, named Betty years ago, was supposed to be used to help put out what was left of the Rimrock fire once burned, but now it was the only thing between a fiery plane crash in a wheat field close to the Ranch buildings and everyone we really cared about.

  “What about saving water?” came the call back from the fire truck driver.

  “Use whatever you have to and put it out now!” called back Mac, without a second thought.

  Our other plane circled the crash site several times, and though I couldn’t see the other brother in the cockpit, I somehow felt his pain.

  “What’s he doing?” asked Jake, as we watched him head straight across the Valley towards an enemy helicopter.

  “Getting revenge for his twin,” I replied.

  We watched him head straight for one of Baker’s helicopters, taking rounds like a tin can at a backyard shooting range. He never waivered or tried to change course, colliding with it mid-air over the reservoir, as both fell into a watery grave. Having twins myself, I couldn’t imagine how he felt seeing his twin brother crashing to the ground. I guess I now had my answer and said a quick prayer for them both. Hanson’s was still up there somewhere, and our side’s only flying machine left.

  * * * *

  “We’re leaving,” blurted Jake out of nowhere. “I was going to tell you yesterday but didn’t, I guess. Now I want you to know. We’re headed back to Boulder after this is done. Whew! That was hard to get off my chest,” he added, taking in a deep breath.

  “People say all kinds of things when under stress, but I always knew you would, my friend. It’s why you decided to come along in the first place. I remember from our first conversation, heading to your house in Plano and packing your stuff. Your family is there, and you all should be too. I’ll pull every string I have to see we get you and your family home safe. You’ve come this far, and it’s the least I can do. Plus, who knows, in a few years we may be able to take a motorcycle ride to visit! It was only about 45 minutes before the day.”

  “Thanks, man. I’m glad you understand,” replied Jake. “Now let’s get this done!”

  * * * *

  I looked up at the top of the ridge and saw the first of Baker’s men cresting the top. The fire we set wasn’t halfway up yet, and I watched nervously to see if it would gai
n steam or die out.

  “At least it’s headed in the right direction,” Jake told me.

  “Come on, come on!” I said aloud. “Keep going…that’s it.”

  A quick glance behind me showed the plane fire nearly out in the middle of the field.

  Vlad and crew had Bert at the northern border in minutes—and not a second too soon, as Baker’s large trucks bashed the barricade, sending most of our men running, or at least pushing them back.

  “Let’s do this!” Vlad called out, firing the first shell, hitting the lead truck with a Boom! followed by gunfire from our Saddle Ranch barricade guards. Samuel’s men were steadfast and would not touch a weapon, if it meant their very lives. Vlad didn’t understand it but respected their decision, and even from the tank saw they were pulling their weight in other ways.