by Nathan Jones
He turned and started leading her forward again, stubbornly tugging back when she tried to balk. “We don't have time to mess around,” he said over his shoulder, probably too quietly for her to hear. “Haven't you heard? The bloodies are swarming these mountains now, desperate to find us. We have to be ready as quickly as possible to do something about it.”
Given the horse's skittish mood, he decided not to immediately start saddle training like he'd planned. Instead, he tethered her as close as he safely could to the shooting range, then settled down nearby to think things through. Specifically, what he might need if he was going to be gone for weeks, and not just in the way of food and camping supplies.
He knew where the caches Brandon and his skirmishers had buried were, although he was hesitant to raid them unless absolutely necessary. Not just to avoid the risk of getting caught by his friend but because they'd probably need that stuff more than he would.
He'd want to take his rifle and plenty of ammunition, of course. And his pistol, probably wouldn't need as many bullets for that. Grenades if he could get his hands on some, since they'd be invaluable. And maybe he could check to see if they'd looted some sort of incendiaries from Emery; that could come in handy for hitting enemy camps.
The C4 he'd steer clear of, since even though he could cause some serious chaos with it he had no idea how to use it; he'd probably just end up blowing himself up. Besides, Camptown's fighters would need it more than he would, as well as most of the other stuff he might be tempted to take. He'd originally considered bringing along a shotgun, but he didn't intend to be close enough to put it to best use if he could avoid it, and-
“There you are,” a familiar voice said, making him jump in surprise. “I've been looking everywhere for you.”
Skyler squinted up at Trapper, hoping he didn't look as guilty as he felt. “I haven't exactly been hiding.”
“True enough.” His adoptive dad settled down next to him with a weary grunt, glancing over at Sulky. “Getting her used to gunfire?” His tone wasn't quite accusing.
Skyler looked away, swallowing his bitterness.
You'd think after saving over a dozen people, including his own dad and the legendary leader of the Grand Junction militia himself, he might've earned at least some recognition. The slightest allowance that he deserved to be treated as an equal.
But deep down, he knew that wasn't really what was bothering him. He'd long since figured out not to expect the world to be fair when it came to how people treated kids, especially since he was in that frustrating middle area just on the edge of adulthood where he deserved better but didn't get it.
No, his pride could survive not being acknowledged, especially when there were so many more important things to worry about. What bothered him was that he held such a deep well of respect for Trapper, and wanted nothing in the world more than to see it returned.
How did he explain to the mountain man in a way he would understand?
He loved his dad. His birth dad, that was, Miles Graham. He was fiercely proud to be his son, and liked to believe he'd inherited the same ingenuity and willingness to sacrifice for his family that Miles had shown. He was Skyler's hero, and always would be.
But Trapper? Ever since he'd met him, the mountain man had seemed larger than life. Always calm, always sure of what to do, always quick to act. As Skyler had grown older he'd realized his adoptive dad must have fears and uncertainties same as any man, and the he'd shown glimpses of that in his fretting over Skyler's mom and Molly, and now this new baby on the way. Even with Skyler himself, a time or two when he'd been in dangerous situations.
But in spite of learning that the man wasn't infallible, he remained a legend. And not just to Skyler: everyone who knew Trapper, whether they liked him or not, looked up to him with deep respect. And in all the years Skyler had known his adoptive dad, he'd strived to learn the lessons he had to teach. To take charge of his own life the way the mountain man had shown by example.
To be for his family, when he had one, what Trapper had been for them. Even in the face of hopeless situations like this one with Sangue.
At his stubborn silence his adoptive dad sighed. “I'm leaving right away, going down to take care of those riders that chased us. I hate to leave you and your mom when things are at a head like this, but there's not much choice.” He paused, staring at Skyler hard for a few seconds, then continued quietly. “So I have a favor to ask of you, son.”
Not too difficult to guess what. A heavy silence settled, making it obvious a response was necessary. “Okay.”
“It had better be.” Trapper rested a heavy hand on his shoulder. “The baby's coming any day now. I have to be gone just when your mom needs me most. So I'm relying on you to take care of her, and your sister, while I'm gone. Will you do that for me, Skyler?”
Skyler forced himself to meet his adoptive dad's steely gray eyes, and nodded. When that didn't seem to be enough, he cleared his throat. “I promise.”
Trapper's shoulders sagged, as if he'd been tense as a bowstring, and he let his hand drop and leaned back. “Thank you. I hope to be back soon, and we can talk then.” For a moment he hesitated, and then to Skyler's surprise he pulled him into a fierce hug. “I love you, son. And I want you to know, however I may feel about you disobeying our wishes, that I'm proud of you. Of the man you've become.”
Skyler's vision blurred, and he looked away quickly as his adoptive dad pulled back. “I love you to,” he said quietly. “Be careful out there.”
“I will.” Trapper straightened and strode away, back straight as if he hadn't spent the last few days pushing himself hard with barely any sleep. As if he could go on forever, and wouldn't let anything stop him.
Skyler watched him go, determined to do the same. He fully intended to keep his promise, just not the way his adoptive dad wanted.
They'd barely been holding back Sangue as it was, and now the bloodies were throwing everything they had at them. It was only a matter of time until the enemy found the valley, found the summer retreat where his mom and little sister and unborn baby sibling were waiting, defenseless. And Camptown was only in this mess because of him in the first place.
He had to do something, and Trapper himself had said the only thing he could do, the only thing that might delay the enemy until things changed, was skirmishing. It didn't matter if he got permission from his mom or adoptive dad, or if Brandon or Sheriff Gray let him join their squads.
Skyler was going to take care of his family. Take care of them in the best way he could, the only way that really mattered in these perilous times.
Which was why, as soon as Sulky was ready and he'd gathered up the supplies he needed, he was going out skirmishing.
Epilogue
Long Range Plans
Second Lieutenant Jean Kristof climbed onto the hood of his truck, then panned his binoculars southward across the devastation of the Ogden fallout zone.
He'd seen his share of fallout zones, and there were no pretty ones. This one was at least more interesting than most, with the Great Salt Lake to the west and mountains to the east. Unfortunately, because those two landscape features bracketed the ruined city, it was going to make getting past it more than a little awkward.
Platoon Sergeant Curtis, who'd made his way up to lean against the hood near his feet, spat onto the brittle yellow grass along the roadside. “Head back north, circle west around the lake across the Salt Flats?”
Kristof paused, thinking that through. He didn't like the idea for two reasons: first off, even a single Sangue scout stationed on the Flats would be able to see them coming for miles and send warning. At which point, depending on how extensive the enemy presence was in this area, they could soon find themselves getting swarmed from all sides.
He didn't want to take that chance when it was just his platoon. Maybe if Captain Raleigh decided to bring the other three platoons of 26th Company down, and they all went across together. Although even that felt risky.
&nbs
p; The second reason the idea didn't appeal to him was because their mission was to find pockets of resistance in Utah. Especially whatever group was bloodying Sangue's nose down here. He didn't expect to find many people hiding on the exposed, inhospitable Salt Flats.
The mountains were where they needed to be looking, since that was the ideal spot for people fleeing the bloodies to go to avoid vehicles. He panned his binoculars that way, checking the foothills and then the grassy or barren mountain slopes.
Curtis made a noise expressing his discomfort at the direction his platoon leader's thoughts seemed to be taking. “Prevailing winds were bound to blow fallout onto the mountains east of Ogden, and probably Salt Lake City and Provo, too. Even if we do search up there, we're going to have to go with Geiger counters out and make some major detours.”
Kristof grimaced, conceding the point. On the other hand, he didn't like the idea of going even farther east around the mountains, either.
All reports held that Sangue had a stronger presence in eastern Utah: partly due to the area being closer to where they were operating from out of their major invasion hub in Colorado; partly due to the difficulty of crossing the mountains on the few roads available, some of which were reportedly being sabotaged; and partly because there wasn't much to conquer on this side, and the enemy's war with the Northern League had their attention focused elsewhere.
He hopped off the hood and made for the second truck, slapping the passenger side door. Specialist Hobbs was already rolling down his window. “Getting anything from Sangue?” Kristof asked him.
The radio specialist hesitated. “Nothing for a while now.”
Curtis, who'd followed him over, grunted. Radio silence from the bloodies could mean they didn't have much of a presence in this area. Or it could mean they were being cautious with their communications, like they were up along the front fighting the League.
It had been pathetically easy to crack the measly security Sangue slapped on their radios. Maybe they hadn't expected to meet any other nation with technical knowhow, or maybe they were just that arrogant. Either way, after an embarrassingly long time of getting slapped around for freely giving away so much intel on the airwaves, they'd finally resorted to using codes, foreign languages, or simple radio silence.
Whatever resurgent nation, or at this point probably more accurate to call it an empire, in South America that was pushing this invasion was likely working on the problem, and it was only a matter of time before they'd have encrypted radios and other security measures. But until then, Kristof had heard from refugees and League scouts who'd gone deep into Sangue territory that the bloodies were still pretty incautious with their radio chatter, pretty much everywhere but along the northern front.
So . . . no Sangue in the area, or what he'd heard was wrong and they were keeping radio silence?
Based on those possibilities, head west across the flats where the enemy had little reason to be, probably forced to go all the way around the Ogden, Salt Lake, and Utah Valley fallout zones, and begin their search past there? Or did they go east around the mountains and try to dodge patrols, while they got in contact with local resistance groups in the mountains of Northern Utah?
Captain Raleigh had authorized him to decide on a route as part of scouting ahead for the company, but he had to keep in mind the rest of their people coming along behind. His choice affected more than just his platoon, which added to the pressure to make the right call.
In the end, he decided to delay the decision, turning to Curtis. “I think now's a good time to go to ground and do some painting.”
The sergeant nodded. “Those abandoned warehouses ten or so miles back should do the trick.”
Kristof nodded his approval, and as they both made for their trucks the sergeant called out new orders. Soon the platoon was back on the road, headed for their new destination with all eyes on the surrounding countryside, watching for threats.
It only took a bit of searching to find a large, fire-blackened corrugated steel structure that could fit all the vehicles. It would keep them out of sight, and was also more than ventilated enough to keep them all from passing out from paint fumes.
After sending people out to secure the area, Kristof and his men cracked open the cases of spray paint cans and got to work.
His platoon's trucks didn't look much like Sangue vehicles. They weren't quite as big or rugged, although certainly up to the task of crossing bad terrain and navigating roads that hadn't seen repairs in over fifteen years. But what they lacked in size they made up for in reinforced plating and windows, providing good defense against small arms fire.
Which had certainly served them well, not just while fighting the bloodies but while trying to get in contact with groups of Americans resisting the enemy invasion; hunkering down in the sturdy trucks while shouting their peaceful intentions through bullhorns, all the while listening to bullets scratching the paint and chipping the windows of their beautiful vehicles, flat out sucked.
Which was going off on a tangent. In any case, painting over their trucks' pale tan/gold to the drab olive of the enemy vehicles would help them blend in a bit better while sneaking around in occupied terrain. That, plus Hobbs speaking Spanish and Portuguese and studying up on Sangue radio chatter, hopefully enough to fool any suspicious bloodies, meant they might get away with being spotted at a distance.
Probably not, but it improved their chances enough to be worth the effort.
It didn't take long for thirty men and women to spray paint the exteriors of their vehicles. The job was uneven and patchy and looked like complete garbage, but the point wasn't exactly to ever get close enough to any bloodies for them to notice. That is, unless they planned to kill them, at which time it wouldn't really matter.
By the time they finished, Kristof had made his decision. He pulled together Curtis, Hobbs, and his squad leaders. “Sangue doesn't seem active in this area, which makes it unlikely the group we're looking for is giving them grief here,” he began curtly.
There were a few nods of agreement at that, which he ignored as he continued. “Still, we don't know how extensive our troublemaking group's influence is. It should be easier to get in touch with local resistance up here, and they might know something useful, so we could save time in the long run by trying. Even if not, we can organize pockets of resistance that can only benefit the war effort.”
He straightened his shoulders, looking around firmly. “So we let Captain Raleigh know we're heading east around the mountains, then we crack out the Geiger counters and start our search.”
His people all nodded, and Curtis got busy barking orders, getting the platoon ready to move out. Although in spite of the grizzled man's roaring voice, Kristof still heard Hobbs muttering to himself as he walked away to send an encrypted message back to the 26th. “So glad we decided to step up our efforts befriending the locals after we painted ourselves to look like bloodies.”
The man wasn't wrong, although Kristof had already weighed that factor in when making his decision. He returned to his own vehicle, sinking into thoughts of the task ahead.
It could take weeks or longer to scour the mountains of Northern and Central Utah from top to bottom, all the while dodging Sangue patrols and contacting skittish American refugees in hiding. Once the rest of the company caught up and joined the search that would speed things up, but it would also increase the chance of being discovered.
Kristof's gut feeling was that the group they were looking for was somewhere in Central Utah, probably east of the mountains where the bloodies were operating more heavily. This decision to make a thorough search might delay or even jeopardize their chance of accomplishing their objective, but he thought the gain of mobilizing pockets of resistance throughout Utah outweighed the cost.
Besides, if he was wrong Raleigh would just chew him out and decide on a different option. No pressure.
End of Book Four.
The Miller family's story continues in Final Stand,
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p; Book Five of the Mountain Man series.
Author's Note
Thank you for reading Mountain War!
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Links to books by Nathan Jones
POST-APOCALYPTIC
BEST LAID PLANS
Fuel
Shortage
Invasion
Reclamation
Determination
NUCLEAR WINTER
First Winter
First Spring
Chain Breakers
Going Home
Fallen City:A Best Laid Plans Standalone
MOUNTAIN MAN
Badlands
Homecoming
Homeland
Mountain War
SCIENCE FICTION
Boralene
Last Stand
