Final Stand: Last Ditch (Mountain Man Book 5)

by Nathan Jones

  One the exhausted refugees no longer had the strength to even attempt.

  It was possible Sangue had this entire stretch of foothills locked down with soldiers, but the more obvious conclusion was that the force he'd seen days to the north had simply shadowed the column, lazy but inexorable as a boa constrictor tightening around their ribs.

  Skyler spotted him coming back and rode out to meet him. His son didn't even need to ask, Tom's expression was enough for him to reach the obvious, and anticipated, conclusion. “They've boxed us in completely,” he guessed. Tom kept riding, too crushed in spirit to respond. The teenager straightened his shoulders resolutely as he nudged Horse forward to follow. “I'll gather up Logan and get Mom and Fiona and the kids out.”

  “They've spent the last two days closing the noose around us,” Tom said dully, unable to even attempt to reassure his son. “They're lined up along impassable fronts on all sides . . . there's no way we could sneak out two mothers with infants and a toddler. You probably couldn't even get out on your own at this point.”

  Skyler looked like he was going to throw up. “You mean I got them all killed by refusing to leave two days ago?”

  He shook his head, continuing grimly towards where Mitchells walked at the front of the line. “It was my decision, and your mom's. You didn't have much of a say in it.”

  “You think that makes it better?” his son shouted at his back. Tom didn't reply, and when he glanced over his shoulder he saw Skyler riding back towards where their family traveled in the column, face pale as death.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Last Stand

  There was nothing to plan, really.

  Mitchells and Jonas handed out guns to every man and woman in the column, then led the mass of refugees to a flat ridge overlooking heavily wooded, steep slopes to both the east and west. Which gave them an excellent view of the enemies that surrounded them on all sides as they got to work digging whatever fortifications they could.

  It was as good a place as any for a last stand.

  And there was no doubt about it being a last stand; everyone was determined to fight to the death, knowing the fate that awaited them if they allowed themselves to be captured by Sangue. Brady had protested that many of the people they armed, such as young teenagers and women who'd never even held a gun, wouldn't accomplish much more than to die swiftly.

  “Do you really want to watch your wives and children be gunned down by the hundreds to no good purpose?” he demanded.

  His protests were met by grim silence, nobody willing to tell him the harsh truth that even for those that couldn't bring themselves to fight, they might still want to have a pistol ready for grimmer reasons once Sangue overran the ridge, considering the alternative.

  It was the horrific reality of those who had no hope.

  In spite of the fatalistic mood of the refugees, nobody complained about the fact that preparing for a last stand gave everyone but those digging fortifications and filling sandbags a chance to finally rest. People sprawled across the flat, huddled with family and friends eating the last of their food and water. Some cursed their fate, some wept, some prayed, but most seemed numb.

  Tom also spent the final hours as Sangue closed in waiting with his family: cuddling Miles, playing with Molly, holding Kristy in his arms. Before leaving to join the fighters, he even apologized to Skyler for his harsh words earlier.

  “Stay with your mother, sister, and brother during the fighting,” he told him quietly. “Protect them however you can, and if you spot even a hint of a way out, take it.”

  He half expected Skyler to try to argue he should be allowed to take part in this final desperate conflict, since now there was nothing to lose. But the young man just nodded determinedly, gripping the strap of his rifle with his good hand. “No bloodies will come near them while I'm alive.”

  “Good, then keep it that way.” He pulled his son into a crushing hug, careful of his arm. “Love you, kiddo.”

  For once Skyler didn't bristle at the term, just hugged him back. “You too, Dad. Stay alive . . . we'll get out, and you'll be able to find us if things go bad.”

  It was a pleasant fantasy. Taking a deep breath, Tom turned to his wife, steeling himself for what might be his last goodbye to the woman he loved. Her eyes were hollow, tears flowing freely, as if she understood everything he was thinking without needing to be told.

  Well, she'd always been pretty good at that.

  She handed Miles to Skyler then threw herself into Tom's arms, holding him tight. “I love you, Tom Miller,” she said fiercely. “Whatever happens here, I'm proud of everything you've done for these people.”

  “Everything we've done,” he corrected gently. He lifted her chin to press his lips to hers, feeling her tears on his cheeks when he finally pulled away. “I love you, Kristy Miller. Whatever happens today, I'll always love you.”

  He paused to hold Molly and then Miles for final goodbyes, kissing their chubby little cheeks, then with a heavy heart turned and trudged towards the western edge of the ridge. Halfway there he paused to look back, to see his family huddled together staring after him. Molly was squirming to get out of Skyler's arms and follow him, while Kristy rocked Miles and tears streamed down her cheeks.

  The sight broke his heart.

  He would do anything for his family, anything, but when they needed him most he'd failed them. And the worst thing was, he knew exactly how and why: if he hadn't waited so long, if he'd insisted back when there was still a chance for them to get away . . .

  Maybe they wouldn't have managed it. Maybe trying would've accomplished nothing more than to separate them from the safety of the column and put them in Sangue's hands that much sooner. But it had been a possibility of surviving, where now there was only a certainty of their doom.

  He didn't know if it was a blessing or a curse that, fighting for his loved ones, he'd probably die before he had to witness their fate. But the thought of the end waiting for his fearless, loving wife, his courageous and determined son, his adorably stubborn little girl and sweet innocent baby boy, made him want to crumple to the ground and scream himself hoarse at the uncaring cruelty of the world.

  Tom swallowed back bile and gave them the most confident smile he could muster, then turned and continued on to where most of the leaders among the fighters and civilians stood looking down at the hundreds of entrenched bloodies in the foothills below.

  The armies surrounding them on all sides were probably of equal size, but they were mostly hidden behind trees, hills, and other cover, while down in the foothills the soldiers behind the fortifications were clearly visible.

  It provided a crushing reminder of just what sort of unstoppable force Sangue had set against them.

  Mitchells barely reacted as Tom came to stand beside him. “This can't be how it goes,” he said in a low voice, staring at the small army down below with gritted teeth. “After everything we've suffered, everything we've sacrificed, there has to be some way out other than being cornered like rats between Sangue forces.”

  Jonas had already slumped down to the ground, defeated. “If there's one thing I've learned in my miserable life, old man, it's that the world isn't fair, and it doesn't particularly care how you feel about that.”

  Mitchells gave the militia leader an irritated look. “You could at least pretend to care that everyone you know and love is about to die. If they're lucky.”

  The militia leader just stared listlessly off into the distance. “At least we'll get a good fight in before the end,” he whispered. “Do Gray proud.”

  That pretty much killed the conversation. They stood waiting in tense silence for what could've been ten minutes or an hour. The afternoon sun crawled overhead, blazing as relentless as the enemy that surrounded them, although few complained or sought shade.

  Finally Brandon, who'd been watching the enemy below through binoculars, cursed. Although even that lacked any real energy. “They're bunching up behind their fortificati
ons,” he said dully. “Like they're preparing to attack.”

  Jonas wearily stood and took the field glasses, panning them across the fortifications below. He snorted. “Looks like they finally realized we're not budging from this spot. They're coming to dig us out.”

  “We could win if they all charge, right?” Brady asked, with a sort of listless hope. “We've got the high ground. And machine guns, same as what you saw in trench warfare during World War I. Those basically make massed infantry charges impossible, didn't they?”

  “Maybe,” Jonas replied, voice heavy with sarcasm. “If a good chunk of our fighters actually knew how to shoot a gun. If the bloodies were only attacking from one direction. If they were approaching across open ground instead of up forested slopes with plenty of cover. If they didn't have big machine guns that can chew through our defenses, and grenade launchers to blow us all to bits. Probably mortars too, to lob shells at us from a mile or more away.”

  “Hey you're in charge of our fighters,” the trader snapped. “At least try to pretend we've got a shot at winning.”

  “What, you want me to lie when the truth is glar-”

  “What are they doing now?” Mitchells abruptly said.

  They all turned back to look down at the massed soldiers below. Tom was sure the sheriff was alerting them that the enemy had begun their advance, which probably meant the bloodies surrounding them in every other direction were also coming.

  Sure enough, the bloodies were scrambling like kicked ants, squads churning out of their positions and hurrying to regroup. But instead of starting towards the forested slope leading up to the ridge, the enemy seemed to be turning away.

  To the north, seeking cover as if preparing to defend themselves.

  He turned his binoculars that way and saw a cloud of dust rising into the still summer air. A line of vehicles was roaring towards the Sangue army, starting to branch off onto other roads and even leave the roads entirely so they could encircle the force of Sangue soldiers south of them.

  It almost looked as if they were maneuvering for a full out attack.

  But that was insane. Who had vehicles besides the bloodies? And who in Central Utah had the sort of manpower to take on hundreds of enemy troops in a head to head fight? Tom was sure he would've heard of a group like that by now, and Camptown probably would've been contacted since they were both fighting the same enemy.

  But that's exactly what was happening. The new army hit the bloodies hard from the north, west, and south, showing an ease with deploying their vehicles in combat that suggested they were very familiar with that sort of fighting. Which wouldn't be the case if they were just some group who'd captured Sangue vehicles and started using them against their enemy.

  “Who the blazes are those guys?” Jonas demanded, half in disbelief and half in admiration.

  “Some rival Sangue faction?” Mitchells suggested.

  Tom shook his head, although he didn't reply since he didn't have any answers, either. The new soldiers definitely didn't look South or Central American, and wore actual uniforms that looked like military fatigues. Their vehicles were different, as well, although painted with Sangue colors.

  “Has to be the Estadounidenses,” Brady murmured. “That group that's been pushing the bloodies back to the north.”

  Whoever they were, they soon had the enemy on the back foot, sweeping in behind Sangue's dug-in position and hitting them where they were vulnerable, with impressive effectiveness in spite of the relatively even numbers. That, combined with the surprise of the attack and hitting the entrenched bloodies within minutes of their enemy even being aware of them, allowed the newcomers to wreak major havoc.

  Before long, the hundreds of Sangue who'd been preparing to be the anvil the Camptown refugees would break themselves on were looking pretty battered themselves. Brutal as the sight was, it was a joy to see Sangue soldiers being gunned down left and right, struggling to react to the situation and beginning to panic.

  In spite of the speed with which it had begun, however, and the ferocity shown by both sides, the fight dragged on for longer than expected. Behind Tom and the column's leaders, more and more refugees joined them on the ridge to watch the battle raging below. The air buzzed with excitement, the first stirrings of hope any of them had felt in a long time.

  “Son of a-” Carl began, jumping in surprise and pointing. “That's Tanner down there!”

  Tom had no idea who the man was talking about, and judging by the reactions of Mitchells and a lot of the other people with them, they didn't either. But he saw Brandon, Andy, Jonas, and several of the fighters stiffen in recognition.

  Brandon snatched the binoculars from Carl and looked through them, following the other man's pointing finger towards a group hitting the enemy from the south. After a few seconds he cursed in disbelief. “So after that SOB stole the trucks from the camp and ditched us, he somehow joined up with the Estadounidenses?”

  “And now he's fighting with them to pull our bacon out of the fire,” Carl shot back reprovingly.

  “Hey, I'm happy to take back every bad word I ever said about the man,” Brandon said, grinning as he handed the field glasses back.

  Tom wasn't the only one who jerked around at a sharp whistle from behind them, then several more. They were ones that raised the hackles of everyone there who recognized them, and he saw several people curse and unsling their rifles.

  They were under attack from the north, east, and south. And judging by how frantic the whistles were becoming, it had to be a full-scale assault.

  “The rest of the bloodies know their boys in the valley are getting whipped,” Jonas snarled. “They're going to try to wipe us out before we can be rescued!”

  The celebratory mood from just moments ago completely evaporated. Tom glanced down at the fight below, then back towards the eastern side of the ridge where the pursuers that had relentlessly hounded them were even now attacking. “Mitchells,” he said quietly. “Get everyone retreating down into the valley.”

  The sheriff gaped at him. “You want to run a bunch of women and children right into the middle of a battle?”

  “It's that or have them sitting around helpless while six or seven hundred bloodies overrun our defenses and butcher them,” Jonas snarled. “Whoever those folks are, they're buying us a chance to survive. We need to take it.”

  Tom nodded. “We'll hold off the attackers for as long as we can, then try to retreat ourselves.”

  A heavy silence settled on the group; they all knew that those who stayed behind to slow the enemy were basically volunteering for a suicide mission. “I'll need some fighters up front, too,” Mitchells said. “They can help get the enemy below caught in a crossfire with these newcomers, clear the way for our people. And take out any bloodies who're trying to retreat up the slope who might pose a threat to us.”

  In spite of the urgency, there was a long pause as the leaders among the fighters shifted uncomfortably. Tom wasn't sure whether they wanted to volunteer for the job that might let them survive, but were too ashamed, or if they wanted someone else to have that chance to save themselves and were holding their peace.

  Maybe both; he wasn't sure how he'd feel if he hadn't already made his choice.

  “Gerry,” Jonas finally snapped, staring ahead at nothing. “Take two dozen fighters who've got young kids, especially the mothers among us, and go.” Brandon hesitated as if to protest, then either realized there was no time or decided to just accept the opportunity to be there for his wife and infant son. He bolted off, and the militia leader turned to Mitchells. “What're you waiting for, an engraved invitation? Get everyone moving, now!”

  Tom went with Jonas, rushing to gather together the fighters who weren't already at the sandbags and get them organized to push back the charge. Around them the refugees, many not even waiting for Mitchells to tell them the plan, were already rushing down the western slope towards the fighting below, recognizing the least dangerous of bad options when they saw it.


  He caught a glimpse of Skyler in the crowd, clutching Molly close with his good arm. The teenager was also supporting his mom with the shoulder of his wounded arm to keep her and Miles, clutched tight to her chest in his carrying sling, from being pushed to the ground by panicking refugees. On Kristy's other side Tabby was shoving people away, the usually gentle young woman fierce as a badger in preventing anyone from jostling the baby as they all stumbled along. Tom recognized other familiar faces, including Fiona huddled behind Logan clutching Thomas as her brother bulled a path ahead through the crowd.

  It pained him to see people resorting to this sort of stampeding panic in their haste to escape the ridge. But he supposed it was too much to expect them to all hold hands and offer shoulders to lean on in an orderly evacuation, when they were surrounded by gunfire and enemies charging in to kill them all.

  Amid the chaos the Jonas turned to him, scowling. “Given the hassle your missus caused popping out a baby on the march, Trapper, I'd say you qualify as a parent.”

  Even as tactlessly put as it was, Tom honestly hadn't expected that sort of sentiment from the younger man. Every fiber of his being wanted to accept the offer, especially after seeing Kristy and their newborn son buffeted by that sea of humanity.

  But he knew he couldn't. “There's well more than two dozen others who do. Besides, didn't you just hear me tell Mitchells I'd help hold the bloodies off?”

  The younger man shrugged. “Then you take the south section, I'll get the north.”

  Tom hurried to his position and sought out the squad leaders, getting reports on what he had to work with and what the enemy was bringing to bear against them. The answer was: not enough, and way too much.

  There were somewhere in the area of three hundred Sangue approaching from the southern section of the eastern ridge, the southeast, and the south. Against maybe eighty fighters manning Tom's section of fortifications, and another forty civilian volunteers, half of which were armed with pistols or shotguns.