Daunting Days of Winter (33 page)

Ty watched from his position on the barricade as the invaders stood in small groups and calmly waited for a response. Five minutes later, Sean returned and climbed on top of the highest position on the barricade. Taking the letter in his hands, he raised it above his head and tore it into pieces, then tossed the pieces into the breeze.

Ty quickly turned and watched the men across the river, who, seeing the response, were assembling themselves before the last scraps of paper fluttered to the ground. They huddled for a moment then broke apart, most heading for the dump truck. Ty counted four men climbing into the bed of the truck, while another man got in the cab and started it up. The engine rumbled ominously as it roared to life, and thick, black smoke billowed from the exhaust stacks.

The dump truck pulled forward a few feet, then stopped and began backing up, turning so the rear of the vehicle faced away from the bridge. At over a thousand yards away, Ty watched as the truck stopped, and metal plates were handed from out of the back of the truck to the men waiting on the ground. The men secured the plates to the sides of the truck, providing protection from bullets for the tires and engine. Near the back, pins were pulled, and hinged metal plates used to protect the rear tires were swung down.

Anderson West, positioned close to Ty, let out a low whistle. “Doesn’t look like this is their first rodeo, does it?”

“No, no it doesn’t,” Ty replied, feeling a lump growing in his throat. “But they haven’t dealt with us before, have they?” He heard footsteps and saw Sean running back to his position from the other bunker.

“Look at the bus!” Anderson said, pointing. “I don’t like the looks of this.”

Two men were dragging someone off the bus who had their hands secured behind their back and was fighting back against his captors. It appeared to be a teenage boy, but Ty couldn’t tell for sure. The men pulled the boy out into the middle of the road where everyone at the barricades could see them. “This is bad…” Ty began, but before he could finish his thought, one of the men pulled out a handgun and shot the boy in the back of the head, then let the lifeless body slump to the ground.

Gasps ran up and down the barricade as Sean attempted to reassure the men. “Okay folks, now we know who we are dealing with. That was meant as a warning, but let it harden our resolve. These people are evil.” Sean picked up his rifle and leaned against the thick tree trunk that lay along the top of the berm. “We can take them, but it’s going to be a fight. Wait to shoot until I tell you to.” He looked through the scope on his rifle and fired a shot.

One of the men who had just executed the boy went down, clutching his upper thigh. The others scattered.

“You want us to fire?” someone called out.

“Not yet. Save your ammo. I’m dialed in good on the long shots. There’ll be plenty of shooting to do in a few minutes.”

Sean took aim and fired another shot but didn’t hit anyone. The dump truck pulled behind the bus, and the wounded man was dragged behind the vehicle.

“Alright,” Sean yelled. “I need a volunteer. Gonna be dangerous, but important.”

“I’ll do it,” Ty said, his voice shaking. “What do you need?”

Sean handed a small, heavy satchel to Ty and spoke rapidly. “There are four grenades in there. I need you to get under the bridge, quick as you can. Hide there and wait for the dump truck to get to this side of the river. When it does, carefully pull the pin and toss the grenade in the back of the truck. The bridge is forcing them to stay together, so most of their team will be in there. If you can get it in there, this will be over.”

“That’s it?”

Sean nodded. “Yeah, but once they see you and realize what you’re trying to do, you need to be ready for a lot of lead flying your direction.”

Just as he was about to leave for the bridge, Ty felt someone pull on his jacket. Turning, he saw Luther Espinoza kneeling beside him, also listening to Sean’s instructions. “Give me the bag. I’ll do it.” Luther’s left arm was still in a sling, damaged from the first firefight the community had had. “I can’t use a gun very well, but you can, and you’re a good shot. You’ll be more help on this side of the berm than I will.”

Ty paused, conflicted about what he should do.

“Hurry,” Luther said, reaching for the bag. “I need to get there before they see me.”

Sean nodded. Luther pulled the bag from Ty’s hands and crept to the end of the berm. “How many of these babies do I have again?” he asked.

“Four, but only use what you need to,” Sean answered.

“Pull the pin and toss, right?”

“Affirmative,” Sean said, then scrambled to the top of the barricade to watch what was happening across the river.

Luther ran across the road to the other berm, ran the length of it, then ducked through some bushes to conceal himself as he scurried towards the bridge, his fifty year old body not as agile and quick as it once was.

Luther had just scrambled under the bridge when they heard the truck’s engine rev and saw it emerge from behind the bus, its wheels now well protected on all sides by the steel plates. The truck maneuvered in the road until it was positioned to come across the bridge backwards, then, with gears grinding, it lurched and began to slowly move towards them.

Sean directed the men, spreading them out to present smaller targets. He shouted loud enough to be heard by the groups hidden behind both berms, “Keep your heads down. They’re going to try and get past us shielded in the bed of the truck. If Luther doesn’t drop a grenade in on them, we need to take out the driver. Shoot at whatever you can, but it’ll likely just be headshots. They won’t expose much more than that. Watch your fire if they dismount, and make sure you’re not shooting at someone on our team. Remember the drills. No more than three shots in a burst, and make them count!”

Ty’s hand’s shook as the truck approached loudly. He said a silent prayer and thought about his wife and what she’d do if he didn’t come home, and whether she’d hold up if another member of their family were lost.

“You doing okay, Lewis?”

Ty looked to his right, where Anderson was still crouched. “I’m a little nervous, to be honest.”

“You’re braver than I am. I feel like I’m going to wet myself.”

Ty nodded. “Alright, I admit it. I’m so scared I can hardly breathe. I’m trained to be a school teacher, not a soldier.”

Anderson nodded. “Well I’m a builder and a lot more comfortable shooting nails than people.”

“I tell you what,” Ty replied. “There were a few things about teaching that drove me nuts, but I’d take a lifetime of those headaches over one day of this.”

Anderson kept his aim on the approaching truck. “I feel the same way. I’d much rather be facing a building inspector than getting shot at. If I ever get to building again, I’ll plant a sloppy wet kiss on the first inspector to walk on the jobsite.”

The truck continued its slow advance towards them, the cars placed as barricades on the bridge forcing it to slowly wind its way towards them, a process made more difficult because the truck was coming in reverse. Every person in the militia, their eyes just far enough over the top of the tree trunk for them to see, watched nervously.

“We need to build this up, make it taller,” Sean muttered under his breath, referring to the barricade. “It’d be nice to be able to shoot down into the back of that truck.”

The berms had been built as a defense against pedestrians and pickups, not armor-reinforced trucks. From their positions, height wise they’d be able to shoot into the side windows of the cab, but not over the sides of the bed, giving their attackers an advantage. Building the berms higher had been considered at one point, but effort had instead been spent on improving their defensive positions along the river.

Out of the corner of his eye, Ty noticed one of the men scamper down behind the barricade, get on his knees, remove his hat, and begin to pray. The man was joined by three more, all offering up silent prayers before returning to their positions. Ty thought about doing the same, but worried he’d be too frightened to crawl back up the bank. Instead, he stayed in position, kept ahold of his gun, and uttered a few words under his breath.

Sean whistled and waved over the man with the horse, who was waiting in the driveway of the house closest to the militia complex. The man bent low and rushed forward, pumping his arms hard with the exaggerated movements of someone forcing himself to do something he didn’t want to do.

“Get back to my brother. Tell him to send everyone this direction. I don’t think these guys have split up, so I want the rest of our guys to take up position at the house where you’ve been waiting, just in case they get past us. You wait there too, but be ready to ride for reinforcements. Got it?”

The man nodded, spun on his heels, and raced back to his horse. Ty heard the sound of hooves on the road at the same time the dump truck hung up on an old Ford pickup not more than fifty yards away. They watched, rifles ready, as the truck worked forwards and backwards, unsuccessfully trying to disengage itself.

“Be ready!” Sean hollered, his eye pressed to the scope of his rifle.

A head popped up over the side of the truck to peer down at the old pickup and was met with a hail of bullets from both defensive positions as Sean yelled “Fire!” From Ty’s vantage point, it looked like numerous silver dings appeared in the side of the truck and at least two of the bullets found their mark, snapping the man’s head quickly back then forward as he was hit from both sides, a spray of blood misting out over the truck.

“Hold fire!” Sean yelled. “But stay ready!”

Gunfire ceased, leaving just the sound of the big diesel engine on the bridge. A voice from the truck shouted instructions, and after a short pause the truck engine revved, then jerked violently backwards. The clamor of metal tearing and rubber screeching pierced their ears as the bumper was torn from the pickup and bounced onto the road.

“They’re going to be mad!” Sean yelled. “They have two men down, and we’re not hurt yet. Hang in there.”

The truck continued backwards, coming faster. A gold-colored Toyota Camry, the last vehicle on the road, was knocked out of the way as the truck smashed into it in a crash of breaking glass and crunching metal, then came to a stop twenty-five yards in front of the barricades. With the screech of sliding metal, the back gate of the truck swung down, revealing the barrel of a tri-pod mounted machine gun. In front of it, a large metal plate with two small openings, one for the barrel, and one for the operator to peer through, concealed the gun and the operator, along with the rest of the crew.

As Ty took in this surreal image, several men popped up in unison on both sides of the truck, making their heads and rifles visible. With a sudden flash of weapons and an explosion of sound, the air was filled with the deafening noise of gunfire and the acrid smell of gunpowder. Bullets flew in every direction, spitting up wood and dirt all around Ty and the others as they ricocheted off rocks and trees. Ty fired off two quick shots, then dropped behind the heavy log that protected him, feeling the thud and vibrations of bullets striking the opposite side.

Ty mentally tallied the three shots he had fired so far. He slid a few feet to the side and rose up with his rifle at his shoulder, just as he’d been trained. He quickly found a figure in his sights, one who was aiming in his direction, pulled the trigger two times, and saw the head snap backwards. He ducked back down as the air erupted once again with the rapid, heavy thuds of the machine gun, taking deep breaths while listening to the impact of bullets striking the militia house.

A stream of bullets traced a pattern across the second story of the militia house, punching a series of holes through the old wooden walls. Ty rose up and fired a couple more rounds, then noticed the machine gun swung his direction. “Get down!” he shouted, dropping and rolling down the bank as the heavy thuds of the bullets struck the tree, sending wood chunks raining down.

Somewhere close to him a person screamed and rolled down the bank with blood pumping from a wound in his neck. Ty turned and saw Anderson West, his hands clasped to his throat, writhing on the ground as one of the women from the team rushed over to him. Ty closed his eyes to block the image and waited for the pounding of the bullets to slow, then scrambled back to the top of the bank. He peered over the top just as the machine gun swung towards the opposite berm. The chaotic sounds of warfare engulfed him – guns firing, soldiers yelling, bullets impacting, and men screaming – every nightmarish thing he could have imagined, and more.

He quickly raised his weapon and aimed at the machine gun. With the gun pointing away from him, he could see the arms of the operator through a gap in the plate by the barrel. He took quick aim and pulled the trigger, pausing just long enough between shots to fine tune his accuracy. On his third shot, he hit his target, just as the machine gun resumed firing, seeing the hand holding the weapon disappear and blood spurt from the stump that remained. As he turned his attention to the bed of the dump truck, he was struck, knocking him backwards down the dirt bank, his cheek and shoulder throbbing with pain.

Ty took a brief moment to determine if he was dying, searching for wounds but not feeling any blood. He sat up and looked for his gun, finding it at his feet with a large chunk missing from where a bullet had struck it. He picked his gun up and quickly tried to chamber a bullet, but the action wouldn’t work and he threw the useless weapon onto the ground.

Anderson was being treated, but Ty could tell that his friend was either dead, or dying. “I need a gun,” he shouted over the din before grabbing Anderson’s weapon, a black semi-automatic with a banana shaped magazine, and scrambling back up the slope, numb to the danger.

He crawled to a gap where no one was positioned, raised his head, and saw a flurry of activity on the bridge. Luther was crawling slowly towards the truck with the satchel slung over his shoulder, a trail of blood extending out behind him. With a flash from the other side of the river, Luther collapsed forward writhing in pain.