State of Pursuit (8 page)

“Aim low,” I tell Uriah. “They’re hiding in some kind of trench.”

“Good eye, Cassidy!”

He spreads the word. I find only one more hostile target and I don’t hesitate to take it out. Ten excruciatingly long minutes drag by. The horses are beside themselves with the noise from the gunfire. Then, suddenly, at minute eleven…it stops. There is no return fire from the trench, and I order my men to hold their fire. We don’t want to waste ammunition.

The silence rings in a stark contrast to the noise we just experienced.

We stay hidden in the bushes. I struggle to maintain an even breathing pattern. I wipe the sweat out of my eyes.

“Alrighty, Commander,” Manny huffs, breathing hard. “What’s your take?”

I say, “Okay, I need three hunter-killers teams.”

This is a tactic that Chris taught me. A Hunter-Killer team is usually composed of two men. Three teams equals six total assaulters. We will round the enemy from the left while someone stays here and holds down the main force. In other words, we’re sneaking up on the enemy’s flank while the rest of the militiamen attack them from the front. We’ll box them in from two points.

“Derek, you take command while I take my teams,” I say. “Keep their heads down so we can move. You’ll hear us when we’re in position. Got it?”

“Got it, boss. Go for it.”

My three teams assemble around me – all of them veteran militiamen with common sense and great aim. We stay low in the bushes and trees, following the slight curve of the edge of the woods. It extends behind the grassy field. We move quickly and silently, too angry to be afraid.

I slip a little further along the wooded territory line, dropping down. I scan the field, searching for any enemy that might be lurking in the grass. It’s clear. We’re safe, and we’re close to their position. Very close.

I see the ditch where they are hiding. They’re idiots. Stupid tactics. There’s nobody guarding their flanks.
They’re wide open to an attack. An
enfilade
, Chris would call it. I check the area one more time. All clear. My men see the opening, too.

“Okay, boys,” I say, “Finish this.”

In the next minute, we blow through ammunition in a vicious, overwhelming barrage of fire. There is screaming as the men in the ditch twist and fall, dead. Our bullets tear through their line of defense. I pop a red flare to signal Derek. He gives three blasts on his field whistle and his men stop firing.

“Skirmish line!” I yell.

I walk, reload, fire, reload and fire again. My teams spread out beside me, and together we finish off the rest of the enemy combatants in the ditch. They don’t have a chance.

They are dead. All of them.

I choke on a shaky breath, gasping for air. Sweat sticks my uniform to my skin. I stop and look at the bloody carnage around me. I am horrified. How did I get to this place? How did this happen to me? How did I become such a killer?

My men are silent, checking their weapons, looking around them. I know what they’re thinking. The same thing
I’m
thinking.

We have changed. All of us. We’re not mere civilian survivors anymore
.

“Good job,” I say. “Now sweep through this and secure it. Do a search.”

They stand around me, looking at me in a way that they’ve never looked at me before. Maybe they’re just as horrified by what I’m doing as
I
am. Maybe I’m not the only one who doesn’t recognize myself anymore.

I swallow a lump in my throat. “Move it,” I mutter.

I turn away. I know that they can see the tears streaming down my face, but I don’t care. If I didn’t cry for this, I would be afraid that I’d lost all sense of humanity.

I slowly lower myself down, sliding on mud and grime. I crouch near the first dead figure. It’s one of the men that I shot. There’s a hole in the dead center of his head. I shudder, disgusted, and turn him onto his back. His entire body is clothed in black. His hands and fingers are wrapped in strips of black cloth. A black bandana is tied around his forehead. The only visible piece of flesh is the skin around his eyes – tiny slits on his facemask. I pull the facemask off. He’s an average looking man. Maybe thirty years old. Uriah, Manny, Vera and Derek arrive at the scene, checking the perimeter.

In all, there are eighteen enemy ambushers.

“Who are these people?” Derek asks, kneeling next to me. “They’re not Omega, and they’re not militia.”

“They’re rogue,” I shrug. “They probably wanted to steal our gear.”

“Or they’re mercenaries,” Vera states.

I bite my lip. It’s possible.

“Search their uniforms for any kind of identification,” I say.

My dad used to call this
pocket litter
. Clues to someone’s identification. I go through the dead man’s pockets, unbutton his jacket and search the lining. Nothing. There aren’t even clothing tags. Everything is clean. No clues whatsoever.

“I don’t like this,” Andrew murmurs. He’s sitting on the edge of the ditch, staring at the militiamen searching the bodies. “People have lost their minds.”

I take the gun off the dead man’s shoulder and unbuckle his ammo belt. I remove the ammunition and weapons, sorting through the valuable items – and the items that we don’t have room to carry.

“We can’t find anything,” Vera reports. “They’re clean.”

“What’s the age demographic?” I ask.

“Twenties to mid-thirties. No women. They’re all in good shape, too.”

“You might be right. Mercenaries.”

Andrew stands up. “Which means they were working for Omega,” he says. “And when they don’t report back,
they’ll send out a search party, find their dead bodies, and then they’ll start tracking
us
.”

“Then we should get moving,” Manny suggests. “This isn’t the most relaxing rest stop I’ve ever taken, anyway.”

“We have to hide the bodies,” Vera tells me. “They’ll find them eventually, but if we make them search, that’s extra time that we can buy ourselves to hit Los Angeles before Omega starts looking for us.”

“Good plan,” I approve. “Let’s move.”

The militiamen find a spot in the woods that could pass for a pit. With the manpower of twenty-five, the eighteen dead men are moved into the hole and covered with leaves and shrubbery. Under normal circumstances, I would suggest that we burn the bodies. Leaving them to rot in the woods is morbid – and I don’t believe that it’s humane, even if these people
were
trying to kill us. But we don’t have the time. So we remove traces of our presence in the woods and backtrack to the ditch, clearing away brass and footprints. By the time we’re finished with it, no one would be able to tell that there was a firefight here. Not unless they were looking really hard and they
knew
what to look for.

“Okay, we’re good,” I say. “Nice work, boys.”

The words taste bitter in my mouth. Congratulating people for hiding dead bodies is
not
something I thought I’d be doing. Ever.

“The horses have been tended to,” Manny announces as we walk towards the woods again, “but they’re jumpy from the gunfire.”

“They’ll get used to it if they hang around us,” I say.

“True story,” Uriah comments.

“A little gunfire now and then builds character,” Manny adds.

I laugh. It feels good, considering what a depressing night it’s been.

“Shall we move on, my girl?” Manny asks.

“Yes,” I reply.

I want to get as far away from here as possible.

Chapter Six

The next morning, exhausted, we stop and rest the horses again. I stroke Katana’s nose, fighting tears. How many militiamen died last night? Three. Good men and women, volunteer soldiers just trying to do what’s right and defend the things they believed in. They were under my command. I’m responsible for their deaths…aren’t I?

I press my cheek against Katana’s neck and stifle a sob.

I can’t let anyone see me cry. Not now.

So I take a deep breath, blink back the tears, and try to force it out of my head. Someday, when this nightmare is over, I’ll be able to stop and let the emotions roll in – if I’m not an emotional zombie by that point. But today is not that day.

Vera walks around the front of Katana and stands there in silence. I don’t look at her.

“It wasn’t your fault,” she says suddenly. Harshly.

I stare at her. My eyes are red.

“It was,” I reply. “They were my men.”

She crosses her arms.

“We all volunteered for this, and we all know it’s a suicide mission,” she continues. “You’re the one who keeps pointing that out. For the love of God, Cassidy, just do your job.”

She exhales rapidly – as if she were holding her breath for the entire conversation – and stalks off. I blink a few times and smile. Bewildered? Yes. Confused about her intentions? Sure. But she has a point.

This
is
a suicide mission.

These militiamen and woman are here
voluntarily
.

If people die, it is not
entirely
my fault, is it? It’s horrible, yes, but it’s the price of war. The price of fighting for something you
really
believe in. The ultimate sacrifice.

The realization that I must carry their deaths as a burden for the rest of my life is harrowing. The price of leadership.

I close my eyes and scratch Katana behind her ear.

“We’ll make it through this,” I whisper.

She shakes her head, nickering. I laugh.

“You doing okay over here?” Manny asks. “I could have sworn you were talking to yourself.”

“I was talking to the horse. Remember, I’m a horse whisperer.”

“Ah, yes,” he says. “A woman of many talents. I remember.” He pauses and assesses Katana. “Your horse likes you.”

“I get along well with animals.”

“So I noticed. But what about people?”

“I can take them or leave them.”

Manny’s weathered, wrinkled face dissolves into an amused grin.

“I’ve often felt the same way, my girl,” he says, “but in the end, it’s not animals or trees or the universe we’re fighting for. It’s
people
.”

“Yeah,” I mutter.

“People aren’t all that bad,” he counters.

“I beg to differ. Omega is nothing but a bunch of people, and they
suck
.”

He laughs.

“That, my girl, is the truth,” he says. “We should talk more often. Your philosophy is entertaining.”

“No more entertaining than
yours
.”

“Oh, now I could debate that. The things that I’ve seen-”

“-Are probably things we never want to hear about,” Uriah interrupts. His National Guard baseball cap is pulled low over his black hair. His left cheek is scraped up. He looks at me. It’s an intense gaze – then again, when is it
not
with Uriah? “How far are we from the perimeter of the city?”

Manny answers, “Two days. Maybe three. Depends on if we get caught in any more firefights. Those always stretch the arrival time.” He winks. “What I’m more worried about is Mad Monk Territory.”

“Excuse me…
what
?” I demand.

“Didn’t Arlene mention it to you?”

“I think I would remember that.”

“It’s in a fifteen mile stretch of territory before the city,” he says. “A religious order of monks took over the area. They were driven out of the city by Omega, and since Omega doesn’t take kindly to any religious groups of any kind…well, they’re living in the mountains.”

“Omega doesn’t take kindly to
anything
,” Uriah says. “Why do they call it Mad Monk Territory?”

“It might be because of the murders.” Manny reaches in his back pocket, and pulls out his ever-faithful flask. I was beginning to think he’d lost it. “Dozens of survivors leaving Los Angeles have been found dead on the trails. They say it’s because the monks went mad.” He shrugs. “More likely than not, they’re just a little bit…stir crazy.”

“It doesn’t sound like religious monks to me,” I state, tracing the knife on my belt with my finger. “It sounds like a gang. Can we bypass the territory?”

“Not unless you want to add another week to our trip.”

“Screw that,” Uriah comments. “We need to get to L.A.
now
.”

Manny pulls a map out of his saddlebag. He folds it in half and points to a stretch of mountainside about thirty miles outside of Los Angeles.

“This is Mad Monk Territory,” he says. “Chances are, we’ll be able to go straight through it and we won’t have a problem. But…on the off chance that we
do
run into some crazies…” he lifts the map up. “We’ll be in big trouble.”

“We know how to handle trouble. Besides, we don’t have a choice,” I say. “Chris can only survive interrogation for so long. We’ve got a deadline to keep.”

“If we want to get to the city in under a week we have to,” Uriah agrees.

“Excuse me.” Andrew has worked his way through the mass of horses and militiamen. His dark sunglasses are hiding his eyes. Three radios are strapped to his belt. Our radioman, ever exceptional and alert. “I’ve heard a lot of talk about the Mad Monks on the Underground radio over the last few days, and we do
not
want to run into these people.”

“What have you heard, Andrew?” I ask.

“Civilian victims and Omega soldiers have been found in
pieces
,” he answers. “Omega, militia, civilian. They’re not showing any preference. They’re just killing randomly.”

“Why doesn’t Omega just take them out?” Vera says.

“They don’t have the time or the resources,” I reply. “Besides, what would Omega want with miles of dry brush and grass? It’s not their number one priority.” I
look at Andrew again. “What else do you know about them?”

“We don’t know that they’re really
monks
.” He cracks a smile. “They dress the part. Robes and hoods and shaved heads, but other than that, all I know is that they like to kill things.”

“Sounds like an urban cult,” I remark. “There was a gang called the Metro Monks when I lived in Culver City. They were always a big problem for the Los Angeles Police Department. My dad used to talk about them a lot.”

“It could be an offshoot of the same gang,” Uriah suggests.