CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Max scratched his scruffy beard, preferring a clean face. Beards were an unwanted reminder of his time in Iraq, and he longed for a razor with which to shave. But that was only part of his frustration. Linda had been crankier than usual during the past weeks, demanding more and more food and doing less and less of the chores. She flat out refused to fetch water, but he didn’t mind. He knew the gangs watched the road to the river and felt safer getting it himself. Besides, he feared if they saw he had a white woman living with him, there’d be more trouble than needed.
Despite his concerns, he’d only run into them a handful of times since their first encounter, and each time the boys scurried off after he inquired after Tom and Betty.
“Choose your side,” they always said, pressing him to choose skin color over... over what?
What’s the other choice besides the militia? he wondered. He had studied counter terrorism while on active duty, and one of the threats to democracy were the homegrown extremists—both right- and left-wing who hoped for or feared the United States Government would collapse. He had already encountered the Regiment, and the man he left alive would surely be seeking revenge—especially if they’d already been clashing with the gangs.
Marine or not, all that man will see is my skin color and the amount of red his boys bled by my hand.
He had to move Linda, and soon.
But to where? I haven’t found Betty and Tom yet.
He’d searched out hospitals, schools, and parks—any place which could house a large number of people. He felt like giving up. Other than Evansville University, the hospitals and schools had been his best bet.
He sat upright in bed. Southern Illinois is bigger. He immediately felt stupid for not considering before. There were arenas, cafeterias, dorms, and student unions at the larger university—everything to support a community of refugees. Only, it was nearly a three hour walk in the snow.
Jumping out of bed, he rushed to the footlocker and inserted the key. Beneath their food, he found what he sought. He pulled out a faded album with Betty’s graduation photos. Though it had been twenty years since she attended the school, she would have fled to what she knew.
His window exploded with flying shards of glass.
On the floor lay a red brick, hurled by someone laughing with others on the lawn. In the other room Linda screamed as more panes shattered, and she sprinted into the bedroom insisting he do something. Shutting the footlocker, he grabbed his duffel bag and shoved it in her arms.
“I don’t want this!” she shouted.
“Take it because I’ll have my hands filled with this. From under the bed he drew his body armor and rifle, pulling the charging handle just far enough to ensure a round was chambered. Pulling on the gear he ordered, “We’ve got to go, and we’ve got a long way to walk.”
“But...”
Leaning in close, he spoke firmly and with authority. “Those boys outside would love to own a white woman like you. They’re gangsters, and the worst kind,” he lied. They were teens, nothing more than boys playing at men. “If we don’t get out of here, they’ll do things to make you wish you were dead.”
She nodded with wide eyes and tightly clamped mouth.
Thank God, he thought. I wish I’d spoken like that to her sooner!
“Come out, truck driver!” a voice called from outside. Though young, the person calling certainly wasn’t a boy.
Max moved to the window and carefully peered out. Though dark, he made out twenty or thirty shapes in the moonlight. Each was clad in blue, or wore like colored bandanas on their arms or heads.
If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
“It’s time to choose a side, Mr. Rankin!” Max recognized the second voice as Mike Salwell.
“I thought you weren’t affiliated, Mike!” the former marine called out to the boy.
“I chose mine,” Mike replied.
“Give us the woman, your food, and any weapons you might have,” the older voice shouted.
“I thought you wanted me on your side?” Max asked, moving into position to better watch for snipers. He spotted one shooter beside the garage, kneeling, and with a long rifle pointed at the window.
“We’ll talk about that after you recognize we’re in charge,” the gangster replied.
“I don’t know if I like those terms.” Max motioned for Linda to follow, putting his fingers to his lips and staying low to the ground. They moved to the living room and behind the couch.
In a low voice he said, “They’ll be watching exits, so we can’t run for it. Our best bet is to fight our way through the middle of them.”
“But how?” she nearly squealed in a high pitched whisper.
“I only saw one rifle watching this door, though most of those punks will carry small arms—pistols. When I start shooting there’ll be some chaos, so listen for my signal. But whatever you do,” he insisted, “no matter what happens... do not drop that bag!”
She nodded vigorously.
“I mean it,” he said. “No matter what.”
She hugged it tighter against her chest.
Max shifted his weight, moving to the edge of the couch. This provided the best angle to look out the sliding glass door. He had a better bead on the rifleman, too. He closed his right eye. The light outside was low and he needed an advantage, so he counted to thirty. With his left eye, he carefully watched the assembly on the lawn. The gangsters and the shooter still faced the bedroom window.
“You have one minute, truck driver!” the older fellow said.
But Max was ready. With a blink, he closed his left eye and opened up his right. His pupil had dilated just enough that his night vision had improved, but the effect wouldn’t last long. The first shot, he knew, would be refracted by the glass, and prepared himself for the follow up. He drew a deep breath and released, slowly drawing the trigger with the pad of his forefinger. In close quarters the shot was deafening, followed by the shattering of plate glass.
He quickly realigned just as the rifleman turned to face the living room. The shot hit home, flipping the shooter’s head backward and sending his rifle to the grass.
“Get flat!” Max told Linda.
She complied without question, terrified and hugging the floor as if it would suck her into to the safety of its bosom.
The pistol fire erupted without hesitation as bullets filled the room. Max, like Linda, hugged the floor and waited for the amateurs to empty their magazines. One by one the gunfire died down, and Max again popped up, firing into the group still standing out in the open. The first to fall was the spokesman.
Max stood. “Now!” he said. “Follow me, and don’t drop that bag!” Linda refused to move. Max grabbed her by the arm and wrenched her to her feet, letting several of the boys find cover in the process. “Stay close behind me,” he commanded and waited until her face pressed into the small of his back. “Moving.”
Max approached the gaping hole in the glass door, stepping over, careful not to snag his body against shards of glass. Movement near the garage turned his muzzle, and he fired a single shot. This drew gunfire from the left side, and he leaned back, causing Linda to stagger. The round missed, and he turned the corner. Two boys, barely older than Tom, trained pistols at his chest. His finger flicked twice and they fell. He’d live with those kills for a while.
Up ahead, three more heads popped up from a row of hedges. They could have picked better cover, and he fired through the fauna. “Run when I give the word,” he said to Linda, “straight ahead to the next street and turn right. Wait for me around that house.” He felt her head nod against his back. “Go!”
She took off running, clutching the bag against her chest. He never checked to see if she looked back. As soon as she cleared the patio, two shots rang out from the trash bins. Max spun and dropped those boys as well.
Without hesitating any longer, he followed Linda at a sprint. Several shots echoed behind him, but none came close to hitting their mark. He lowered his head and raced to the next street, making the corner, and skidding to a halt.
Linda knelt on the ground facing him, tears in her eyes and the satchel laying on the ground beside her. The militia men standing behind her pointed their rifles forward, each trained at Max’s chest except one. The tip of it was shoved into the crook of Linda’s neck, and the man holding it smiled broadly.
“Hey there, Devil Dog,” a familiar face said. “Would you mind lying down so we can put these flexi cuffs on your wrists? You and I have a bunch to talk about.”
Max complied, setting the rifle on the ground and watching as five members of the Regiment ran around the house, opening up on the pursuing gang members. The buttstock blow to his temple wasn’t necessary, but he wasn’t surprised when it came—most likely payback for the incident in the grocery store. He blacked out immediately.