“You weren’t there, Dad. They were about to splatter us all over the pavement. That trooper had made up his mind, I could tell. That’s why I ran. And they shot first.”
His father sighed. “Well, there’s nothing to be done about it now. It’s history. It’s time we got back to more pressing local concerns. I just thank the Lord that you boys made it here to help us out.”
The small cabin was crowded. To save on floor space, Mrs. Keane made three hammocks out of spare blankets for Matt and Chase.
That winter they ate the dogs.
CHAPTER 8
M-C-Ls
“A stone’s throw out on either hand from that well ordered road we tread, And all the world is wild and strange: Churel and ghoul and djinn and sprite Shall bear us company to night, For we have reached the Oldest Land Wherein the Powers of Darkness range.”
Most of the coffee—all except for a small “emergency” reserve—ran out in January. Lisa Nelson was the one most vocal about it. As she was making one of her last cups of coffee with a miniature packet of Taster’s Choice that she’d scrounged out of an MRE, she quipped, “I was mentally prepared for a world without electricity, or refrigeration, or gasoline. I was ready for the rioting, the worthless greenbacks, and the umpteen uncertainties. But life without French Roast? Now that’s a tragedy of epic proportions.”
The monotony of winter, with its interminably boring and chilly shifts of LP/OP duty, was broken on the afternoon of February twelfth. Dan Fong was on duty on the LP/OP. He called in a terse message on the TA-1: “Deliberate, front. Two men. Armed. Pushing a cart. From the east. Five-hundred meters, moving slowly.”
All of the members of the group knew the drill. They had practiced both hasty and deliberate ambushes dozens of times in the last three months. Todd, T.K., Mary, Mike, Lisa, and Jeff sprinted down the draw to their positions.
Kevin and Rose stayed behind to “hold the fort.” Meanwhile, Dan held his position at the LP/OP, which served the double duty of overlooking the ambush site. His job was to take out anyone who tried to maneuver behind and outflank the ambusher’s positions. They had been in their freezing spider holes for what seemed an eternity but was in fact only five minutes when they heard Mike blow his whistle. In unison, they popped their heads and shoulders out of their holes, and pointed their weapons at the road. Still a cop at heart, Mike yelled:“Freeze, or you’re dead men!”
Ten minutes earlier, two young men, one tall and angular, the other short and overweight, were trudging along the county road at a snail’s pace. Both carried heavy packs, and it was the short man’s turn to push the cart. He whined, “David, my pack’s too heavy and my shoulders are killing me. I’ve just got to get rid of some of this weight.”
“Just shut up and deal with it, Larry,” the tall man replied. “You’re always complaining. Do you hear me complain? My pack’s just as heavy as yours.”
They continued down the road. The only sounds were the crunch of the frozen gravel beneath their feet, and the steady rhythm of their breathing.
Approaching a side road that looked like dozens of others they had passed before, they heard a shrill whistle. A moment later, four men and two women armed with riot shotguns and assault rifles sprang as if by magic from underneath the “junk” by the side of the road.
When ordered to freeze, they did exactly as they were told. “Don’t shoot! Please don’t shoot!” Larry exclaimed, as he dropped the handle of the cart.
“Drop the rifles!” Mike Nelson ordered. Without hesitating, Larry and David shrugged their slung rifles off of their shoulders, sending them clattering to the frozen ground. “Now the packs,” Nelson commanded. They complied just as quickly. With a flick of the muzzle of his rifle, Mike gestured and said,
“Now you—the gun belt.” It too hit the ground with an unceremonious thud.
“Put your hands on top of your heads and step back five paces, then kneel upright.” They followed Nelson’s command. Once they were on their knees, Mike added, “Now cross one leg over the other.”
“We’re just refugees, we don’t mean any harm. We’re just passing through,” David cried feebly.
“That remains to be seen.”Without turning his head, Nelson ordered, “Jeff! Frisk them.”
With that, Trasel set down his Remington riotgun, and jumped out of his spider hole at the far west end of the kill zone. He then circled behind the two “refugees.”
Trasel methodically searched the two men. He even had them take off their boots. All that he discovered in his search were some empty candy wrappers, one pack of cigarettes, a twenty-round Mini-14 magazine loaded with hollow point ammunition, a disposable lighter, two pocket knives, and two spoons.
Neither man carried a wallet. Jeff threw the contents of their pockets into a pile a good distance away from the two men. “They’re clean now,” Jeff reported, as he stepped aside.
By a prearranged SOP, Mike and T.K. got out of their positions shortly after Jeff got back into his. T.K. questioned the two strangers while Mike began to search their gear. “Where are you from, guys?” T.K. asked with a friendly voice.
“Denver!” blurted out Larry.
“Denver, huh? That’s a long way off. You didn’t walk all that way, did you?”
“No, we drove until we couldn’t find gas, and ran out. We’ve been on foot for more than a month. Look, we’re not looking for any hassles. If it’s money you’re after, David and I can give you some. Just let us go!”
“We’re not interested in your money, or your possessions—we don’t steal from anyone—we’re just interested in fully knowing your intentions,” T.K. retorted. He breathed deeply and went on, “Now then, we are going to find out just what you are up to….”
David broke in, “That’s not your job. You don’t—you don’t—have any right to take the law into your own hands.”
“The only law left, at least around here, is in the chamber of this little persuader,” T.K. mused, patting the top handguard of his CAR-15.
Mike looked at their guns first. One rifle was a Remington Model 700 bolt-action chambered in .270 Winchester. It was equipped with a three-to-nine power adjustable Leupold scope. The other rifle was a Ruger Mini-14, loaded with what appeared to be a forty-round magazine. Mike had never seen a magazine for a Mini-14 of such prodigious capacity before. He shrugged his shoulders and mumbled to himself, “I suppose it would work, but how would you get into a good prone position using it? How useless.”
The handgun, which was still strapped into a fancy tooled western style holster, appeared at first to be a Colt .45 “Peacemaker.” On closer inspection, it was in fact an original Colt single action, but chambered in .357 magnum. It had a seven-and-a-half-inch barrel. Mike had once read that some “third generation” Colt single actions were made in .357, but he had heretofore not yet encountered one. All three of the guns were fully loaded. Next, Mike shifted his attention to the packs.
For a few uncomfortable moments, T.K. stood exchanging nervous glances with the two strangers. Their gaze was broken when Mike exclaimed, “Holy crud, look at this.” He held up two baseball shaped grenades that he had found in the outer pockets of one of the packs. He closely examined the yellow markings on the green painted grenades. “These are live frags all right. There’s six of them here. Four of them are still in cardboard shipping tubes with the paper tape seals intact.”