Текст книги "The Western Front"

Автор книги: Archer Garrett

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Ch apter 2

Clayton

Washington County, Alabama

The muddy waters of the Tombigbee and Alabama Rivers converged just north of Mt. Vernon.  The heavy rains upstate had caused the rivers to swell well past flood stage much earlier than normal.  They were set to crest in two days’ time. Most of the logging roads that dutifully followed the ridges of the river swamp had several feet of water over them already.  The deer and hogs had long since retreated to higher and drier grounds.  Of all nights, this night deep in the backwaters should have been the domain of croaking bullfrogs and grunting alligators, but not tonight.

A hush rolled across the cutoff that meandered between the two rivers.  In the distance, the ascending groan of an outboard motor could be heard.  The low moan had little to do with the unnatural hush across the swamp.  It was the blood-curdling howl that emanated from somewhere seemingly within it.

Immediately after, a second, more primal howl answered.  Finally, they cried out in unison.  This strange chorus of animal and mechanical baffled the lords and princes of this natural kingdom.  They felt compelled to their silence as they waited in anticipation for the appearance of the strange, midnight wayfarer.

Clayton threw his head back once again and let out a howl befitting some mythical beast, to the untrained ear at least.  He knew it drove Moses crazy.  The dog was already bounding to and fro in the custom-built, shallow-draft, aluminum boat.  Finally, Moses could abstain no longer. He put his front paws on the bow and offered up his interpretation for any lycanthropes that may have been confused by Clayton’s less than perfect rendition.

Clayton let out a bellowing laugh at Moses, before leaning forward and banging the dry well in several quick successions.  Moses instinctively crawled into the bottom of the boat just as it performed a perfectly timed S-motion.  The two stumps were not visible even in the daylight hours, but Clayton knew exactly where they were.

T he swamp was his.

An onlooker would have been convinced of his lunacy, if not because of the spectacle of his howls, then absolutely because of his choice to brave the unpredictable floodwaters at night.  He roared forward at full-throttle by the light of a full moon, which was all but hidden by the thick canopy of willows and Spanish moss just above.  Clayton was no fool, though.  His homemade apparatus of a motorcycle helmet and night vision goggles transformed him from a mere mortal into a backwater demigod, and he reveled in it.

The night was his.

After emerging from the darkened cutoff, they ducked low and cut a diagonal path across the moonlit river to a small tributary, commonly called a slough, on the other side.  In less than half a minute, they were back in the welcoming confines of the heavy canopy.

After they braved one final bend, Clay yanked the kill switch from the mud motor.  He leveraged the boat’s momentum to push it through the thick wall of vegetation and trees that grew along the submerged banks.  The craft drifted into a clearing a couple hundred feet beyond.  A shy snapping turtle on a nearby log dove into the murky depths as they passed.

Clayton crawled to the front of the boat, grasped the bow rope and tied a quick clove hitch to a nearby cypress tree.  As they waited and listened, he quietly opened the cooler and retrieved two biscuits and some sausage.  He tossed one of the biscuits to the cur and he caught it mid-air.  Clay flicked his folding knife open and split the sausage into two even portions.  Moses appreciated the gesture of equality; he licked Clayton’s hand before taking the salty meat.  While they enjoyed their snacks and listened for the sounds of any would-be followers, Clayton grabbed a wooden paddle and shoved it down into the black water.

The depth check was more of an old habit than a necessity. His boat could take off from nine inches of muck without any problems.  Once on a plane, he needed less than a half inch of water over soft mud to navigate the swamp.  Clayton finished his biscuit and leaned back in his seat.  He quietly admired the wonder of his artificially green-hued surroundings.

Clumps of Spanish moss and thick, gnarled vines hung from the cypress and white oaks that surrounded their hidden enclave.  Clayton counted six fox-squirrel nests that dotted the nearby oaks.  He noted several pairs of widely space eyes on the water, staring back at him.

The alligators’ curiosity was emboldened when Clayton made his night runs without lighting.  Often they would drift within several feet of the boat.  Their presence did not bother Clayton or Moses, as long as they were safe in the boat and the alligators remained in the water.

The cool night air was a welcome relief from the southern sun’s relentless barrage.  Clayton hoped the flood was a herald of an early winter.  They desperately needed a sharp frost to stunt the plague of insects.  Their boat was swarmed by mosquitos and gnats as soon as it drifted to a stop.

They waited a half hour and failed to detect any indication of human life in the swamp.  Satisfied that they were indeed alone, Clayton tugged the knot loose from the cypress and eased the boat to an idle. Slowly, they continued on their way.

They idled along the slough for another half hour and then killed the motor again.  Clayton grabbed a long wooden pole and plunged it into the water.  He quietly pushed the boat through the thick vegetation at the slough’s edge until he could see through the cover on the other side.  He peered across the empty lake to the shore beyond.

Sodium-vapor and halogen lamps pierced the darkness on the opposite shore.  They reflected off the lake’s surface, and were a poor celestial substitute for the starless sky.  Dozens of small camps supported by weathered, timber piling towered over the surrounding cypress knots.  Their roofs extended increasingly higher into the night air as they continued up the gentle slopes.  Many of the closest camps already had several feet of water beneath them.  Clayton was surprised to see the small community so well-illuminated; they had not had power for at least two weeks.  The small fishing communities were filled with survivors, however.  Perhaps they had a supply of natural gas to supplement their solar panels.

Clayton scanned the shore near the landing for any signs of movement, but found none.  He scratched Moses’ head and whispered “What about you, see anyone?”

Moses stood up on the bow and sniffed the sweet night air, before turning back and climbing over the dry well.

Clayton sighed and replied, “Me neither; maybe next week.  Let’s head home.”

***

Clayton’s demeanor was much more reserved on their way home.  He reflected on a past life in another world.  He had once been a successful contractor and entrepreneur.  His first million was hard-fought through long days, sleepless nights and relentless ambition.  He tried anything that he thought would turn a profit:  residential developments, industrial shutdowns, offshore – anything.  He particularly loved demolition work because he could get paid to remove the structure, crush the brick and concrete, and resell it as base material for roadways and parking lots.  Besides, slamming a four-ton wrecking ball into a building was about as much fun as a man could have without going to jail.

He soon realized the real money was in being a developer.  He would research an area, purchase the raw land, develop a shopping center, sell a few outlying parcels to help recoup his investment and lease the shops.  He had successfully repeated his formula multiple times.

The next several million were earned much easier than the first.  A new way of doing business came with the territory, however, and he despised it.  The permits, regulations and laws were countless and restrictive.  The government inspectors had an endless repertoire of building and environmental codes that they could deem a developer in violation of, regardless if he actually was or not, seemingly at their whim.  A single owl that was considered endangered could reduce a profitable endeavor to a crawl through red tape with the only light at the end of the tunnel a dim flicker of breaking even.

Of course, there was another way, a way to make all of the troubles disappear.  It started innocent enough and could almost be justified, if you remembered to check your morals at the door.  Before long, it was easier for him to count the people he was not paying off.  It seemed everyone wanted to stick their hands into his pockets.  Clayton Sellers grew to despise the realities of the ‘easy’ life he had sought for so long.

It’s been said that every man should know his number.  He should have an amount, however large it may be, so that if he ever reaches it then he can consider himself a success and politely back away from the table with his soul intact.  If he does not know when cash out of the game, greed will slowly begin to creep in.  He will forsake everything, and everyone, in his pursuits.  The man with a number knows wealth to be a means; the man without knows it only as an end.

Three years ago, Clayton reached his number.   He dumped it all:  the businesses, the swank properties in town, stocks, bonds and all the racketeers that had made a living off of his hard work.  They could keep their broken system.  He would fade away into his gulch, and he was not the only one that was leaving.  A groundswell of principled men were breaking away from the clutches of the leviathan that was crushing them.

He bought two thousand acres in the middle of the river swamp for a song.  Even he was surprised that the timber company had accepted his lowball offer.  Apparently, they had been more desperate for cash than he thought.  It wasn’t prime land by any definition.  Most of the property flooded when the surrounding rivers swelled beyond their banks.  Clayton did not mind the inconvenience, however.

In a typical year the property would flood just enough to foil the poachers. The water was still shallow enough to limit access to all but the most specialized of vessels; a vessel much like his, own.  He leased the surrounding twenty thousand acres from the same timber company as a buffer. Beyond that was mostly state wildlife reserve.

Clayton’s theory of life was one of irony:  sometimes the only way to spit oneself out of the beast was to feign defeat and allow it to swallow you whole, so that one day you might have the leverage to go forth and never look back.

***

After an uneventful ride back, they finally were within sight of home.  Home was a one-room camp on timber piles.  It was nestled in a grove of swamp oaks.  Their gnarled branches help to conceal the brown, metal roof from any prying eyes overhead.  Soon enough, winter would be here and he would be lying in his bed, listening to acorns clatter on the roof like errant golf balls.

Clayton had to float in all of the building materials, which was a daunting task in its own right.  The work was made harder by the remoteness of the site and his determination to keep its location a secret.  It took nearly six months to build the camp. Three of Clayton’s closest friends helped him with most of the work.  Actually, they were probably his only friends, if you were to ask him.  Everybody that knew Clayton liked him, but if he wasn’t certain he could trust a man with his life, they were just acquaintances to him.  The brothers Greene and Teddy Lawson he could trust, he was certain of that.

The screened porch wrapped around the entirety of the camp.  On the front, a wide staircase descended into the muddy waters below.  Clayton estimated the depth to be about two feet at the last step.  He killed the motor and drifted towards the camp.  Moses, who had been napping, awoke and bounded to the bow of the boat.

Clayton guided the vessel alongside the stairs with expert skill. The boat gently came to a stop as he looped the stern rope around one of the rail posts.  He crawled to the bow and did the same, before climbing over the rails and onto solid footing.

Moses whined as he struggled to squeeze between two posts. Clayton laughed at his friend’s expense and patted him on the side of his ever growing belly.  With Moses finally free, they turned and started up the stairs.

The smell of fresh cornbread wafted to Moses’ nose first.  He suddenly pushed off with his back paws and bounded to the top.  Clayton laughed as he caught a whiff.

“Son, if you eat any more I’ll have to leave you here next time.”

Moses turned and whined, before spinning back around and nudging the screened door with his wet nose.

As Claire pushed the door open, the aroma from within was almost too much for Moses.  He burst into the camp and paced impatiently in front of the wood-burning stove.  Clayton greeted her with a weak smile and a kiss on the cheek.   By the look on her face, she shared his worry.

“No sign of them yet?”

“No ma’am.”

“They’ll turn up soon enough.  Come on in; I have fresh cornbread and catfish.”

“Mmm, you sure know how to end a bad day on a good note.”  He dropped a filet in Moses’ open mouth and it disappeared with one gulp.

Clayton grabbed three filets and two wedges cornbread, before sitting at the table across from Claire.  Moses had already devoured another filet and far too much cornbread.  Content, he plopped down in front of the door.  Clayton smiled; Moses knew his post.  Claire was reading her Bible by the blue hue of an LED lamp.  She cleared her throat, looked up and said, “Listen to this:

‘But when they said, ‘Give us a king to lead us,’ this displeased Samuel; so he prayed to the Lord . And the Lord told him: ‘Listen to all that the people are saying to you; it is not you they have rejected, but they have rejected me as their king.   As they have done from the day I brought them up out of Egypt until this day, forsaking me and serving other gods, so they are doing to you.   Now listen to them; but warn them solemnly and let them know what the king who will reign over them will claim as his rights.’

Samuel told all the words of the Lord to the people who were asking him for a king.  He said, ‘This is what the king who will reign over you will claim as his rights: He will take your sons and make them serve with his chariots and horses, and they will run in front of his chariots.   Some he will assign to be commanders of thousands and commanders of fifties, and others to plow his ground and reap his harvest, and still others to make weapons of war and equipment for his chariots.   He will take your daughters to be perfumers and cooks and bakers.   He will take the best of your fields and vineyards and olive groves and give them to his attendants.   He will take a tenth of your grain and of your vintage and give it to his officials and attendants.  Your male and female servants and the best of your cattle and donkeys he will take for his own use.   He will take a tenth of your flocks, and you yourselves will become his slaves.   When that day comes, you will cry out for relief from the king you have chosen, but the Lord will not answer you in that day.   ‘But the people refused to listen to Samuel. ‘No!’ they said. ‘We want a king over us.   Then we will be like all the other nations, with a king to lead us and to go out before us and fight our battles.’

When Samuel heard all that the people said, he repeated it before the Lord .   The Lord answered, ‘Listen to them and give them a king.’”

Clayton finished the last of his cornbread and sat in silence for a few minutes, considering the verses.

Claire watched him intensely.  Finally, she broke the silence, “Do you think we asked for this?”

“I know I didn’t.”

“That’s not what I meant, you know that.  We the people; society.  We.”

He rubbed his scraggly beard and thought for a while before finally answering.  The playful demeanor from earlier was gone, “I’m not sure.  If we didn’t ask for it, we sure beat around the bush with Him.  If you believe in the Lord, you don’t go around acting like we have for the last hundred years or so without knowing you’re pissing Him off.  If you don’t believe in Him, you still don’t do it without knowing you’re screwing up the balance of ought and ought not.  So in that respect, I guess it was bound to happen.  We just lucked up and got to live through it.”

“Maybe we’re supposed to live through it.   You and I.  The family.”

“Maybe so, babe.  I’ve always heard it said that you are where you are, and when you are for a reason, even if it is a bit part.  Hey, did I tell you that dinner was perfect?”

“No, I don’t believe you did.”

“Well it was.  I love you.”

Ch apter 3

Jake

West Mississippi

Geram took his time with his coffee, while he searched for the proper way to start.  He finally let out a deep sigh and began.

“Tell me what you know about Texas and the border.”

“Texas,” Jake thought for several moments, before continuing, “All we really get is what they want us to, since most of the internet’s been shut down.  There’re some pretty wild rumors floating around, but you can’t verify anything.

The news says the border is hot, but the local state guards are supporting the military and Border Patrol in hopes of containing it.  The ranchers are in big trouble, but everywhere else is basically the same as here:  the cities are full of rioters, the suburbs are getting dangerous and it’s starting to spill into rural areas.  Martial law and curfews abound.”

Geram reared back in his chair and balanced on its back two back legs. He closed his eyes and said, “It’s much worse bro, I’ve seen it myself.  The border isn’t hot, it’s on fire.  We’ve lost ground a hundred miles deep in most places.  San Antonio and Corpus Christi are on the front lines of the war, fighting in the streets for their southern suburbs.  Fort Bliss is an island, all but cut off from new supplies.  Tucson is behind enemy lines and Phoenix is split in half.  People are fleeing north like refugees to Houston, Dallas and Albuquerque.

Many who’ve seen the worst aren’t even stopping there.  They’re leaving the Southwest altogether.  The folks down there are convinced the Feds are willing to cede their states, like some sort of pacification.  Besides, they say, we can’t afford or aren’t willing to push back hard enough for the cartels to fear us.”

“War?  Like a real war?”

“Yep, like a real war except it’s on our own soil; but wait, it gets worse.”  Geram’s eyes were wide open and he was leaning forward intensely.  “We were told that six Humvees had been stolen by the cartels from a National Guard armory, and it was our mission to search and destroy.  Their last known whereabouts was in Raymondville, that’s northwest of Brownsville, not far from the border.

We headed south on 77 from Corpus in four MRAPs on a night run.  There were twelve of us.  It was eerie.  The northbound shoulder of 77 was lined with cars that’d broken down or just run out of fuel.

Some cars never made it to the shoulder. People just left them in the highway.  Like I said, it was a real foreboding feeling.  It looked like I-10 after Katrina, except much worse.  The fact that our trucks were completely blacked out and we were viewing these scenes through night vision only added to the unease.

Southbound 77 was wide open, so we made good time to Raymondville. Jake, I swear this is the truth, the sign at the city limits was spray-painted with the words, ‘Gringo, turn back or die,’ and had a pike on each side of it.”

Geram paused for a moment as if to collect his thoughts, and continued. “There were heads on the pikes, human heads – Americans’ heads.   We slowed down to a more reserved speed and each put a man up top.  I was one of the four.  You could say we had the best, or maybe the worst, view.  I had an M2 Browning, and the rest of the guys had M240s.

Mission briefing said to be alert for signs of disputes between the Zetas and the Gulf Cartel, but that was an understatement. It looked like a war zone: burned cars, buildings destroyed and piles of rubble – in America.

But here’s where it didn’t make sense to us – we were ordered to stay on a secure frequency.  Command said several squads had been ambushed after being contacted by English-speaking hostiles posing as locals or friendly state patrols.  Under no circumstance were we to monitor outside communications.  The idea was ridiculous to our squad leader, to say the least.   His thought was we might as well have been blindfolded.  It wasn’t in his squad’s best interest, so it wasn’t in his playbook, and we weren’t about to argue with that.

Raymondville isn’t that big, so it didn’t take long to locate our targets.  We stopped on top of the overpass on the east side of town.  The view was commanding; I could see for miles.  We aimed three of the guns west, straight down 186. The fourth gun was covering our rear.

The place was like a ghost town, so it was easy to detect movement.  The drive south had put us all on edge, and we were ready for a pound of flesh for what we’d seen.  From my vantage point I could see churches, restaurants and all sorts of stores and shops.  It was your typical small town.  My chest was burning with anger.  After about an hour, we saw them.

It couldn’t’ve been any more perfect:  we heard their gunfire before we could even see ‘em.  After several moments, headlights appeared.  Two trucks were screaming east on 186, straight towards us.  They were approximately three miles out when we first had a good view.  Behind them were four of our Humvees in hot pursuit, but losing ground.

From that distance, we had a little over two minutes before they’d reach us.  The two cartels, or what we thought were two cartels, were focused on each other and never saw us.

We were ordered by our squad leader to hold our fire until the last moment.  We would then send a wall of lead down at a sharp angle and let their momentum push them through it.  Any surviving vehicles could be picked off at our leisure on the other side by the fourth gun.

We scanned the radio frequencies and heard what sounded like an exchange between the two groups.  It was fast-paced, heated Spanish peppered with expletives that even our translator couldn’t make sense of.  As they approached, we set our sights as ordered.   It seemed like we waited a lifetime.

Finally, we were given the order to fire.  I took a deep breath and engaged the butterfly trigger on the back of the weapon.  The world erupted around me in gunfire and explosions, but it took me a second or two to realize that it wasn’t coming from me.  I’d forgotten to remove the spent brass I had wedged behind the trigger as a safety!  By then it was too late, the vehicles were careening under the bridge.  The scene was one of bellowing smoke, dancing flames and screeching tires.

One of the pickups veered off and slid sideways along the right shoulder of the highway.  The truck continued down into the ditch, then up and out as it performed a magnificent, flaming barrel roll, aided by a drain pipe’s headwall.  The second truck spun and almost managed to come to a complete stop in the middle of the highway, but was punted to the left shoulder as two of the Humvees slammed into its side.

To our surprise the four Humvees accelerated out from underneath us two-wide, straddling the center of 186.  Our rear guard opened fire on them, but we never could’ve imagined what happened next.  A booming voice came across their radio.

‘Sheee-yit!  We’re on the same team!’

The booming voice was in that undeniable west Texas cowboy drawl.  I immediately felt sick.  There was no doubt in my mind that we had American blood on our hands.