Holding Their Own: The Salt War
Read Holding Their Own: The Salt War Online
Authors: Joe Nobody
Holding Their Own IX:
The Salt War
By
Joe Nobody
Copyright © 2014
Kemah Bay Marketing, LLC
All rights reserved.
Edited by:
E. T. Ivester
D. Allen
www.joenobodybooks.com
This is a work of fiction. Characters and events are products of the author’s imagination, and no relationship to any living person is implied. The locations, facilities, and geographical references are set in a fictional environment.
Other Books by Joe Nobody:
Holding Your Ground: Preparing for Defense if it All Falls Apart
The TEOTWAWKI Tuxedo: Formal Survival Attire
Without Rule of Law: Advanced Skills to Help You Survive
Holding Their Own: A Story of Survival
Holding Their Own II: The Independents
Holding Their Own III: Pedestals of Ash
Holding Their Own IV: The Ascent
Holding Their Own V: The Alpha Chronicles
Holding Their Own VI: Bishop’s Song
Holding Their Own VII: Phoenix Star
The Home Schooled Shootist: Training to Fight with a Carbine
The El Paso Salt War actually occurred in 1877. Sometimes called the San Elizario Salt War, the regional conflict raged for an extended period across the arid lands of West Texas.
The namesake mineral had little to do with the actual cause of the clash. Salt was merely a catalyst for the underlying, long-simmering disputes brewing in the region. The right to access the plentiful natural resource was nothing more than a rallying point, a call to arms, for those seeking to implement a social-political agenda or financial gain by use of arms.
While studying this historical event, it occurred to me that Bishop and Terri’s world would face many of the same issues and challenges as our early American ancestors’ more basic society. West Texas in 1877 probably wasn’t a significantly different environment than the social and financial ecosystem that might develop after a collapse.
Without rule of law, bigotry and discrimination would run unchecked; age-old divides along the lines of race, religion, or heritage might occur. It is very likely, just as in 1877, these segments and sentiments would lead to organized violence and conflict.
In the
Holding Their Own
series, I have written several different scenarios addressing how the vacuum of leadership might be filled once government hierarchy no longer existed. I think this is one of the most interesting aspects related to the rise and fall of historical civilizations.
It is my firm belief that a pre-collapse organization, with an established pecking order and chain of command, would have a head start in filling such a void. Given that conviction, it has been a natural progression to explore how today’s entities might fare if they found themselves in control after an event.
In this work, I use the example of a labor union, more specifically the Teamsters. I am not anti-union, just as I am not anti-church (HTO 7), anti-police (HTO 1), anti-military (HTO 3), or anti-corporation (HTO 5). All of these entities share the characteristics listed above, enabling a rapid rise to power. In some instances, their leadership might be exactly what is needed. In other cases, that power might ultimately corrupt.
And finally, in real life I encounter very few situations where people are either entirely “good,” or wholly “evil.” The same can be said of life’s everyday problems, opportunities, and interactions. The reader will find my fiction mimics the real world in this regard. The challenge of determining right versus wrong, positive or negative, has never been easy. In a state of anarchy, reaching those conclusions is likely to be even more difficult. The apocalypse may alter a lot of things, but I doubt human nature will be one of them – at least not for a while.
Enjoy,
Joe
Chapter 1
By the time Bishop spotted the spikes, it was too late. His foot was halfway to the brake when the front tires of the pickup exploded, followed less than a second later by the rear rubber. The steering became mushy, the truck fishtailing as he fought desperately for control. Someone had strategically positioned sheets of plywood across the road, dozens of huge nails pointing skyward.
Terri shouted something from the backseat, but he was too focused on avoiding devastation to digest her words.
The pickup skidded the last 200 feet on its rims, only the soft sand of the roadside desert preventing the tortured machine from flipping over on its side.
Bishop’s first instinct was to check on his wife and son in the backseat. Terri was pale, huddled over Hunter’s car seat trying to protect the child with her body. She stared at her husband with wide, questioning eyes. “What the hell just happened?” she snapped.
Before he could answer, the passenger window exploded in a shower of glass… small holes stitching across the windshield, bullets thwacking and sparking into the truck’s sheet metal.
“Get down,” he screamed, reaching for his rifle.
Bishop bailed out of the driver’s door, hitting the ground hard, pulling the M4 by the sling along behind him. He rolled toward the back tires, his instincts screaming that the shooters were on the passenger side and to the rear of the truck.
Bullets snapped through the air, their supersonic greeting forcing Bishop to stay low to the ground. Careful not to expose his head, he raised the M4 over the edge of the bed and fired several blind shots. He didn’t expect to hit anything; the act was merely a desperate play to keep the bushwhackers at bay and give him some time.
Still crouching close to the ground, he flung open the passenger door, shouting for Terri to get out. The truck wouldn’t stop bullets or help them escape. Bishop’s beloved Texas pickup was now nothing more than a death trap on wheels.
Damn, and I just washed it
, Bishop thought.
His wife was already one step ahead of him, a wide-eyed Hunter liberated from his car seat and on the floor, shielded by his mother’s torso. “Come on! Come on!” Bishop screamed, reaching to pull the boy out.
Cradling the baby in one arm, Bishop again raised the rifle with his free hand and began firing blind.
Keep them back
, kept racing through his mind.
Give them something to think about
.
Hunter, his ears assaulted by the report of his dad’s rifle, started screaming at the top of his lungs.
Terri pivoted and twisted her way out of the truck, hitting the ground in an ungraceful tangle of arms and legs. She was reaching back in the cab for her own rifle as another salvo slammed into the couple’s pickup-shield.
Surprise was no longer an advantage for the attackers, Bishop recovering enough to begin forming a tactical outline of the situation. There were at least six or seven shooters engaging them. They sported a mixture of weapons. The ambushers were grouped in two separate areas. The most damaging piece of information – they didn’t give a shit if they killed women or children.
Slinging her rifle, Terri tugged Hunter from her husband’s arm and then scrambled for the front wheel and the protection of the engine block.
Smart girl
, Bishop noted in a momentary flash of pride.
He chanced a glance around the rear bumper, exposing his head only long enough to take a mental snapshot. His scouting effort was rewarded with a dozen bullets pinging off metal and cracking through the air.
Focusing intensely on the image in his mind, he determined his family was in a completely untenable position. The ambushers were most likely leveraging a small drainage ditch about 70 meters away. A natural bend in the gully allowed the highwaymen two different angles on the road. A strategic location to set a trap.
“We can’t stay here,” Bishop shouted to his wife.
“I’m listening,” she replied.
Bishop looked behind them, thankful the opposite side of the road afforded at least some cover. He spied a boulder field, a few of the individual rocks the size of their truck. Beyond that lay a steep, craggy-looking ridge that might be a dead end or might be climbable.
“We’re going that way,” he announced, gesturing with his head. “But I need my pack out of the bed. Can you give me some covering fire?”
“Where?” she mouthed.
Bishop pointed with his arm, giving her the general direction to aim.
Nodding, Terri set Hunter down and pulled her rifle around. Her finger was working the trigger as she rose over the hood.
Bishop did the same, this time exposing his head more than before. He centered the red dot where he was sure the ambushers were camped and let loose a hailstorm of fire.
After 20 rounds, he took his left hand off the weapon and reached into the back of the truck. His pack was there, along with a load of supplies. He’d barely managed to pull back before a blizzard of bullets was punching through the bed, exit holes of jagged metal chasing the Texan as he ducked behind the rear wheel.
Hunter was back in Terri’s arms, protected by her body and the engine block. That didn’t seem to matter to the attackers, a fair amount of lead being issued in her direction as well.
“I’m going to keep them down while you cross the road,” Bishop informed his wife. “Once you are on the other side, find some good cover and start shooting to keep their heads down. I’ll hustle along and join you. Understand?”
Terri frowned. “You want to use a technique called ‘bounding’ to cross the road – right? Play leap-frog with our suppressive fire – correct?”
Bishop, despite all the stress and danger, had to smile. “Yes,” he responded, “that’s exactly what I want to do.”
“Why the hell didn’t you just say so? I’m not some dumb girl, Bishop.”
“I love you,” Bishop mouthed, feeding a fresh magazine into his carbine.
“I’m ready when you are,” Terri announced, Hunter clutched tightly against her chest, crying at the top of his little lungs.
“Go!” Bishop shouted, rising up and throwing round after round at their foes. He had identified the enemy’s position now, the red dot of his optic never wavering. Five shots at group one, six more at group two, and then he was down, protected again by steel of the rear axle and wheels.
He spotted Terri’s hair flying around the closest big rock, a few seconds later her rifle appearing over the rim of the boulder. When her muzzle began spitting white flashes, Bishop gathered up his pack, darting half-bent to join her, bullets chasing him across the pavement.
“They might try to get around and in front of us,” he barked after drawing a few deep breaths. “As we move toward the ridge, be diligent about what’s ahead as well as behind us.”
“Gotcha. Where are we going?”
“I don’t know… anywhere but here. We’re outgunned, and they know the terrain. Distance is going to save our asses today - let’s put some between them and us.”
“Do you see that big rock shaped like a cow?” Terri asked, pointing to a formation 30 meters behind them.
Bishop nodded, “Looks good. Stay close to the ground.… I’ll see you there.”
He braced his rifle on the edge of the rock, scanning for any ambushers who were stupid enough to expose themselves. He spied the top of a baseball hat just as Terri’s footsteps announced she was making for the bovine-rock. The hat’s owner raised his head, swinging a rifle into shooting position. It was his last act, Bishop’s red dot centered directly on the man’s face.
One of their own going down had the desired effect, the number of rounds hounding his wife greatly diminished from previous volleys.
Maybe they only want the vehicle
, Bishop pondered, sweeping the gully for another target.
Or… they’ve split up, and some of them are trying to flank us
.
A quick glance informed the Texan that his wife had managed cover. Snapping a quick 3-shot spread, he pushed off, humping the pack and zigzagging to join her.
The couple repeated the process three more times before Terri’s labored breathing and sweat-soaked hair demanded they take a break. Peering down at the now-calmer Hunter, she chided, “You need to lose some weight, big boy.”
“We can’t rest for long,” Bishop announced, sweeping the desert with his optic. “They still might be trying to get in front of us. Do you want me to carry Hunter?”
Terri eyed the heavy-looking pack on her husband’s back. “No, I can pull my own weight. Let’s get going. See you at that bush over there.” And with that, she was running again, rifle across her back, child clutched close to her heart.
So much for a nice, quiet, family road trip
, Bishop thought.
I should have listened to Nick
.
An hour of continuous movement later, Bishop said, “Okay, I think we’re out of the danger zone. Let’s hole up here and catch our breath.”
Terri looked spent; Hunter was fussing, and it was damn hot. Bishop offered his wife a drink, extending the tube from his Camelbak water bladder. She gladly accepted. After a few gulps, she quipped, “What the hell happened back there? Who were those guys, and what did they want?”
“No idea. Their tire-spike device was well-placed and purpose built. They had identified the perfect spot, right at the bottom of a little dip where I couldn’t see the snare until it was too late. I think they’ve done this before.”
“Do you think they want the truck?” she asked after another few more swallows.
“Maybe, but that doesn’t make any sense. What good would a truck with four flat tires do way out here in the middle of nowhere?”
Terri considered his statement for a bit and then brightened. “I bet they wanted the gasoline.”
“I don’t think so,” he responded, shaking his head at the mystery. “They were shooting like crazy, as if they didn’t care if they hit the gas tank. And besides, even considering the recovery, there aren’t that many vehicles way out here. What would be their chances of trapping a victim? They could sit out here for days and never see a car or truck go by. I don’t think it was a gas trap.”
“Nomads?” she suggested.
Bishop understood the reference, a term used throughout the Alliance territories for roving bands of displaced people. “Could be,” he said. “But they used ammo like it was as common as sand, and that doesn’t fit the profile. I don’t know. We are pretty close to the border. Could be a group wandered up from Mexico, I suppose. But why shoot up the truck? Why spring the ambush here?”
Terri nodded, accepting her husband’s logic. “I guess we might not ever know. The definitive question is, ‘What now?’ I’m going to have to feed this bottomless pit of a baby in a little bit, and my legs and back are killing me.”
“You’ve done great, babe. Can you make it up this crest? I want to get to the high ground, and then I’ll set up camp. We can figure out the next step once we find a good spot.”
“Not much further, Bishop. I’m sorry to be a sissy, but I’ve been spending a lot of time behind a desk lately. My bad… but it is the truth.”
He brushed a strand of hair from her face and smiled. “No apology needed, and there’s no one I would rather have at my back. I’m not exactly feeling like a spring chicken either. We can slow our pace, but I want to get something set up before it gets too hot out here. The sun is going to become our enemy in a few hours.”
The couple continued up the ridge, moving slowly through an ever denser rock field. With the incline increasing and the sun rising, they both began to feel the effects of heat and exertion.
Bishop spied a shady outcropping, an indentation in a wall of stone that wasn’t a cave, but would provide reasonable shelter. It reminded him of the bat cave back at their ranch. Pointing to the formation, Bishop announced, “There are our 4-star accommodations.”
“I hope the pool’s open,” Terri replied, wiping the perspiration from her brow.
They found the opening to be about 15 feet deep, a crevice formed by a sheet of rock separating from the cliff. The floor was smooth, the air several degrees cooler than in the direct desert sun.
“So here’s the good news,” Bishop said, dropping his pack to the ground. “This place is very defendable.”
“And the bad news?” Terri asked, using the cotton shirt over her camisole to make a nest for Hunter.
“There’s no retreat. We get pinned in here, and we’re screwed.”
Terri glanced around, nodding her understanding. “Should we stay on the move in hope of something better?”
“I don’t think that’s best. Like I said, the sun is going to be more dangerous to us than human aggressors right now. Let’s hole up here – at least until dusk.”
“And then? I don’t mean to be a nag, but I was kind of hoping for a long term plan, my love. I know you don’t have any reservations about crawling around the desert and smelling like a goat. Hunter and I, on the other hand, have more refined tastes and expectations for our vacation outings.”
Bishop snorted at her choice of words. Feigning a hurt look, he spread his arms to indicate the bare stone walls surrounding them. “What? This is a great place. What more could you ask for?”
“Diapers. Baby food. Water. Someplace to bathe. Toilet paper. How about sleeping without worrying about a tarantula crawling up my butt?”