Last Stand: Patriots (Book 2) (5 page)

“Listen, I’d love to keep chatting,” Mohawk said, “but we should probably get off this road before more of
those government goons show up. Wanna cut these ties off?”

They were both eyeing John’s
BK9 Bowie knife.

“I got one better,” John
replied, eyeing their zip ties. They weren’t law enforcement or military grade, which would make escaping so much easier. “I’ll show you a simple way to get out of zip ties, just in case you find yourself in the same bind sometime down the road. Push your arms as far back as they’ll go, then bring them forward against the small of your back while pushing out with your wrists.”

Both of them did it two or three times without success.

“Put some muscle into it,” John suggested, demonstrating the motion with his own arms.

They did it again and there was a popping sound as they broke free.

“Not a bad trick,” Mohawk said, rubbing the red mark on his wrists.

“Glad I could help,” John told him.

“I’m Moss.”

The one with
the blond hair nodded. “Sullivan.”

John and the others introduced themselves.

“Glad that’s taken care of,” Moss said, pointing to the truck the dead men had driven up in. “Now that we’re no longer strangers. I hope you’ll excuse us while we liberate this here vehicle.”

John
headed back to his truck, his mind on the road ahead. Now that they knew the people who took Diane, Kay and the kids were headquartered in Oneida, it seemed like the logical place to start looking, albeit carefully.

“
I hope you’re not thinking about heading into that hornets’ nest,” Moss stated matter-of-factly.

Brandon and Gary were already inside and doing up their seatbelts. John was in the act of pulling the driver’s side door closed when he stopped.

“You just saved our skin,” Moss told him. “So let me give you a piece of advice that may just save yours. You head in there now, with nothing by your side but a boy and an unarmed man, and you might as well start digging three graves.”

John always prided himself on plo
tting a careful, logical course. Emotions got you killed, a sentiment Moss was echoing at this very moment. But he couldn’t just sit by planning when he knew the ones he loved were in such grave danger. With no authorities to call, John would need to become his own law enforcement. He glanced over at Brandon and Gary.

“If either of you want out now I won’t hold it against you.
You should know that where we’re going, people are gonna die and there’s a chance it could be us.”

“What other choice do we have?”
Brandon asked. “Stand around while my mom and sister are killed?”

John’s gaze turned to Gary
, who swallowed hard. “All right,” he said, his voice shaking slightly. “Let’s do this.”

“I appreciate the heads up,” John told the men outside. “But we don’t have much choice in the matter. I hope you understand.”

Moss shook his head and John wondered even then if he was making a terrible mistake.

•••

The main road into
Oneida was marked with the occasional car wreck. Many of them looked abandoned, some smashed from collisions, most left to rot after the EMP. All of them had been nudged off the road and onto the shoulder. That told John a certain amount of traffic passed this way.

Approaching
the town by vehicle would draw far too much attention, so John pulled off the road when he found an opening in the forest where he could stash Betsy. She didn’t need to be more than a few feet in, since the camo net would keep her from being seen by anyone passing by.

Once stopped, John got out and opened the hatch at the back.
George eyed him suspiciously.

“I’m not here for you
, big fella,” he told him, removing a box of 5.56 green-tipped rounds as well as some .40s for his pistol. Those were the only weapons they had and the few remaining rounds, but John knew their biggest asset would be the intel they were about to gather. The plan was to walk the few miles to town and find a nice spot from which to observe the comings and goings. Depending on how many residents they saw walking around, there might even be an opportunity for John to slip in amongst them undetected, his S&W concealed in his back waistband.

Taking a page from his
colleagues in the Special Forces, he understood that a successful mission was often one where shots were never fired. Bring the weapons along, sure, but pray you don’t need to use them. As soon as rounds went live, the chances for a successful conclusion dropped exponentially.

John communicated the
emerging plan as they walked through the forest, shadowing the road. He handed Brandon the keys as they went, keeping his voice low as he spoke.

“
What are these for?” Brandon asked.

“In case we run into trouble. You double
-time it back to Betsy and get yourself to safety.”

The flash of
doubt that swept over the boy’s features made John wonder whether bringing him along was such a good idea.

Nearby, a woodpecker knocked away at a dying tree.

John pulled to a stop.

“You hear something?”
Brandon asked.

“Just birds,”
Gary answered, even though the question wasn’t directed toward him.

John turned and faced the boy.
His heart was telling him taking the boy along was a mistake. “Go back to the truck,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean what I’m about to do goes against all of my training. My emotions are screaming for me to charge into Oneida and free everyone. My training is telling me to lie low and watch for the place for a few days.”

“But you might need backup.”

“Maybe,” John said. “But I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself if you were hurt because of something foolish I’d done. That’s why I’m telling you to head back to Betsy and wait for me there. Take the pistol and these extra rounds. If I don’t show by dusk, then bring Gary back to our camp.”

“You’re not the only one who lost someone,”
Gary said, raising his voice.

Brandon
crossed his arms and nodded vigorously.

“And what goo
d will you do your family if you’re dead?” John asked. “Besides, you don’t even have a weapon to protect yourself.” He turned to Brandon. “This isn’t a debate. Do as I say.”

John turned, continuing on while the other two stood and watched him leave. He was more than fifty yards
away before he heard the sound of their footsteps heading through the forest in the other direction.

He took this moment to
steady his breathing. The intense summer heat was making it hard to breathe, sapping his energy, but not his resolve. The feeling reminded him of the call to move into Iraq back in the spring of 2003. It had been his first time in combat and his heart had been hammering a wild beat in his chest. Sweat from the sweltering desert heat had poured down his face in a never-ending cascade just as it did now. The only thing missing in this Tennessee forest was the distinct odor of diesel fuel kicked up by the Bradleys as they rumbled ahead.

Keeping low
and moving from cover to cover meant John’s trek would take longer, but it also reduced the chances that he’d be spotted.

The road remained on his left and it wasn’t long before he spotted a roadblock. Four men, none of whom were in military gear. Their weapons were mostly A
Ks, which John felt was strange. Normally in a societal collapse, folks would grab whatever they had handy. In most cases that meant a shotgun or perhaps an AR like the one he had. At the very least he’d expected to find a mishmash of weapons.

Dropping low to the ground, John took a moment to observe the men. They looked like some sort of
militia, undisciplined and bored to tears. One of them was waving his rifle around in the throes of an animated story while the other three looked on laughing. John only caught snippets, but it sounded as though he was telling them how he’d mowed down a man who’d resisted his orders to hand over his hunting rifle.

Scanning the forest ahead of him, John didn’t see any other pickets set up. He guessed the first layer of their defense was still geared toward intercepting approaching vehicles.
He wondered if this was the same militia he’d encountered yesterday during his mad dash to find his family.

Moving further into the forest, J
ohn cut a wide swath around the men at the checkpoint.

A
mile further on, the forest opened into a series of acre-sized properties. This wasn’t the big city where folks were wedged into tiny parcels of land. Here there was space to spare. But this also meant the bulk of his cover and concealment had just vanished. John would need to move from house to house, covering portions of open terrain.

He
stopped for a moment and made a game plan. Once he reached the first house, he would move around back toward the shed and the derelict vehicles, always ensuring he kept them between himself and the road.

Already it was clear that
the city center and a train yard lay just ahead of him. Not that the latter was working, but when the government finally did find a way to swap out the newer high-tech engines for the older ones waiting to be mothballed, these rail lines would take on a whole new importance. Yet another reason why the weeks and months to come would resemble the 1800s in more ways than one.

The house before him was
completely boarded up. After that was a home with broken windows and a front door hanging off its frame. It hardly seemed as though anyone were living here and if John hadn’t spotted the sentries on the road back there, he might have wondered if he were entering a ghost town.

As
he set out at a quick pace, his AR gripped tightly in his hands, the weight of his tactical vest sloshing from side to side, he couldn’t help feeling exposed. This was usually where a half-decent shot with a Remington 700 put one right through your heart.

After scrambling to
the corner of the first house, he heard what sounded like a loudspeaker. The monotone voice from it sounded like the teacher from that
Ferris Bueller
movie John had seen years ago. The distortion was making it hard to understand.

The amount of equipment the town would need in order to run that kind of system was staggering.
Someone in Oneida must have had one heck of a Faraday cage—a metal enclosure designed to protect electronics from getting fried during an EMP blast.

John move
d to the far side of the house and peered around the corner. Once he saw that the coast was clear, he headed for the shed. Once past this ring of outer properties, John was sure he’d get a better view of the town.

Route 27 ran right through
Oneida and John was willing to bet that many of the important buildings would be along that road. Important buildings that might just contain his wife and children. But he wasn’t there yet. He’d have to cross the last few open properties before he reached a safe place from which to observe.

Breaking
cover, John wasn’t more than thirty yards from the next house when a shot rang out. There was nowhere for him to go except for a drainage ditch that ran between both properties.

Scrambling
down into it, John took a moment to catch his breath before he peered up to search for the source of the shot. Was someone hunting nearby? Or had the bullet been meant for him?

The
sharp crack from another rifle echoed from the town and this time the dirt kicked up near the lip of the ditch. Then came the distinct sound of men whooping and hollering in the distance and something else. An unmistakable sound that made the blood in his veins turn to ice.

Horses
’ hooves. Lots of them.

Taking another peek, John understood quickly that he was in trouble. His only guess was that they must have spotters looking out for approaching scavengers and other ex-military types like him.
Who else would still be alive in a country where law and order had completely disintegrated?

The men on horses,
perhaps a dozen strong, were moving quickly in his direction and suddenly John was glad he’d told Gary and Brandon to stay back. If the jig was up for John, at least he wouldn’t be bringing anyone down with him.

Think!
he scolded himself.

The closest house was less than fifty yards
in the opposite direction. The doors and windows were sealed tight with plywood, but it was his only real chance. Moving closer to the enemy wasn’t an option. But first, he would lay down some suppressing fire and hopefully buy himself a moment to escape.

Resting
his AR on the top of the depression, John peered through the scope. The men charging toward him were bouncing up and down in his sights, making them hard to hit. But he knew he didn’t need to peg the men. As much as he detested having to do it, he only needed to hit the horses carrying them.

Slowing his breathing, he
aimed and pulled the trigger three times. The first grouping struck the horse in the neck and it fell to the ground, tearing up a large chunk of earth, throwing the rider forward violently. He struck the ground, rolled and didn’t move.

John quickly readjusted and fired at the next man in line. Thankfully, this volley
struck the rider instead of the horse, dropping him from the saddle, leaving the horse to run aimlessly without him.

Seeing that they were under attack, the other mounted men
scattered left and right and John didn’t waste a minute, springing from the drainage ditch and across the open ground. A few of the horsemen saw what he was doing and called out to their comrades. More shots broke the humid summer air and thudded into the shed to his left. There was a good chance he wasn’t going to make it. John swung around the shed and used the angle to take out two more enemies moving on his right flank. He then fired at a third, but the rounds went wide.

Breathing hard
now, he popped his mag out, loaded a fresh one in and stashed the empty in the front slot of his vest. This was where experience helped. Someone who hadn’t practiced enough reloading in live fire situations would likely be shaking so hard he’d drop the mag on the ground, or maybe even leave the empty one behind like they did in the movies.

Checking around the other corner, John saw the rest of the
attacking force was nearly on top of him. An alarm sounded from the town center and he knew it could only mean more enemies were on their way.

The ground here was particularly uneven which was making it hard to build up enough speed. With the possible cover from the house looming only yards away, John
’s boot caught on a discarded tire from one of the derelict cars. He fell head first into the dirt. The grip of his AR dug into his belly as he hit the ground, winding him. His forehead struck a patch of hard dirt, causing bright starbursts to bloom before his eyes. With a light head and blurred vision, John began to realize the full extent of the trouble he was in. The overwhelming sense of peace enveloping him now was a dead giveaway.

Staggering to his feet, John willed his body to move.
The thud of hooves thundering closer and closer grew louder all the time. The horsemen must have had him in view because more shots rang out and slammed into the side of the house. John crashed into the wall, unable to fully stop his forward momentum, and skirted around the other side. Once there, he swung his AR up and opened fire at the nearest enemy. He was sure he’d hit him, but when he blinked, the man pulled his mount to a stop so he could fire.

Two
loud bursts echoed from somewhere over John’s shoulder and the man with the gun fell from his saddle. Looking behind him, he spotted two vehicles speeding in his direction. The one in front had its grill dented as though it had smashed through a barrier.

Or could it have been a roadblock?

The man driving had a mohawk and in his disoriented state, John wondered if he were dreaming that Moss, the man he’d just met, was swooping in to save his life. In the seat next to him was Sullivan. Gary was behind them, driving John’s Blazer. Hanging out the passenger window was Brandon, firing with the S&W at the other mounted men across the hood of the truck.

Both
vehicles rolled up on either side to form a protective barrier. Sullivan was out of the truck first, laying down suppressing fire. Perhaps realizing they formed too large a target, the men on horseback turned and galloped for cover.

H
ands pulled him into the Blazer. The two trucks gunned it in reverse and spun around. They weren’t out of danger yet. Rounds whizzed by as they sped away.

John was exhausted and woozy, but not nearly enough to keep from feeling a sting of humiliation. He’d broken his own rules and been saved by the very people he’d tried to protect.

So much for being Rambo
, he thought with a healthy dose of self-deprecation.

As the adrenalin
e began to subside, the world began to swim away from him. His last memory was Brandon in the passenger seat asking him if he’d been shot. John wasn’t sure. Then everything went black.