Like a first-person shooter video game, Jason executed the four men, blowing the contents of their heads onto the glass of the window. As the last of the four fell, Jason stomped on the huge man’s back and emptied his mag into his head and shoulders.
“House clear. Moving to the next target. Please advise.”
Alec radioed back as Jason slung his AR-15, drew his Glock and checked the breech. “Target two condos over to the east of you. We’ll shift fire in thirty seconds.”
“Copy that.”
Jason went out the way he’d come in and crossed two backyards. He radioed again. “Alec. This is Jason. Moving on the condo.”
He again slipped into the back of the house and murdered three more men at close range, this time with his handgun.
After repeating the process in two more condos, Jason ran out of ammunition.
“We’ll mop up the rest. Find cover and stand by,” Alec radioed.
Jason crouched behind a small rock wall, ran through all his mags, consolidating remaining rounds into one final Glock magazine. Once complete, he stared down at his handgun and waited.
A sob built up in his chest, a harvest of grief, terror, anger and horror at killing more men than he could count. His eyes swam with tears as he struggled to hold them back. An unstoppable moan choked his throat, and he heard a noise come out of his mouth unlike anything he had ever heard before.
A giant, pregnant tear rolled down his cheek, and he mashed it into his face, confused and angry with his lack of self-control. He swiped his wet face again with the back of his shooting glove for good measure and ground his emotions out, reminding himself that the battle still raged.
16
“…I HEARD FROM CAMP LAJEUNE again today. Some Jar Head Drinkin’ Bros checked in to say they’re hanging in there strong and sending out good vibrations to all the Drinkin’ Bros and their families. One of the Marines in LaJeune wanted me to reach out to his sister in Tallahassee. Barbie Martise. If you get the message, Barbie, your brother would like to know if you’re okay. Call me on 30 megahertz, VHF. Just a reminder to the boys cooped up in Camp LaJeune: ‘it’s not gay if you’re underway.’ Since you’re actually part of the Navy, I’m sure you already knew that…
“Got a call from Drinkin’ Bro Zach outside of Salt Lake City, Utah. His group of survival types just repulsed a huge attack from looters — hundreds dead. Zach says the looters welded up bulldozers and used them as tanks. I guess that’s what passes for military high tech now, welded up bulldozers.
“It’s official, folks: I’m running out of MREs. My trailer runneth dry. I still have plenty of booze, so I guess I can survive on that. If you’re in the Montrose area of Colorado, hit me up on 30 megahertz. I’m looking for a place to bring this party in for a landing. I could use a good, solid survival compound full of hot women. That’s my Christmas wish…”
Ross Homestead
Oakwood, Utah
Jeff’s eyes opened. Alena and Doctor Hodges hovered over him.
His eyes closed in a long blink.
The doctor whined, “I’m not that kind of doctor. I do liposuction, for Christ’s sake. This kind of trauma is not fixable without a surgical center and a specialist. This man is going to die.”
Alena yammered back at the doctor in that peeved voice of hers. Everything came through slow and foggy for Jeff, like watching TV from under a sheet.
Jeff blinked again, longer this time. He cracked his eyes as he felt someone jostle him. Alena was messing awkwardly with his gun belt, working Jeff’s handgun out of his holster. She got it out, and pointed it straight down at Jeff’s chest, holding the gun like it was a wet cat.
Jeff closed his eyes and time did a backflip. When he opened his eyes again, it was still Alena and the doctor standing over him.
Jeff could see Alena at the fuzzy edge of his vision, pointing his Glock at the doctor’s head.
“You’ve got a choice, Doctor. Either get your hands to work in this man’s gut, or the next surgeon who comes in is going to be cleaning your brains off the wall. What’s it going to be?”
Jeff chuckled, then passed out.
Jason and Burke Ross drove Bishop Decker and President Beckstead down Vista View Boulevard in a pair of Homestead OHVs. The wealthy neighborhood above the third barricade resembled Beirut, a burned-out war zone.
Homestead men were using Bobcat skid steers to remove bodies and haul the blackened, shot-up enemy armor away from the boulevard. Men dragged the machines to the bluff and pushed them off, tumbling ass over teakettle until they came to a skiwampus heap at the bottom. They looked like giant, dried-out insects flipped over on their backs.
At last count, more than four-hundred-fifty of the Latino gang had died, most of them working men forced to fight. Almost all of the hundred Tongans had died in the battle. Another hundred wounded Latinos clung to life in a makeshift infirmary jammed between the homes below barricade one. With Jeff in a coma, the Homestead doctors did as they pleased.
The Oakwood men dragged dead Latinos to a pit at the base of the bluff near the corpses of the burned-out front-end loaders.
The battle had forever settled the debate over force of arms for the Homestead. Everyone now agreed; in this new world, God doled out survival in a fickle deal of the cards. Vigilance, combined with dumb luck, decided the daily breath of them all. Never again would the people of the Homestead feel entitled to the next sunrise.
Every Homestead resident capable of carrying a weapon would now spend all day every day armed to Jeff’s standard. Gone were the days of only “gun people” carrying firearms. With hundreds of firearms littering the battlefield, every man, woman and reasonably-aged child would be armed.
Rifle. Handgun. Six rifle magazines and three handgun magazines. All men on guard duty will wear Level Three armor, capable of stopping a rifle round and a PASGT Kevlar helmet.
Jason and Burke had taken a moment earlier that morning to plan this excursion with the neighborhood’s Mormon leaders. Father and son drove the OHVs up to a row of bodies, every one of them in multi-cam uniform. Thirty-one Homestead fighters had died in the battle. Jason and Burke said nothing for a full minute as the bishop and stake president regarded the dead in silence.
Jason spoke first. “Sometimes standing by the wayside, taking no action, does no harm. Other times, people die.”
Bishop Decker turned his hands face up. “I would do things differently if I could. We just needed time to understand how things had changed.” Nobody from his ward had fought to defend their neighborhood. The bishop hadn’t even known about the battle until the sky filled with black smoke.
President Beckstead spoke. “These men died to protect our families. This will never happen again without our help.” Bishop Decker nodded in agreement and shame.
Jason and Burke had nothing else to say. The four men stood in silence for another five minutes, then climbed back in the OHV and returned to their homes.
“How’s it hanging, buddy?” Evan stood over Jeff’s bed in the infirmary. “You getting a little R&R?”