As they advanced, trying to control the unwieldy fire, he scooped up his rifle, calmly took careful aim and fired twice, chopping one to the ground immediately and sending the other—the leader, Nathan—into the grass, clipped but not badly hurt. The guy tried to get his weapon under control as Hatfield did the same with his rifle.
Hatfield got there first, firing away. But he only got dry clicks. He was out of bullets. So he lunged forward, feeling the heat along his back as he took the man down by the waist. The flame thrower dropped to the grass as Hatfield raised up and looked at the guy from above, his face suddenly small and pathetic. Without words, he seemed to be begging for mercy.
Hatfield lifted him to his feet, raised his fists. “Let’s go.”
“Huh?”
“You want this place? Fight me for it.”
Nathan spun in a desperate circle, looking for help. But he found none. He only got a haymaker from Hatfield that sent him back to the grass, eyes dead, body limp. He turned when he heard people running toward him.
It was a bunch of homesteaders, their faces warmed with smiles. “Sir, we got the front secured.”
Hatfield caught his breath and said, “Well… I’ve got the rear secured. Great job, guys! I’m proud of you all!”
But something in the distance, maybe fifty feet away and slowly closing in, caught his attention. Ten figures—six women, four kids, moving toward him, each carrying bags. He ran toward them.
Soon the faces came into focus. They were Jess, Tami, Justin, Jade, and her children. The other four women were Grace and the female homesteaders. They all smothered him with a hug. After coming up for air, he said, “What in God’s name happened to you guys? We were afraid something might have happened to the bunker!”
“Something did,” Jade answered, her eyes sad. “But we made it out—thanks to the escape hatch.”
“But it was busted!”
“Somebody fixed it,” Jess said, her face alive with a victorious smirk.
“And who could that have been?”
“Somebody with the calm, precise hands of a surgeon, that’s who,” she said.
“I’m proud of you,” her husband said.
“Well, I wanted you to do it, and that wasn’t an option. But I read somewhere a leader doesn’t expect his men to do anything she won’t do herself.”
They laughed and fell into another hug. “What’s in the bags, guys?” Hatfield asked.
“This is what we could save from the bunker. Medicine, a little food. Wish we could have gotten more.”
“We’ll be fine. That’s a promise. We’ll make it.”
AS THE SUN WENT DOWN, the day ended in a roll call. The names of all the remaining homesteaders were called. They each answered, loud and proud to have defended the compound.
Then more names were called. But these were not answered. They were names of the fallen homesteaders. The last was Captain Cecil R. Payne. He was buried in the compound's back yard with his old army fatigue helmet to commemorate his service.
Despite all the sadness in the air, Hatfield could see a spark in his men’s eyes. They had drawn inspiration from the fallen, and they now drew inspiration from him. And for the first time in his life, he wasn’t afraid of the responsibility. He was ready, a leader, his father, would have been proud of.
THANK you so much for taking the time to read my story!
Writing has always been a passion of mine and it’s incredibly gratifying and rewarding whenever you give me an opportunity to let you escape from your everyday surroundings and entertain the world that is your imagination.
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