The lead pickup careened off the road, into the ditch and then sailed through the air. Limp bodies were flung haphazardly from the bed of the flaming projectile. The other truck had spun several times and looked as if it would stop in the middle of the highway, until the front two Humvees slammed it forcefully to the other shoulder. The drivers of the rear Humvees had predicted the maneuver and braked abruptly to avoid a collision, while their team in the front blazed a path. With the road ahead clear, they accelerated ferociously.
Barrett quickly transitioned from shock to rage. He keyed the mic up in English for the first time.
“Shee-yit! We’re on the same team!”
No response.
“This is the unit commander for Alpha Squad, Texas State Guards, First Regiment, Padre Island. Identify yourselves immediately or we will return fire.”
Finally, a man responded, “Oh my God. Sir, do you have any casualties?” The voice of the squad leader was strained and audibly distraught. All protocol had been forgotten.
The other Humvees had been following the exchange and responded to Barrett in code, “All clear, Sir.”
Barrett engaged the man atop the overpass again, “Negative on the casualties. We’re taking up a defensive position. I want you and your squad off that damn bridge and down here with me, on foot. Now. We’ve a lot to talk about.”
“Affirmative, sir; we’re coming down.”
Ch apter 1
Jake
West Mississippi
He drifted in and out of that state of consciousness that was not quite asleep, but not quite awake. The sun was beginning to crest the loblolly and slash pine tops and kiss the pasture beyond with its warmth. As twilight fled once again, he was gently tugged away from his lull by the morning’s light. Jake was not sure how long it had been since he had last heard the coffee perking, but even a bitter cup would be satisfying enough. He grabbed the long-barreled revolver from the table beside him and slid it into the worn, leather holster. He stretched his arms high overhead, before sauntering into the kitchen. A smile crept across his face as he poured the cup and stirred in the smallest amount of creamer. The percolator was just another small trespass against what was to be expected, and he relished that.
His stroll back outside was more purposeful as he began to feel the coffee’s effects. Jake withdrew the revolver and slid it back onto the table. He sipped the coffee as he surveyed the back of his property and the adjoining pastures. It was peaceful and inviting, everything the world had ceased to be. The spring fog acted like a thick blanket over a distant pond.
Several wood ducks quacked argumentatively amongst themselves as they meandered aimlessly across the water. Occasionally they would dip beneath the surface for a hapless minnow, or perhaps some spongy bit of pond weed. He could faintly see a few white oaks beyond the fog and the pines, as the fields eventually gave way to the stands of timber and finally the hardwood swamp beyond. Satisfied with the serenity, he downed the last of his brew and stepped off the deck to scan the rest of the property, and reflect.
He thought to himself, how did we ever get so far off the right path? He knew the answer, even as he asked himself. It was incremental. The seemingly small and unrelated choices a people make are what ultimately destroy them. The swings of society’s pendulum were almost always met with a near-equal and opposite force, but the culture’s rudder never got quite back on the true course.
It was the nudges in the wrong direction: the values of a wiser generation that never connected with their sons and daughters, or the lessons of history that were lost or rewritten. He paused for a moment as he plucked a mandarin and rubbed his thumb across the leathery skin before continuing. One day, a point of singularity is inevitably reached. The nudges soon enough become shoves, and the worlds seems to change in a matter of days and weeks, rather than generations. A paradigm shift occurs before one’s very eyes, if they so choose to see it.
In one motion he lobbed the unripe citrus and lifted his hand to wave to Franklin Thames, his neighbor. Frank easily had three long and hard decades on Jake. His skin was weathered by years of working the land. The old man’s worldview was molded by the time spent in reflection of wars fought long ago, wars that he was too young to understand at the time.
Frank wore faded brown overalls with a dusty, western hat. His right arm cradled an ancient, lever-action carbine, and his left hand pinched a hand-rolled cigarette. The old man was standing over a heap in his pasture. He motioned Jake his way.
Sasha, Jake’s German shepherd, was already with the old man. She looked to be contently occupied with something firmly held in her mouth. Frank was the only other man Sasha would tolerate. Jake had tried to break her from leaving, but if Frank was tending to the cattle, she would split time between the two. Jake eventually relented, partly because he knew Frank appreciated her keeping watch for him while he worked.
Jake spread the barbed wire wide enough to duck through and approached the two. The heap on the ground was now obvious to him. Frank took one last drag of the tobacco before stamping it out with the heel of his boot.
“Jake, what’re we going to do? This is the second time this month.”
Jake examined what was left of the calf. By the looks of it, he reasoned, it had been field dressed sometime the night before. The object he had seen in Sasha’s mouth was a bone that she had retrieved from the remains.
“Frank, I’m sorry; we never heard a thing. How many calves does that leave you with?”
“Ten, but I expect them to be gone before much longer if I don’t bring them closer to the house. I don’t have the manpower to watch the livestock and defend the house.”
“I heard from Mr. Gaston that a farm not far from here was attacked two nights ago. There were six of them. The gunfire woke the neighbors. After they realized what was going on they rushed over and fought them off. They hit one of them. He ran off a ways, but bled out after his friends left him. The family didn’t even realize he was there until the next morning; everyone was too afraid to go outside.”
“Yeah, I heard about that. The sheriff showed up and took the body, but they didn’t even investigate. Son, they’re trying hard to stem the tide and losing ground every day. We’re on our own out here.”
The two men continued on with what might be considered the small talk of some strange new world. Sasha playfully gnawed at her bone, occasionally looking up at the two and tilting her head to the side, as if to admit confusion at some bit of news or gossip. The men mused about the farm, and how fortunate they were to actually have neighbors close enough to come to their aid. Jake and Frank realized, without mention, the similarities between the farm and their own.
Jake had bought twenty acres from Frank nearly a decade earlier. The two had met through a realtor friend of Frank’s. Frank needed the liquidity to continue running the farm, but didn’t want to openly list the property and deal with the numerous, random, potential buyers stalking through the tall ryegrass and under the aging pecan trees that dotted his winter pasture. She told him that it was just part of the process, but he refused. “You’ll know the right buyer when you meet him – and when you do, send him my way.” And so she did.
Franklin Thames and Jake Sellers had a longneck and a long talk befitting old friends in Frank’s hayloft overlooking the property that first evening. The next day they began the process of transferring the property. It took another week to formalize the purchase, but to both men the handshake after that first evening was the true point of sale.