John pulled the flashlight from his utility pouch and surveyed the scene. All the attackers were either dead or gravely wounded. Reese and the others quickly disarmed them, ignoring their pleas for aid.
Confident the immediate area was secure, John was about to switch off the light when he caught sight of Reese’s shoulder.
“You’re hit.”
Reese glanced down. “Caught a couple pellets in the arm is all. Looks like our bud here wasn’t as lucky,” he said, pointing to the man from their group who lay dead. He was the third member of the expedition they’d lost so far.
It was horrible to admit, but John knew next to nothing of the dead man except for his age—early forties—and that he was from Oneida. He’d volunteered to come help them and said he could handle a weapon.
Gathering themselves, they pushed on. The gunfire from Barry’s group had begun to slacken. They needed to hurry. Surely by now the thugs blocking the exit had caught on to the vicious one-sided firefight that had just taken place. With any luck, the bandits would think their side had won, which would only help to cement the element of surprise.
Their vision now recovered from the muzzle flashes, John and the others came to the aisle that intersected the enemy position. Judging by the distant bursts of light as they returned fire onto Barry’s men, there weren’t more than half a dozen of them.
John and the others broke into two groups of two. Each would hug the edge of the shelf as they approached. The idea was that if the enemy decided to spray the aisle, the chances of being hit were greatly reduced. Plus, approaching from two different places would further divide the enemy’s fire.
In a burst of inspiration, John reached into his pouch, removed the diffuser from his flashlight, turned the light on and flung it toward the enemy position. The beam spun in circles, temporarily confusing the men near the door and also exposing where they’d taken cover. John was the first to fire. It didn’t make sense to use the Acog sight because of the darkness and so he made do with the iron sights and his best guess. The others with him followed his lead and it was immediately clear that the enemy had been caught completely unaware. They’d thought that by ambushing John’s men in the dark, they would make off with their weapons, vehicles and perhaps even intel on where they’d come from. Instead, they got exactly what they deserved.
“This one’s still alive,” Reese called out, pointing at the figure on the ground with the barrel of his .45.
Barry and the others were collecting the enemy’s weapons when John stood over him. “How many others are in here?” he asked the wounded man.
He was olive-skinned, maybe Mexican or South American. He shook his head and said something in Spanish.
Jerry stood by John’s side. “He speaks English.”
“How do you know?”
“’Cause he’s the one who tied me up. His name is Ramone.”
“Please, I beg you,” Ramone pleaded, suddenly finding his tongue. “We thought you were going to steal from us.”
John sneered. “Is that why you tied Jerry and the others up? ’Cause you thought they were looters? What have you been doing for food?”
Ramone didn’t answer and it was just as well because part of John thought he knew.
“What do we do with him?” Barry asked. “They killed three of our people.”
“Not like we can call the police,” Reese said. “You let a worm like this go and he’ll go right back doing the only thing he knows. Even if the police were still around, I’d have a hard time finding the motivation to call ’em.”
More suggestions rang in from those gathered and they ranged from mutilation to outright murder.
John turned to Jerry. “You were the one they tortured for a week. What do you say?”
Thirty minutes later it was done. The pickups were loaded with the bodies of the dead along with all the items they’d come to collect. It seemed sacrilegious to load the dead next to the things on their grocery list, but burying them here would deny their loved ones in Oneida the chance to grieve properly. The enemy were loaded onto a utility cart normally used for lumber and thrown into the Dumpster out back, a decision that was made less out of hostility for what they’d done and more out of practicality. There simply wasn’t enough time to dig graves for all of them.
With the truck beds full, there was one final act that needed to be addressed. The seven remaining men John had brought from Oneida as well as Jerry stood before the shower stalls, plugging their noses against the stench. Each of them looked on with a sense of admiration at a job well done. The focus of their attention was Ramone, bleeding from a wound he’d taken to the thigh, his hands tied above his head in much the same manner Jerry’s had been.
“What if some Good Samaritan comes along and frees this worthless piece of garbage?” Reese wondered, searching his pockets for a smoke.
“That’s why we have this,” John replied, producing a sign which he hung above Ramone. Little more than a single word, it brought back echoes of what justice must have been like in the Old West.
The sign read: Cannibal.
Chapter 18
Not long after, the five-vehicle convoy loaded with equipment was headed back to Oneida. The three casualties had meant that some of the men riding shotgun on the way down were now drivers. Among them was John. Seated next to him was Jerry. After spending a week held captive and stewing in his own filth, it wasn’t a surprise that his body odor could make your eyes water. Before they left, John had found the cleaning aisle and tossed Jerry a roll of car wipes. Smelling like a new Buick sure beat smelling like goat.
“I appreciate what you did back there,” Jerry said, rubbing the deep red grooves still left in his wrists.
“I couldn’t leave you hanging there to die,” John replied, feeling like he neither needed a thank you nor particularly wanted one.
“That too,” Jerry told him. “But what I meant was how you handled the Ramone situation. I think most men would have just killed him outright.”
“Maybe. Don’t think for a second the thought hadn’t crossed my mind. But if you give into bloodlust, it has a nasty habit of leading you down a slippery slope.”
Jerry didn’t look up. “That may be true. All I know is that he didn’t deserve a quick death.”
“The idea of hauling him back to Oneida to be tried and perhaps hanged had occurred to me,” John admitted. “After all, he did kill three of our people. But on the other hand, we were on his territory.”
“His territory?” Jerry exclaimed. “He didn’t own that hardware store anymore than you or I.”
“So who owned it then?”
“What do you mean?”
“Who owned the store?”
“How am I supposed to know? The corporation, I guess.”
John shook his head. “A corporation is a legal concept that’s only as strong as the courts and laws designed to uphold it. It’s part of the reason internet crime became so rampant in those last few years. You can draft up all the laws you want, but if they can’t be enforced, then all you’re doing is making people feel safe.”
Jerry smiled. “Sorta like the way we had to remove our shoes at the airport?”
“Precisely. There’s a term for it, you know. Security theater. Measures designed to provide a sense of safety in order to keep the public calm.”
“So how does this relate to Home Depot?”
John grinned as the convoy slowed to avoid a wreck on U.S. Route 27. “People still cling to the way the world used to be because it gives them a sense of security. Right now, that store doesn’t belong to a corporation. It belongs to whoever can keep others out. You ever heard the term possession is nine-tenths of the law?”