The Road Home Read online

  “Yeah, I remember. Network affiliate. That one is gone. We went by it a second ago.”

  “Stop on one of the music stations,” she said. “Maybe they’ll have a news update between blocks of songs.”

  Junior nodded, stopping the seek when a country-western station came on.

  “You like country?” Rachel asked.

  “Mostly,” Junior said. “You?”

  “Some,” she said. “I like that outlaw stuff from the seventies and early eighties.”

  “Waylon and Willie,” Junior said. “Damn straight.”

  They listened for a while as the convoy rolled east on Highway 60, closing in on I-25. Junior took a minute to look at the apps.

  Rachel glanced at him. “See anything?”

  “I think the enemy hits on I-25 south of Albuquerque are dead.”

  “Not surprising,” she said. “They’re completely exposed. What about Texas?”

  Junior moved the app view east, his brow furrowed. “Dallas is still a nest of heathens, but they seem to be moving into a smaller number of bigger clumps.”

  “Safety in numbers,” Rachel said.

  “Yeah. Something’s going on at the two biggest lakes near the city.”

  “Maybe they think they can hide out there.”

  “Those lakes are in very populated areas,” Junior said. “Don’t understand why they’d want to try that.”

  “Never been to any of them,” she said.

  “Whoa.”

  “What?”

  “The Gulf is full of icons, but all of the hits along the gulf coast are gone.”

  “You think boats picked them up?”

  He looked at the phone while he moved his finger on the screen. “No, I think they’re all moving north.”

  “Why would they do that? Oh, shit, I’ll bet the enemy navy is gonna do something bad.”

  “That’d be my guess.” He chuckled. “You know what’s no longer a problem?”

  “What?”

  “Big Bend. Hell, most of the border between Mexico and Texas is clear, and I see a lot of enemy fighters heading southwest.”

  “They’re fleeing back into Mexico?” Rachel asked.

  “Looks that way. It makes sense when you think about it. There are probably less people using the apps to hunt them in Mexico.”

  “We should be bombing the hell out of them,” Rachel said.

  The block of songs ended, and the DJ came on.

  “Some of you are probably wondering why none of the news outlets are working. You shouldn’t be…you should be listening to us.” Somebody in the background laughed.

  “Knock it off, Quincy.”

  “Just a little levity, folks,” Quincy said. “Here’s the best scoop we’ve got, fresh from the internet, which is the only source available.”

  “Careful, Quincy,” said the background voice.

  “No guts, no glory. Here’s what we’re seeing for those of you who aren’t online. The Federal Government is being run by somebody, and there’s some cleanup going on. All the major news outlets were colluding with the enemy. They’ve been temporarily shut down so the enemy operatives can be removed. Oh, and two of the owners of said outlets were stopped trying to leave the country this morning. Take it how you want.”

  “Tell them that isn’t the station’s opinion,” the background voice said.

  Junior snickered. “These guys ain’t very professional.”

  “Rather have it that way. We’ve had statist propaganda for long enough.”

  “Oh, I agree with that a hundred percent,” Junior said, shooting her a glance.

  “There’s rumors of open revolt in New England and the mid-Atlantic states today. Apparently the local governments tried to keep martial law going even as their leadership in the statehouses and DC were arrested or killed. The public didn’t cotton to that.”

  There was silence for a moment, and then a commercial for a local car dealership came on.

  “Well there you have it,” Junior said. “The worm has definitely turned.”

  “So it would appear.”

  “We’re in a dangerous time, though,” Junior said.

  “Seems like it’s getting safer.”

  “Think about it. Somebody in the Federal Government shut down the free press.”

  “That press hasn’t been independent of our ruling class for years,” Rachel said.

  “In most cases, I’ll agree,” Junior said, “but you’ll notice that we can’t even get non-mainstream outlets on the radio at this point. We need to make sure that the First Amendment is followed.”

  “Yeah, wonder why that producer sounded so worried about Quincy opening his mouth?”

  “Exactly,” Junior said, “but at least he got his comments out there.”

  “We’re close to I-25.”

  “I can almost smell Texas. Home sweet home.”

  Rachel laughed. “Yeah, I love her too, I gotta admit. We’re still quite a distance, though.”

  Junior moved his fingers on the screen, and typed in some characters. “Between four and five hours.”

  “That’s a big range,” she said.

  “Probably closer to five hours, given our speed. Maybe even a little longer.”

  “What does the map app say?” she asked.

  “Four hours and fifteen minutes. Don’t know what speed they base that on, but if it’s the speed limits for the roads we’re travelling, there’s quite a few 75 and 80 MPH stretches.”

  Rachel sighed. “We might as well settle in, then.”

  “Yep. How are you feeling? Let me know if it’s too hard not being able to shift position.”

  “I’m not that far along yet, you know,” Rachel said, shooting him a grin. “At least the morning sickness is slowing down, finally.”

  “I hope the war is over before things progress too far.”

  “You and me both, but I’m glad we did it,” she said.

  “Me too.”

  “Get some sleep, Junior.”

  Chapter 21 – The Trestle

  Alex and Doug were pinned down in the Trinity riverbed, hugging the giant levee as machine gun fire and mortar rounds pelted the area from the roofs of the court and prison complex.

  “We’ve got to get the hell out of here,” Alex said. “They’re gonna land a mortar round right up our butts.”

  “There are teams trying to get into the buildings,” Doug said.

  Somebody next to them laughed. “They have to break into a prison and fight their way up flights of stairs to get those guys. I’ve been in that building before.”

  “Resident?” Alex asked, shooting him a grin.

  “No comment,” the man deadpanned.

  There was a loud explosion only forty yards from where they were, a mortar round landing in the middle of huddled men, their bodies flying into pieces.

  “Dammit,” Doug said. “We need to leave now. They can’t get all of us if we start moving.”

  A group of men who were near the blast got up and ran, a few of them cut down by machine gun fire, but most of them making it a little past where Doug and Alex were, heading for the train trestle about twenty yards past them.

  “We’ve got to kill those men on the roof,” Alex said. “Wonder who has the mortars? I know we had some.” Another mortar round came down, a little further away from them than the last, more mangled pieces of men flying through the air. A larger group got up and ran to the east.

  “C’mon, here’s our chance,” Doug said, getting up, Alex joining him. They ran as fast as they could with the other men, the machine gun fire coming at them, some dropping as they went, Alex and Doug making it past the train trestle and diving to the ground.

  “I’m too slow for this kinda crap,” Alex said, breath coming hard and fast.

  “You’re doing fine,” Doug said, trying to catch his breath.

  The ground exploded near the spot they’d just left, killing more patriots. Alex looked at Doug with eyes wide.

&nbs
p; “Damn, good thing we left.”

  “You got that right,” Doug said. “Look, there’s a mortar team setting up a little further down.”

  “That spot is too damn exposed,” Alex said. “They’d better watch themselves.”

  They watched as the frantic team set up, but a machine gun fired, hitting two of the men, just missing the box of mortar rounds next to them.

  “Son of a bitch,” Alex said. “Let’s go help.”

  Doug nodded, sweat dripping off his forehead. They snuck over, where the last of the men was trying to finish setting the mortar up.

  “Move it closer this way, so we’ve got some cover,” Alex said. The man looked at him and nodded, and then he fell, a single sniper bullet to the head.

  Doug looked back at the tower, flashing the finger in that general area, and then rushed out, grabbing the mortar and yanking it back, a bullet crashing into his upper left arm.

  “Doug!” Alex shouted, crawling to him, grabbing his foot and pulling with all his might, getting him back behind the trestle. Doug still had a hand on the mortar, and now it was out of view of the tower.

  “Oh, God, this hurts,” Doug said. “We need that box of rounds.”

  “I’ll get it,” Alex said.

  “You’re too slow and fat,” said the man they’d talked to before they ran. He was wiry and young, and he scrambled to the box, grabbing it as a round passed right by him, hitting the body of a fallen man with a thud. He made it back.

  “Nice job,” Doug said. “What’s your name?”

  “Julio,” he said. “This is gonna be a hard shot. That’s why they had this thing where they did.”

  “I think it’s doable,” said another man, older, wounded in the calf. “We need a high arc anyway. How many rounds in that box?”

  “It looks full,” Doug said, looking inside. “There’s at least twenty.”

  “Might take that many to land one on the roof,” he said, crawling over. “I know how to set these up.”

  “Be my guest, man,” Julio said. “Let us know how we can help.”

  “What’s your name?” Alex asked.

  “Mark,” he said. “Hold it up while I get the legs positioned right. Wish it was flatter here.”

  “Seriously,” Doug said, wincing as he tried to move out of the way.

  “You’re losing a lot of blood,” Alex said. “I’ve got to put a tourniquet on there.”

  “Please do,” Doug said. “Rip something off my shirt.”

  Alex nodded and did that, then tied the piece of cloth as tight as he could above the wound, which slowed to a trickle. “Too tight?”

  “It needs to be tight,” Doug said. “Thanks.”

  “I’m ready to take a test shot,” Mark said.

  “Go for it,” Alex said.

  He nodded, dropping a round into the tube. It popped up, flew through the air, and exploded. Machine gun fire started up, smacking the trestle, a few rounds getting through, but nobody hit.

  “We need a spotter,” Mark said.

  “I’m on it,” Julio said, rushing up the hill, poking his head above the train tracks for a moment, then getting down fast as bullets whizzed in that direction. “You went past it. Hit the building two doors to the east. Crank it up a little higher and move it to the left a tad.”

  “Thanks,” Mark said, changing the range slightly. He dropped another round, which popped out and flew, the explosion breaking glass and starting a car alarm.

  Julio slipped his head up again for a quick look. “Much closer. Up a little higher, and still more to the left. You’ve almost got it.”

  Mark made the adjustment as more machine gun fire hit the trestle, a round getting through and hitting a man, who screamed in pain, his abdomen turning crimson through his white t-shirt.

  “Shit,” Doug said, watching in horror.

  Mark finished his adjustment and dropped a new round into the tube, this one exploding quicker, men screaming in Arabic.

  “Bullseye!” Julio said. “Hit them again in that spot, and then move it to the left a little more.” No gunfire chased Julio out of view this time. Mark fired another round, landing on the roof again, men screaming, secondary explosions starting, and then an enemy mortar round flew over their heads, right into a group of men about forty yards to the east of them.

  “Dammit!” Doug said. “We need to get east. The machine guns probably won’t hit us now.”

  Alex nodded, watching as Mark fired another round, more to the left, hitting the left side of the tower’s roof.

  “Nice shot,” Julio said. “Shoot two more and let’s get the hell out of here.”

  Another enemy mortar round flew, going a little wide, landing by the bank of the river, not hitting any men this time.

  “Where’s that mortar fire coming from?” Mark shouted.

  “Behind the building someplace,” Julio shouted. “I can’t see it. The whole roof is on fire now. Don’t have to lob any more up there.”

  Mark nodded as more men got up and rushed to the east, getting themselves out of mortar range as yet another round hit, this time taking out a group of about ten men who were further down the levee wall from the mortar position. Dirt and body parts rained on the men.

  “Shit,” Alex shouted, knocking a piece of red flesh off his forearm. Mark fired again, hitting the parking lot behind the towers, setting off car alarms, secondary explosions going off. They listened for several moments.

  “Hey, man, if you didn’t hit that mortar team, you at least made them move,” Julio said. “I say we get out of range.”

  More machine gun fire started, coming from the north.

  “Who’s that?” Doug shouted.

  Julio looked, turning back to them with a grin. “Our guys, coming into that facility. We got their asses.”

  The relieved men laid back for a moment, finally able to relax, and then they heard it. A low rumble coming towards them at breakneck pace.

  “Oh no, that’s water,” Doug cried, pointing with his good arm to the east, as water raced down the channel, men trying to climb the levee wall, scores getting dragged into the raging flood.

  “Quick, climb!” Julio shouted. Men scrambled up the wall as the water approached, Alex trying to pull Doug up with him.

  “Leave me,” Doug shouted. “I can’t get up there with my arm shot up.”

  “Bullshit,” Alex said, pulling harder on him, Mark reaching for Alex, pushing hard against the levee with his good leg, others trying to help. The water crashed into them, and they were spinning down the channel, trying to hold their breath, some smashing into the structure of the trestle, others grabbing support beams, their bodies flailing in the water as they tried to hold on with all their might. Alex lost Doug’s hand, then Mark’s as they tumbled with the water, debris, and broken men.

  Chapter 22 – Triage and Terror

  “They hit the top of the towers,” Greg said, rushing into the back of the bail bonds office from the waiting room. “It’s on fire. They hit it several times.”

  “Good, then let’s go check for survivors in the bus,” Kitten said, getting up.

  “Don’t go out there,” Mary said softly. “You’ll be shot.”

  “Our side killed the snipers,” Greg said. He looked at Vanessa, Kitten, and Trish, who nodded yes to him. They ran out to the bus, going to the shattered door.

  “Anybody alive in here?” Greg shouted.

  “Me,” said a woman’s voice towards the front.

  “I’m alive, barely,” croaked a man towards the back.

  “Help me,” said another woman.

  “C’mon, let’s get in there,” Greg said, leading the way, the team stepping around broken bodies and glass, blood thick on the floor. Kitten stopped by the woman in the front to assist Greg as Vanessa and Trish went further back. Gunfire sounded, shocking all of them down to the floor.

  “That’s too far away,” Greg said, “and it’s probably our guys anyway. That fast gun is an M60, and I don’t think
the enemy has them.”

  “Hope not,” Kitten said. They looked at the first woman, who had bad wounds in her pelvis and thigh, blood still dripping down her leg.

  “Apply pressure here, while I look for some cloth to bandage it.

  “This man just died,” Vanessa said.

  “The woman back here is alive,” Trish said, “but she’s pinned under several bodies, and she’s got a glass shard sticking into her neck. Might be dangerous to remove… it’s close to her right external carotid artery.”

  “Don’t touch that,” Greg said. “See if you can move the bodies off her. I’m coming back there to help after I find something we can use on the woman up here.” He saw a shirt on a dead person that looked relatively clean, and tore a large piece from it, folding it several times and rushing it over to Kitten, who put it on the wound and pressed.

  “I know what to do,” Kitten said. “Go help Trish.”

  “I’m here too,” Vanessa said, reaching the pile of bodies, pulling the first one off the woman’s legs.

  “The gunfire is slowing down,” Kitten said.

  “Yeah, noticed that,” Vanessa said. “Maybe the battle here is just about over.”

  “Get down and be quiet,” Greg said, seeing a band of Islamists running down the street, close to the bus. The team froze with their heads down, trying to be silent, and then gunfire erupted, the Islamists falling on the street as citizen fighters ran up.

  “My God, look at that bus,” a citizen shouted. “That was the bus with the doctors. I saw it leave.”

  “We’ve got wounded in here,” Greg shouted, showing himself. The citizens rushed over to help.

  “Oh God, do you hear that?” one of the men said. “Rushing water.”

  “No!” Kitten said. “My dad’s in the riverbed.”

  “He might not be down there anymore,” Greg said. “Stay focused.”

  Kitten continued to apply pressure to the wound as several citizen fighters entered the bus, through the emergency door she had used earlier, helping to pull the rest of the bodies off the wounded woman in the back of the bus. The rushing water was louder now, the sounds of screaming and yelling coming from that direction.

  “Oh no,” Kitten said, tears running down her cheeks.