Throughout my career as the deputy sheriff, the focus of my attention, during the more boring parts to my job, has been the ceiling. During the last few days, my focus had been shifting from my Colt M1911 .45 caliber pistol and the Raider in the last jail cell from my desk on the right.
"C'mon! I know pretty gosh-darned well that you have some freakin' Psycho!"
I've liberally cleaned up his language.
"I've told you once, and I'll tell you again, all I have is alcohol, and I can't bring you any. I do not, nor have I ever, owned any Psycho."
His withdrawal from the hallucinogen was killing him, but I won't ease it. That's pretty much the reason he isn't on the Golgatha Gallows right now anyway.
"What the freak are you holding out for? C'mon! I'll even hook you up with a hooker who owes me a favor! C'mon!" His shark smile didn't help him at all.
"No."
"Money? I've got money! How bout 700 caps?"
The money of the wasteland is bottle-caps since paper money had been incinerated and what little was left didn't last long.
"No."
"800?"
"No."
"Okay, ya pushed me. 1,200 caps"
I walked over to the cell and pistol-whipped him through the iron bars.
"What was that for?"
"You're getting near my price."
"Alright… 1,250 caps?"
I pulled back the hammer on my pistol.
"Fine. You've made your point." The criminal rolled over on his bunk and shivered.
He hadn't actually gotten to my price; he was just getting on my nerves. Holstering my pistol and releasing the hammer, I dragged myself back to the desk and returned my attention to whatever was around the room. Eventually my gaze focused on a small sign near the door. To my experience, the customer was always wrong, but nobody listened to me on that one. With the junkie finally quiet, I walked outside.
The air was warm and humid, that night, with the faint smell of methane courtesy of the east winds. The streets were, and still are, well kept, if for no other reason than for one thing, there weren't too many cars, and two, litter hasn't existed for a long time. The night sky shone brilliantly with stars, more stars, it seemed, than had been there the night before or the night before. I sighed then looked around. The Dale County lockup was on a hill overlooking a pre-war Laundromat but was now a trading post where you could get a tough leather jacket, made from prized Brahmin, for as little as three gecko pelts, six magazines of 7.62 ammunition or 1200 caps. Most people traded in ammo for that, since geckos tend not to go down with one shot like before the war, but apparently they mutated into the four-foot tall, thick-skinned vermin you see today. It was pretty silent tonight, and I just stood there until a high screeching voice caught my attention from across town.
"George, get in this house this instant!"
"Woman, I'll stay outside as long as I want to, and since it's only eight o'clock, I'm stayin' on my porch!"
"Don't do that, you'll catch your death of cold!"
"Fine, you 900-year-old wench!"
"And I love you, too."
It was a true love story. Now if they would only shut up. The Chinese Nuke destined for Fort Rucker, had missed by four miles, but still completed its intended objective. Buildings as well as many weaker structures, with the exception of bridges, were completely laid flat. That bomb flash-fried and then irradiated the unprepared populace, until, even three generations after the war, a town the size of Ozark, with all of its 1,250 people was a city. Its proximity to a Brotherhood of Steel Bunker made it a trading hub of this chunk of the wastes, which meant that we were a small town with the responsibilities of a pre-war metropolis. As such we were prime targets for raider attacks. Mr. George Watts had downplayed that situation and wanted to stay on his porch come hell or high water. Mrs. Ethel Watts had underestimated our town militia and relationship with the Brotherhood and wanted them to live happily ever after in a four by twelve concrete box, if she had the opportunity. Now the whole town suffered from her.
Another sound, this time mechanical, roared through the silence. I couldn't pin down the source until the dune buggy screamed into the parking lot of the jail. Harry Wilkes stepped out of the roaring contraption.
"Hey, I've got some news."
"Spill it."
"The Brotherhood is planning a major attack on Dothan and their slaving operations."
After the war, Dothan had lost all sense of civilization and became a den of evil. Slavery, drugs, gambling, prostitution, and various other forms of hedonism ran rampant in Dothan. In fact, the fort in the center of town had walls with a line of lynched bodies on the streetlights leading up to them.
"Great, guess there was something to that rumor of lightbringers and lasers being found by them."
"Well, that's a pretty good reason for the Brotherhood to go, always after new technology. Besides, that's why they've been in the area so long anyway."
"Yeah," he produced a military radio from seemingly thin air. "Their frequency is 173.02. It's already on it. The raid is scheduled for nine in the morning. Then after that, we re-enforce the Brotherhood forces after the raid on the slave camp and Ozark will get an extra ration of medicine and ammunition."
"I've got the feeling there's a 'but' comin' on."
"Yeah, we've gotta assist in the main assault on Dothan, so we can cease raider activity in this region."
That got my attention. Our trades with Enterprise, Brahmin Fields, and Junktown were getting less and less profitable mainly because Dothan was sucking up everything.
"Got it. Call the boys in the morning, we're gonna sit around the radio."
"Roger, I'll get to cleaning my guns."
"You do that. Dismissed, Sergeant."
He buzzed off to his home in the buggy. I had less than an hour left on watch. I spent that time cleaning my weapons.
The next morning, we all gathered in he parking lot of the county lockup. I made a mental check of weapons and people.
Let's see… We have five riflemen, three close-quarters specialists, a sniper, a squad automatic gunner, a single Hummer team with gunner and two grenadiers, including myself. In other terms, three AK-47's, two M-16's, a .30-.06 with scope, an M-249, an old M-79 and my very own M-14 with scope.
These weapons and their owners were lined up by rank at the jailhouse parking lot. The vehicles themselves were in the area just downhill from the lockup. All members were either facing me or the chalkboard next to me. The chalkboard had a map of the operational area of the Brotherhood mission. On the other side of the chalkboard were estimates on the resistance, ranging from eight men to forty. Most estimates took into account any possible machine gun emplacements and towers around the slave camp. On the map itself was the camp: Three buildings facing a central green area with minor entrances on the sides. The center area was occupied with two sandbag bunkers near an old fountain and a makeshift snipers nest on one of the three trees. Near the tree-lined entrance, there were various obstacles to any form of straight-line approach, beginning in barbed wire, and ending in T51AE landmines, nasty things used to stop light to medium vehicles. This, of course was information that was about three months old, as militias don't get the kind of intelligence that an army like the Brotherhood does. However, the last attack on that position was three weeks ago by insubordinate raiders, and judging by reports, nothing much had changed.
"Hey, quiet down, it's coming on!"
"Okay, ladies, its show time! Sergeant, put it on speakers."
Harry attached the radio to the old prewar speaker set.
"Fox One, this is Box Car, what is your status?"
"Moving into position, ETA three minutes."
"Battle Plans?"
"We plan to take the entrance through the northern line of pine trees. Then, we clean out each building separately, starting with the most fortified one."
I nodded. This plan would work, as I doubt that the raiders spread out their base of fire and moved it to watch all sides. That is, unless their tactics had radically…
"Encountering enemies."
Corporal David Murphy picked up a piece of chalk marking where the Brotherhood squads were entering the battlefield.
"Farsight, open fire on gunner on the top of the light turret. Brian, ready your RPG, we're gonna get that flush out the bunkers near that building. Rage, lay down a base of fire after Farsight hits the turret gunner and then again after Brian hits the bunkers. Jo, stand by."
This guy had experience. Various sounds of gunfire erupted on the squad channel. The leader (Ridley) had been using his sniper (Farsight) to pick off entrenched gunners as his partner in crime (Brian) helped him get up close and personal. Rage was there for backup and Jo drove the Kenworth to and from the scene of the crime. The whole show was over in half an hour. Thirty raiders dead, five wounded Brothers of Steel and one to be buried on the greenest part of Golgotha, Rage.
With a certain sense of dread a Brahmin must get when the other stalls in the Butchers livery are empty but hers, I took the radio.
"Roger that Fox One, this is Dog One, we're mobilizing. ETA twenty minutes."
"Roger that Dog One, This is Box Car. We are sending additional reinforcements to Fox One's position, ETA twenty minutes."
The Brotherhood was certainly organized enough.
"You heard him ladies, get in some form of transportation. Move out."
The war had destroyed most of the cars. What we had was a few modified Ford model 2065 Highwaymen (four door). These cars carried the retro look dating to the 1950's and sported it well. The main thing is that they were made out of solid steel all over and the shocks could take a beating. They finally started making them like they used to just before Armageddon. We only have them because the owner of the dealership and all his family was in Montgomery when the bombs fell and the dollar had depreciated anyway. We also had a few model 2067 Chevy S-30's. They too were made of steel and had the Catallitic converters taken off so they could run on methane, the only plentiful fuel left. The S-30's were mounted with one M-60 each and the Highwaymen were armed with whatever the guy riding shotgun happened to carry. The good thing about that is that the M-249 and the M-16's use the same ammunition.
When we got there, the Brotherhood squad had just finished minesweeping the main entrance. Without the assistance of a metal detector, the squad had to do it the hard way: getting the sniper to stare at the ground, spot the mines and rake the ground with small arms fire. Crude, but effective enough. When we parked, I introduced myself to Ridley. Junior Knight Ridley was dressed in metal combat armor and carried an M3A1 Grease Gun like he knew how to use it. He was a light brown color with a Jamaican hair cut and a small cut on the back of his left hand. As soon as we arrived, he'd come up to greet me. He had a slight Jamaican accent when he said:
"Welcome to the newest acquisition of the Brotherhood."
I looked behind him. The slaves were stirring. Some of them weren't doing too well. I suspected that each family had sectioned off and was taking care of its oldest member. Ridley sensed that I was looking past him, turned to look over at the area I was assessing. I'd guessed there were five families there. They were of all colors and sizes, which drove home a couple of points my grandfather had told me.
Evil has no boundaries and doesn't discriminate. While it may be evil to be racist, evil itself isn't.
Ridley looked at me.
"Stitch, my medic, is checking them over. As far as we can tell, the slavers kept the younger ones healthy and used the older ones as blackmailing tools."
He also pointed Stitch out to me. Stitch was about thirty-eight, with long, unkempt hair and a large shock of gray hair above the center of his forehead. He wore a finely crafted suit of leather-combat armor like I had, but this one has the Brotherhood logo and a medics cross on the front. I asked him to introduce him to his squad. He did. There was Brian, Stitch, Farsight, Jo and himself. Brian was the same color as Ridley and had a closely shaved head. He was about half and again me size and carried two primary weapons: A Bazooka and an AK-47. Ridley didn't elaborate more on Stitch, except for the fact that he's also a surgeon and is pretty handy with a shotgun. Farsight was about my size and had her armor spray painted black. She carried an old M21 sniper rifle and when the time came, she could sneak around and pick a lock or two. Jo wasn't a good shot with anything, but when the situation presented itself she could hit the broad side of a barn. She was only in the squad because she could drive anything with wheels. As he said this, she'd just returned from delivering the sickest to Fort Rucker in the Kenworth and was now driving a Hummer. Ridley himself was a grenadier (like me) and the squad Mr. Fix-It. I'd always thought that the leader should be the one with the grenades, since a grenade in the right place at the right time could really take a toll on the enemy's list of strategies.
After that introduction, I introduced him to my squad. I had brought two squads, but I could only command one. I had Joel, Sam, Tequila, Harry, and David. Joel was my basic grunt and wasn't too bad at setting up landmines and dynamite without blowing himself to hell and back. He wasn't much to look at, but that wiry guy could move! Sam had a shotgun and a medical kit and knew how to use both. We didn't have any paint that stayed on anything for a while, so we picked him out by his old Pre-War John Deere hat. Tequila was another grunt. If it shot bullets, he'd use it. The big guy, however, used some more inventive items most of the time, such as spiked knuckles or a spear with dynamite tied to it. Harry was the team heavy. He didn't carry anything but an M-16, but he could use it! More than once I called the guy from four blocks away for support, and he'd run like it was Armageddon all over again, and waste three guys like war was going outta style! Not only that, he also reacts pretty well to the word "Incoming" and is pretty much immune to grenades like that. David was the team sniper. He wasn't too good at it, but he was getting there. In fact, he's only the sniper because it's his hunting rifle. Then I introduced myself.
"And I'm Dade Marshall. I'm the Easy Squad Leader and a Lieutenant in the Ozark Militia. I'm the grenadier and I also barter with the tribes that come to town."
By the time those pleasantries were over, the Brotherhood convoy arrived. In force.
You see, the basic plan called for four squads to launch advancing street to street attacks with maybe support from an S-10 or some other technical (which is any old civilian vehicle with a gun on it). The Brotherhood arrived with three Armored Personnel Carriers, and two Abrams tanks. This was probably going to destroy Dothan.
Couldn't have happened to a worse town.
General Murray was sitting on one of the Abram's tanks clad in Brotherhood Powered Armor. Powered Armor was one of the many wonders of the Brotherhood. From the outside in it was a layer of steel, titanium, aluminum, ceramics, a layer of leather and then cloth. A small fusion battery powers the suit with enough fuel to last a thousand years. In my honest opinion, it could withstand the fires of hell and outlast its wearer for millennia. When the tank parked near my Highwayman, I suddenly felt like less of a man. If you aren't one, you wouldn't understand.
"Well, good evenin' boys. If it isn't my favorite militia leader and my favorite up and comer."
We glowed with pride. The General's slow southern drawl seemed to make any compliment sound better. Maybe that's why he shot up the ranks so fast: the men under his command pushed him.
"Now that you've had your moment in the sun, it's time to get to business. Those raiders have been in this area too long. The local harassment of civilians has to come to an end. This plan had originally called for four squads, but recent intelligence has suggested that we meet them with full force for this engagement."
While Ridley could hide his apprehensions, I didn't. It apparently shone on me.
"Don't worry, we have come prepared for this additional threat. I've even brought along additional arms for your militia, Lieutenant."
One of the APC's opened up and a Brotherhood Quartermaster began passing out weapons to fellow Brothers and bartering with my militia. Most got more ammunition or medical stimulants. I got more grenades and a set of brass knuckles. You never know. All too soon, we rolled out.
After the war, the battered area outside of the Ross Clark Circle became of no consequence. In order to get into that Den of Evil, you need to get past the wall of cars and assorted junk, 300 feet inside of the circle. The walls are roughly two stories high, so in order to get inside, you'd need to either scale the wall or blow open the door.
"Fire!"
The Abrams fired its main cannon seventy yards downrange to the gate. The gate was completely destroyed, and we were met with no resistance. There are three sets of walls around Dothan. Between the outermost and the innermost is a type of No Mans Land, similar to the front entrance of the slave camp: barbed wire, machine gun bunkers in select positions and landmines.
Now this is the part where I'm just guessing: Between the second wall and the vipers nest would be the necessary things for a criminal city, namely Alcohol stills and granaries, kidnapped farmers and cattle, and the poor and stragglers who got in not knowing they couldn't get out. Inside the vipers nest is the Courthouse and the Civic Center. I'd say the courthouse is used as a raider palace and the Civic Center is a combination ammo dump/ motor pool. To continue on this line of speculation, it didn't make sense for the real defenses to begin until a hundred yards to the next wall which was about a thousand yards away. If they really wanted to defend this area, they'd have barbed wire, minefields, and machinegun positions all in the same place. It would tear us to pieces.
I was still mulling out my pessimistic predictions and possible strategies on how we might leave here with our lives, when the Brotherhood finished marshalling their vehicles on the other side of the wall.
"Okay, listen up!" The General's voice commanded our attention. He got it. "This is now the point of no return. There is no going back and deserters will be shot." He punctuated this by brandishing his M29 Revolver, just like Dirty Harry. "So, all squad leaders must make any additional changes in their formations, movements, et cetera, now before the bullets start flying."
I took that opportunity.
"Platoon! Listen Up!"
All present members of the militia gave me their attention.
"Dismount your vehicles. All that should be on those Highwaymen are drivers and one gunner. Check your weapons and equipment. Make sure your rifles, shotguns, pistols are loaded and the safeties for all are off, with the exception of your sidearm. Take up positions on the sides of the Highwaymen and keep your weapons in your hands."
I looked around. Other squad leaders were still murmuring. Ridley had his squad check their weapons and then had Farsight and Stitch stay in the Hummer as gunners.
I looked back at General Murray, then around myself. The streets looked like they'd been smashed by God's own hammer. The buildings had been long burned out and the few that had been unscathed were now home to stray dogs. Weeds and grass overran what wasn't covered in rubble. The whole time I didn't see a single solid pane of glass. On the streetlights were the bodies of the recently lynched. Not only were they lynched, signs were hanging around their necks.
Backstabber, Adulterer, Thief, Hypocrite, Rapist, Bored, His Turn
These silent warnings echoed louder than gunshots. General Murray must've sensed this.
"Okay, all move out!"
I, myself, lost in the small wonder of telling people to do something and watching them do it, had forgotten to complete the tasks I've given, which means that I had to do them while walking. I quickly ran through my equipment as the second wall appeared over the hilltop.
Steel Helmet, M-14, M1911, Grenades, Trench Spike, Monkey Wrench, Vest, Shins, Pack, Spare Magazines, and Scope. Bring it on.
I swear I didn't mean to say that last part out loud, but apparently someone heard me. A slug ricocheted off my helmet. I let myself fall backwards and looked around. A Brotherhood Paladin was pointing at the wall, but I couldn't see what. He too fell from a direct hit to the side of the metal vest. The tanks in the convoy were still moving, and as the last one in the line passed, I rolled in its wake.
"Sniper!"
I scrambled to my feet and kept close behind the Abrams. I couldn't see past it, every time I tried, the marksman would send a shot too close for comfort. Militiamen were now returning fire from any available cover, and to my right passed a Highwayman with one gunner firing his M60 wildly. All this time, the tank was slowly advancing.
The unmistakable click and roar of a rocket being fired caught my attention, and I dared a look past the tank. I was now seventy-five yards away from the second wall. On top of the wall were four visible turrets, one of which exploded from the rocket. The other three were now firing faster, scanning for targets and shooting them, no longer caring where those shots landed. That sloppiness gave me a window of opportunity and I took it.
Through the scope, head in the center, deep breath, shoot.
The scope bucked, and a gunman fell from the turret. The tank still advanced. I examined the ground in front of the tank again. A broken maze of sandbag walls and razor wire coils was laid out before it, around thirteen yards away, ending at the wall. The Highwaymen and other technicals had gotten to a sandbag wall about thirty yards from the wall before they came to a minefield marker, and were now raking the wall and ground with gunfire. On all sides were various bombed-out buildings with Brothers of Steel and Militiamen swarming into them like flies, working their way toward the wall though the buildings and alleyways. Bingo.
The path between the tank and the ruins was lined with ricochets, near misses, flying sand, constant adrenaline lined spasms and unsure footwork. I don't remember when I bit my tongue, but when I dived through the doorway, the pain sharpened in light of the cover. I scrambled to my feet, M-14 in one hand and my knife in the other. Without thought, I attached the knife to the end of the barrel through the hole in the guard. The next doorway led to an area that used to be a parking lot. On the other side was a group of militiamen, Sam and David were among them.
"Hey! What's the hold up?"
The greeting caught their gaze. "Them," one of them, a private from Alpha Squad, gestured. Through the doorway was a small barricade that blocked off a hallway with two raiders behind it. He immediately regretted sticking his hand in the doorway. Two gunshots were fired one from a magnum, and the other from a lightbringer, which hit him. My mind immediately blocked out the smell of atomized flesh and ozone, but Sam withstood it long enough to drag him away and treat him. I then did what any good commander would do in this situation: I threw a grenade at them. The explosion cleared the hall and blew one criminal to the roof before hitting a framing member and bouncing back to the ground. The other was severely burned and skinned, and slumped over as we rushed to the next building.
We were closing in on the wall fast with only twenty yards to go. The vehicles were now moving up, and the General's Abrams was about to fire its cannon at another gate again. I didn't stay for that; I had another building to clear. This next one was a rather large building that had its other end blocked off by the wall.
"Squad! Find the stairs, we're going over that wall!"
"Yes sir!"
The hunt for a staircase ended as quickly as it began. We filed up the stairs and before we knew it, we were at a second floor window and on the wall.
On the other side of the wall seemed to be areas for what the raiders needed, just like I'd expected. More slave areas, farms, and brahmin, and alcohol stills. I looked around several times, but I didn't see any raiders. This area was poorly guarded, since they knew that we weren't coming to the civilians, just the criminals. Over at the gate, the Brotherhood forces were pouring through the end of the old trailer. Some were planting charges so those vehicles could pass. In fact, some were ticking.
"Duck and Cover!"
Someone was apparently a mad bomber or something, because the sheet metal, wood and steel in the wall were just flying all over the place. The cars around the gate fell loose and were towed by the tanks. It took them about thirty minutes, a testament to the zeal of the Brotherhood. I spent that time looking around, as something dawned on me: These guys were comparatively rich. They had alcohol, which could be sold for medicine, food, armor and whatever else they needed in the wastes, but they stole it instead. It was the irony of the wastes; both sides in the war claimed to 'destroy evil' by nuking the guy with the resources, as they saw it. Logically, 'evil' should have been destroyed, but now it flourishes. In fact, the task of trying to re-civilize the United States was something equal to the task of pushing a boulder uphill. I hadn't realized it, but it was nearly noon. Time flies when you're exterminating scum.
The Highwaymen, S-30's (which I'd lost track of, thinking they'd been destroyed) and tanks had marshaled on the other side. General Murray was grumbling about something, as I jumped on his tank. I wasn't technically under his command, so it didn't harm me any when I asked: "What's eatin' ya?"
He looked at me and shook his head. "It's taking too long, they know were here, the element of surprise is gone."
"There are probably more gates other than the north-facing ones. Maybe there's some east, west and south gates. They're still expecting an assault from the north…"
"Son, I think you have a point. Expect that medicine in the morning." He meant for Ozark. I nodded, said "Thank you, sir," and jumped off the tank.
"Platoon! Regroup!" My militiamen rallied around me. The Highwaymen were beaten, but not severely, the real scars were on the S-30's. Still, the men inside were just fine. "Y'all up for a little country driving?"
"Yeah, somewhat." One of the drivers responded.
"Okay, Highwaymen numbers one two and three standby. S-30, number one, go back, Sam is treating a wounded private, pick them up, keep the private comfortable, and bring Sam back."
"Roger."
General Murray had gotten everyone else's attention but mine.
"- will take the East Gate, and Ridley and Marshall take the south gate. All wounded should stay where they are, we'll stay here with some medics."
Ridley nodded at me from beside the tank. I nodded back.
"Your objectives will be the courthouse and the Civic Center. Expect heavy resistance throughout." Oddly, this didn't surprise anyone in a position of authority (Non-commissioned officers, officers, quartermasters, etc.) but the lower echelons seemed shocked, especially the ones who looked like they'd just left boot camp. Maybe it's just me.
"Y'all heard the man, mount up."
They acknowledged, and we drove to the southern gate. Sam was in the same S-30 as me, shaking his head. "What's eatin' ya?"
"That guys skin was burned clean to the bone."
"Say no more. Cigarette?" Despite the end of the world, tobacco survived. In fact, it's a cash crop and its worth per pack is on par with cocaine or Psycho. He took it without hesitation. The end of the world had introduced worse things than cigarettes. Dothan, for instance.
"Yeah, thanks. Don't you want one?"
"Nope, my lungs are important to me. My liver - however- I can live without." With that, I withdrew a flask labeled "Vault 30" from my pack. Sam laughed all the way to the gate.
The gate itself was more reinforced than the others were, probably because this is the last line of defense in Dothan, after that, its bloody street to street fighting.
"Ridley?"
"I'm not wasting a rocket on that. Brian only has three, and we're gonna use it for room clearing."
"Okay, I can see that. Joel!"
Joel jumped out of a Highwayman and was standing in front of me in less that three seconds. This guy was definitely shot up with nerves.
"Chill, yo. We don't want you to blow yourself up when you take down that gate."
"Ya, Ya, Ya, Ya-ss, Yezzer! But, I, I ne-ne-nee-need some time ta-"
"Breathe!"
He sucked in a large gasp. "I need some time to determine the weak spots."
"What about the hinges?"
This thought hadn't occurred to him.
"Joel, give me your TNT. Sam, give this guy a ciagarette and a check up, he's acting like he's been shot."
"Nope," Tequila added from the Highwaymen he was driving, "he's just gotten fifteen ricochets off his head. He's probably got a concussion from all the ducking, diving, and running into walls he did afterwards."
Sam was conducting the flashlight exam. "Yep, he's lost it."
This sucked; I was down by one man. "Joel, put your shotgun and ammunition in the trunk of the a Highwayman, and walk to the aid station near the Northern gate."
"Yezzir."
After he gave me the explosive and put his weapons in a Highwayman, he sulked off dejectedly. Ah well, he probably would've been dropped like an atom bomb when we got through. An explosion shook my attention from him. The assault on the eastern gate had just started; things were about to get nasty. With all due haste, I armed the TNT and threw it at the gate. The explosion was funneled though the sideways livestock carrier and created a jet force in both directions. Ridley and I gave the advance order at the same time. We each hopped on the nearest vehicle and tore off into Central Dothan.
When we got in, four tanks had begun firing into weak, brick-faced structures, reducing them to roadblocks.
"I'll go left." I suggested to Ridley.
"Make sure you hit everything."
"Done and done." He meant clear every building in the ten-block by ten-block area we were now going to grind our way through. We separated and began our assault. The nearest building was a four-story building that used to hold offices.
"David, get to the roof and start shooting things." He withdrew his sidearm and ran into the building.
"Tequila, Sam, Harry, you're comin' with me." With that I ran through a nearby alleyway. Bullets were flying like rain. The Brotherhood had pinned down a heavily armed group of raiders in a one-story post-war shack. A lit dynamite spear was sent flying past my head, and landed in the chest of a raider, who wouldn't live long enough to feel the pain. That explosion shook a weight-bearing beam loose and a corner of the building caved in, kicking up dust and gravel. A couple of Brothers of Steel cleaned the room from something I couldn't see, the dust clouded my vision. It was safe to say that building was clear.
I was using the scene to come up with a plan, which was already half-formed.
"Okay, were gonna advance, take cover and fire on anything that doesn't look like Brotherhood or Militia material. Repeat as necessary, follow me." I took off from the alley, past the shack, and into another, smaller war zone a block closer. Half the buildings on this street had one entire side ripped off. Fallen bricks served as cover for my squad. It didn't take too long for a group of raiders to get across the street. Or rather, they tried. Between our collective fire, only three made it across. I waited, hesitant to enter that building. One minute later, one of them - probably only seventeen and a mass murderer - emerged with a suit made of hardened metal armor and a hand flamer.
"And on this episode of Stupid Raider Tricks…" Harry remarked. The kid fired it as he ran at us. He got only five feet before the flamer exploded and he caught fire. He only screamed for about three seconds before I stood and put three in his head. I didn't stop to see the results and rushed in the building. The second guy was in the ruined room, and tried to raise his pistol, but I lanced him with my bayonet. Before I could finish the wannabe, the last man found me and charged with the butt of his rifle extended before him, impacting me in the left side of my head, and knocking me over. The world faded and rang, and nonexistent lightning bugs flooded my sight. He got in two good hits to my chest before Harry gave him both barrels of his shotgun. Relief washed over me, and I relaxed and passed out.
When I could see straight a Brotherhood Abrams rolled by. In fact, it was the Generals tank. I leapt on the tank, and asked the most important question that came to mind.
"Wha'd I miss?"
"They're getting more entrenched, and they're all getting into the Civic Center. Soon they're gonna start rolling out buggies and other light technicals. We're going to shell the Civic Center and pin them in and send infantry to the courthouse." He paused. "Are you okay son? You look like you've got a concussion." I shrugged it off and thought of more important matters.
"Darn it, son of a butt monkey. Where's the courthouse from here?"
I've cleaned up my language liberally.
"It's just across the road from the building you came from on the other side."
"Okay, I'm on my way."
"You do that."
The Houston County Courthouse was nothing like the Dale County Courthouse, that much was apparent from the beginning. The building was about four or five stories tall, I couldn't tell. Blame it on the concussion. Ridley had arrived shortly after my squad, and another squad of militiamen had arrived.
"Okay, how do ya wanna do this?" I asked.
"We enter and clear every floor as an element. One of your squads provides lookout when we get the basements and defense when we get the upper floors."
"Done and done. Hey listen up! Easy Squad, stand your ground! Lay down a perimeter around the building and prepare to occupy the building on my command!"
"Nicely said. Let's do this." He nodded and put away his M-16 and produced an entry shotgun from his pack. I slung my M-14 over my chest and removed my 1911 from its holster around my chest. Everyone who didn't have a shotgun, sub-machine gun or a spear mimed us.
I kicked in the door. The lobby was home to a few stray dogs which didn't bother us, and a barrel fire. Without a word, I kicked down the door to the fire escape. My squad slowly, but surely, followed, weapons covering every direction. I led the way downstairs and into the basement. Inside the basement were various implements of torture, including a cat o' nine tails, shackles, and a homemade medieval 'rack'. I slowly walked around the corner and found a woman wearing tribal garments and a leather jacket. I froze: I'd never seen a female raider in my life.
"Well, what do we have here? Some fine specimens in your group stranger."
It suddenly dawned on me what this area was. I put five holes in her before she could finish her statement. If it hasn't dawned on you, I won't bother to explain; believe me, you don't wanna know. Behind her corpse was a Tribal in a dimly lit cell. I shot the lock off and opened the cell.
"Thank you for letting Ottowa out! Daisy was mean. She do bad things to Otto. Bad things that hurt. I must get to medicine man; she give me evil wounds that smell. Must find medicine man, quick!" And with that, he rocketed out the door. I couldn't blame him, but I don't think anything short of Voodoo is gonna help him. We advanced back up the stairs to the second floor.
The second floor was no less than a closet of small arms. Granted a really large closet, but a closet nonetheless. Ridley and Brian ran up the stairs after my squad had voluntarily been quiet for about five minutes. Ridley and Brian followed suit. As did Farsight and Stitch when they came up. None of us had seen a larger or better-organized stockpile of weapons in our lives. There were pistols, rifles, shotguns, sniper rifles, sub machine guns, grenade launchers, rocket launchers, and even small pieces of artillery, crammed into one floor. I think some of us even cried. I didn't. I broke the calm.
"You take what you personally want, I'll take what I want. We'll outfit our squads and then split it between the Brotherhood and Ozark 75/25."
"Deal."
We bolted to the stockpiles. I retrieved another 1911, about twelve grenades and the weapon of my dreams, a M29 Objective Individual Combat Weapon. This weapon was just becoming standard by the war. It had a bullpup-configured 20mm grenade launcher with an H&K G11 with an M-16 adapter. The grenades can be set to go off at preprogrammed ranges so it can even clean rooms. It even had a scope. The last thing I picked up was a Light Anti-tank Weapon, because you never know. When we'd all gotten our pick of the weapons -and Farsight stopped pining over finding the 30.06 of her dreams- I called up the reinforcements. We still had floors to clean.
The other floors were empty, former residences of people who would be referred to in the past tense forever. Most raiders had escaped to the civic center, the Alamo of Dothan. From the roof, I could see the Civil Center. There were now large holes in the doors and the dome itself looked like it'd collapse. Highwaymen and S-30's were parked outside the vehicle entrance to the Civic Center and the tanks were now covering the every opening in the building. It was time to clean it out.
"General, the courthouse is cleared. We have secured a large cache of pre-war weaponry and is now secured. Requesting orders." Ridley listened intently to General Murray's instructions.
"Yes sir, he is present… Yes sir. Without a doubt… Small arms, Big guns, and even some energy weapons… Yes sir, they have… They also have… Yes sir, I'll tell them." He closed the radio's receiver covers.
"The General says you're free to keep any weapons you've picked up and say that Ozark can keep twenty percent of the guns. If you get any weapons we've never seen, we are to turn then over to the Brotherhood scribes for reverse engineering and possible assembly line production."
"For now, we are to regroup and assault the Civic Center. We are to recover at least one enemy vehicle and kill Jared Grumman."
"Who's Jared Grumman?" I didn't hide my surprise at the name. I'd heard it in rumors, but I never connected the name to person.
"He's a man our informant has pinned overall leadership of the Raiders to."
"Ah. Well, lets more out."
I took one more look around before leaving the roof. Several sections of Central Dothan, mainly the post-war structures, were on fire. All of the pre-war structures had been battered in some way, shape or form. As I scanned to the west I found David, slumped over his rifle. My heart locked up and skipped a beat. Images and phantoms of having to tell David's brother that he's dead flashed in my head. I searched for a way out, something that told me I didn't have to. When he started breathing, I released the grip on my rifle I didn't even know I had.
"SAM! GET TO DAVID'S BUILDING, HE'S BEEN WOUNDED!"
Sam didn't take the time to acknowledge me. He was out and onto the street like lightning. He had a life and death situation on his hands.
"Platoon, listen up!" They were all on the roof and I had their attention anyway, but they didn't mind. "We're going to go inside that Civic Center and file in and kill them all." I watched them. Nobody seemed to mind.
"What we need to do is either kill them on the spot or flush them into the meat grinders outside. So here's what we're going to do…"
And soon enough we did it. The Platoon as an element filed out and got to the Civic Center. Ridley's Squad also accompanied, except for Farsight who would shoot any stragglers around. As quickly as we could, we lined up on the highest railing and prepared to throw our grenades. On the floor, the masses of raiders were running around like ants, loading weapons, fuelling makeshift buggies, and attempting organization. On a spazm of the mind, I gave the signal, and twenty grenades fell from the balcony to the floor. A pause struck the room, then the explosions. Methane ignited, setting off several tanks of fuel. Raiders flew through the air and scattered like flies, searching for cover on the floor between the twisted hulks of buggies and equipment. In that confusion, Jo, the driver from Ridley's squad, stole one remaining buggy, relatively unnoticed. Perhaps an entire platoon of raiders was making their last stand here. Under the gunfire, the faint sound of twisting doors and smashing glass sounded from under me. The Brotherhood forces were swarming the builiding, using their superior might and intellect to butcher the criminals.
That was when Jared Grumman appeared.
He walked from backstage onto the stage up front, brandishing a Vulcan Chaingun and wearing Powered Armor. He fired it into the air twice to get attention. My eyes widened. I did the one thing on my mind at the time.
"Take cover!"
Militiamen scrambled to get to the boxes and off the open railing as Grumman lowered his proverbial bullet hose to our floor. Three didn't make it as their corpses rolled off the balcony.
I froze as solid as a block of ice. When he aimed lower, satisfied that the militiamen wouldn't return fire, I crawled like I was on fire to get to the back stairwell with Harry in tow and his M79 grenade launcher. Staircases produce problems with people who have concussions. I learned that the hard way, falling down about thirty stairs. My body racked from the torture, but I didn't stop; the longer Grumman was alive, the more militiamen wouldn't go home.
The second floor reception area was pandemonium. Recently scarred veterans screamed for medical aid, curses were voiced at all volumes, especially from Stitch, who was having a difficult time making his stimulants last long enough. People were running into and out of that room at a blinding pace, but only General Murray caught my attention when he jumped over the railing to get to the tank. With a deep breath, I slung my OICW over my shoulder and untied the LAW from my side. You never do know. Harry and I waited for the laws of physics to take effect.
Soon enough they did. Grumman's chain gun jammed and he dropped it. Harry and I moved into position under the second floor doorway the minute the unearthly whine stopped. For a short eternity I aimed my weapon at his chest. He froze and I fired. The rocket hit him square in the chest, knocking him back fifteen feet, dropping him like a bad habit.
That's why I almost had a heart attack when he got back up.
From the left, another rocket hit him. That one was from Brian, and it obviously had more effect than my rocket, as it took him longer to get back up. Sparks were flying from his joints, yet he still managed to pick up a grenade. Three bolts of plasma fire ended that right there. From the right, Ridley lowered his plasma rifle.
Without warning, a tank burst onto the center floor, crushing homemade buggies and twisted hulks. The turret was aimed at the stage. In fact, the turret was pointed directly at Grumman. The battered tin man struggled to get up, visibly coughing in his helmet. When he stood on his two feet, quaking, the main cannon fired and Grumman was blown into so many pieces, it's hard to prove he ever existed today.