World War III (51 page)

“Is anybody else hit?” Asked Lieutenant Sawyer, trying to get a bearing on the enemy’s position.

“No!” Shouted Sgt. Morgan, examining the others in a glance.

“Can you see where their located?”

“I think they’re up ahead on the right,” replied the Sergeant, pointing to a cluster of boulders. “We need to do something before they flank us!”

“How many do you count?”

“There must be at least a dozen of them, judging by the gunfire,” said the Sergeant, peering around a tree trunk.

“What are we gonna do?” Billy asked, shaking like a leaf. He couldn’t tell if it was from the cold, or due to fear.

“Okay,” said Lt. Sawyer, “I have a plan. Billy, you and Cole get the cannon ready to fire. The target is going to be that cluster of boulders. Corporal, you stay here and cover them. Sergeant Morgan and I are gonna get the old man.”

“I heard that!” Shouted Sampson. “I’m not that old,” he grumbled, softly.

“Okay,” said Billy, turning to load the gun.

Cole rotated the cannon so it was pointing directly at the boulders, while Corporal Thatcher unloaded a clip in the same direction.

Lying flat on their bellies, Lt. Sawyer and Sgt. Morgan crawled toward Sampson. “Are you okay?” Asked the Lieutenant, when they reached the old man.

“I’m fine,” hissed Sampson. “I don’t need a rescue party.”

“Quit your grumbling old man,” said Lt. Sawyer. He looked at Sgt. Morgan. “On the count of three. One, two, three!”

With their rifles in one hand, the two Marines grabbed hold of Sampson’s coat and began dragging him back to the cannon. They were halfway there, when a Chinese soldier leapt out from behind a bush and rushed straight at them. Holding a rifle fastened with a bayonet, the soldier let out a shrill scream. He was almost on top of them, when Sampson lifted his rifle with his good arm, and fired. The bullet struck the charging soldier square in the chest, knocking him backward and to the ground.

“Nice shot,” mumbled Lt. Sawyer.

“One down,” chuckled Sampson, as they dragged him to safety.

“Okay,” said Lt. Sawyer, once the group was reunited, “here’s the plan. Billy, when I give you the word I want you to put three shells into that cluster of boulders. One in the center and another to the right and left.”

“Okay,” said Billy.

“Good. Sergeant Morgan, Corporal Thatcher and myself, are gonna fan out and target the soldiers, as they flee from behind the boulders.”

“What about me bro?”

“Cole, you stay close to Billy and the old man. Lay down a constant barrage of gunfire, so they don’t realize we’re spreading out. When the shells start flying, take out as many as you can.”

“Alright,” said Cole, chambering a round into his rifle.

“Sampson, you keep an eye on our rear, in case they try to flank us.”

“They’ll be sorry if they do,” grinned the old man, hoisting himself up, with his back against a tree.

“Let’s go men!” Lt. Sawyer crawled forward, with Sgt. Morgan on his right and Corp. Thatcher on his left. When they were in position, he turned and signaled Billy, with a wave.

Billy nodded and fired the cannon.

The first shell landed in the center of the boulders, killing several of the enemy outright. The second shell hit their right flank, causing more casualties and confusion. When the third shell struck their left flank, the chaos was complete. Chinese soldiers sprang from their cover and ran straight into a hail of gunfire, as Lt. Sawyer and his men mowed them down.

When the last shot was fired and the smoke settled, the Marines stood up and slowly advanced. They spread out and surveyed the battlefield, noticing most of the carnage was around the boulders. The artillery gun had decimated the enemy.

“I wonder how many,” said Lt. Sawyer, observing the massacre around him.

“Twenty-two,” hollered Corporal Thatcher, as he checked for survivors.

“Hey guys,” called Sampson, “you’d better get over here!”

Leaving the Sergeant and Corporal to inspect the dead and dying, Lt. Sawyer turned and ran to where the cannon was positioned. “What happened?” He asked, when he found Cole lying face down on top of Billy, in a pool of blood.

“Grenade,” replied Sampson, pressing his hand against Cole’s throat, in an attempt to stop the bleeding. “One of those bastards threw one right near the end.”

“Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” replied the old man, momentarily forgetting his wounded shoulder. “It missed me. The boys here took most of the impact.”

“We need to get moving,” said Sgt. Morgan, “the shots might attract more of the enemy. What happened?” He added, when he saw the Higgins cousins.

“Grenade,” repeated Sampson.

“Corporal Thatcher! We need a medic,” shouted Lt. Sawyer.

“I’ll make a stretcher,” replied the Sergeant, disappearing into the forest.

Corp. Thatcher rolled Cole off of Billy and onto his back. “Billy’s fine,” he said, after a quick examination of both men. “Cole took most of the shrapnel.” He immediately went to work on the older cousin, stopping the bleeding and bandaging the wounds.

“What happened?” Mumbled Billy, holding his head, as he tried to sit up.

“Easy there fella,” cautioned Sampson. “You might have a concussion.”

Billy looked around, dazed and confused. “What happened to Cole?”

“There was a grenade,” explained Sampson. “Cole got hit with most of the shrapnel. You were lucky kid.”

“Luck had nothing to do with it,” replied Billy. “He jumped on top of me, to protect me.”

“He saved your life,” observed Lt. Sawyer.

“Yeah, but at what cost?” Billy tried to stand up, but felt woozy and off balance. Using his gun as a cane, he tried to steady himself.

“Sit down until I’ve had a chance to examine you better,” said Corp. Thatcher, noticing Billy’s pale complexion.

“I’m fine,” Billy mumbled, leaning against a nearby tree. “Just take care of Cole.”

“Here,” said Sgt. Morgan, appearing from out of nowhere. In his hands he held a stretcher made from two long branches, bound together with rope. He dropped the stretcher on the ground beside Cole.

“Thanks,” said Billy.

“What did ya use in the center?” Asked Sampson, as he inspected the fabric.

“The shirts and pants off the dead,” replied Jesse, smiling when the old man dropped the fabric, as if it’d burned him. “How is he?”

“He’s as good as he’s gonna be, until we can get him to the doc,” said Corp. Thatcher, standing up. “Let’s get him on the stretcher.” The Sergeant and Corporal bent down and lifted Cole’s body onto the stretcher. “Can you walk?” He asked, glancing at Sampson.

“They got me in the shoulder, not the leg,” grumbled Sampson. “Of course I can walk.”

“Good,” said Lt. Sawyer, “let’s get moving. Ya think you can help with the stretcher kid?”

“Yeah,” said Billy, slinging his rifle over his shoulder.

“Alright, then you and Corp. Thatcher carry your cousin. Sergeant, you and I will pull the cannon and Sampson, you’re on point.”

Bush Gardens

World War III – Day Twenty-One

Mound House, Nevada

The streets of Mound House were empty, as Shiloh drove down Highway 50, scanning both sides of the road. Located in Lyon County, between Carson City and Dayton, it was one of only eight counties with legalized prostitution and home to five bustling brothels. He was halfway through town, when he noticed a large number of vehicles parked outside Bush Gardens, the most elegant of the five.

He’d never been inside a bordello and felt strange entering one now, but he’d come to town for fighting men and the brothel was where they’d be. Pulling into the dirt parking lot, he parked his truck near the front entrance. There were at least fifty cars in the parking lot, but not a soul in sight.

A beautiful, lush garden full of rose bushes and shady trees filled the yard, with a white picket fence surrounding the outer perimeter. In the center of the garden was a large, three-story house, made of wood and stone. Double-doors marked the entrance, intricately designed and made of oak.

It reminded him of a ski resort he and Sheila had visited in the Alpine Mountains, so very long ago. Thinking of his wife and children brought a tear to his eye, which he quickly wiped away. If anyone saw him cry, it would make recruiting men that much harder.

Adjusting the gun, strapped to his hip, Shiloh took a deep breath, opened the gate and walked through the garden. The climate here was warmer than Clearview, allowing flowers to bloom earlier in the year. The sweet scent of roses filled his nostrils, bringing to mind memories of past summers. He thought of his children running through the sprinklers, while his wife watched lovingly, and felt another teardrop form in the corner of his eye.

He dried his eyes again, trying to shake the feeling of nostalgia and push his family from his thoughts. He was about to enter a room full of dangerous men and the last thing he wanted was a clouded mind. He needed to stay focused on the task at hand.

“Please help me Lord,” he whispered, softly. “Give me the strength to do what must be done and guide my words and actions. Thank you God. I pray, in the name of Jesus Christ. Amen.”

Pushing open the heavy wooden doors, Shiloh stepped into the warm, dark interior. Sunlight cascaded through the doorway behind him, momentarily illuminating the room inside. He closed his eyes for a brief second, giving them a chance to adjust to the dim lit brothel, before opening them and scanning the room.

The first thing he noticed was an ape of a man, standing not two feet away. The bouncer glanced at Shiloh and nodded his large, square-shaped head, before returning his attention to the magazine in hand.

The interior-design of the brothel, was styled after an old western saloon, complete with a long, wooden bar. The floor was made of dark wood and pictures of scantily clad women hung from the walls. Behind the bar and spanning its entire length, was a beautiful mirror, encased in a golden frame. The bartender, a man with a bushy mustache and matching sideburns, was busy cleaning the bar.

There were several tables, where games of poker, baccarat and blackjack were in play and in the corner of the room was a billiards table. Each table was surrounded by rowdy men, drinking and laughing, as dance girls made their way around the smoke filled room.

Shiloh walked to the bar, while taking in the scene around him. He glanced up and was surprised to see a large, crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling, thirty feet in the air. At the far end of the bar was a stairway, leading to the two floors above. He noticed a spiral walkway, winding around the inside of the brothel all the way to the top, with dozens of doors, opening to the saloon below.

Several girls leaned against the wooden railings, advertising other services for sale. Based on the number of men climbing the staircase, the women served as quite effective billboards, as their bountiful cleavage could be seen from the ground floor.

“What’ll it be stranger?” Asked the bartender, noticing Shiloh for the first time.

“Coffee,” answered Shiloh, turning to face the man. He glanced in the mirror and noticed a double-barreled shotgun, hiding behind the bar.

“We don’t get many customers who order coffee,” admitted the bartender, as he poured a steaming cup. “Where are ya from mister?”

“Clearview,” answered Shiloh, wrapping his hands around the warm cup, before taking a sip. “Are you the owner of this establishment?”

“Me,” laughed the bartender, “oh heavens no! I just work here. Mayor Blackwell is the owner and operator.”

“The Mayor of Mound House owns this brothel?” Shiloh asked, in amazement.

“Yup,” replied the bartender, “and not just this one, but all five. By the way,” he added, stretching his burly arm across the bar, “my name is Kurt Sandals.”

“Shiloh Evans,” he replied, shaking the bartender’s hand.

“Nice to meet ya,” smiled Kurt. “What brings you to town? Is it the ladies?” He grinned, glancing at the women above.

“No,” answered Shiloh, returning the smile. “It’s the men I’ve come for.”

“The men?” Repeated Kurt, confused by his meaning.

Shiloh noticed his confusion and quickly explained. “I’m looking for men who are willing to help defend the mountain passes.”

“Oh yeah,” replied Kurt, seeming to lose interest. “Defend against what?”

“You are aware we’re at war, aren’t you?”

“Of course,” admitted Kurt, “but we try not to get involved. We mind our own business and expect others to do the same.”

“A huge army comprised of Russian and Chinese troops is amassing at Lake Tahoe. You don’t really believe the enemy is just going to leave you alone when they arrive, do you?”

“I reckon we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

“You might be crossing it sooner than you think,” cautioned Shiloh. “The invading army could be here in a couple of days and from what I’ve seen, your town has no organized plan of defense. If we don’t hold the enemy in the mountains, there’s nothing to stop them from rolling across America’s heartland.”

The bartender glanced at Shiloh, as he poured himself a shot of whiskey. There was a flicker of doubt in his eyes and he appeared a little more concerned. “If we see enemy soldiers coming, we’ll load up and head east,” he declared, before downing the whiskey.

“And go where? There’s an even larger army headed here from the east coast and another moving north out of Mexico. There’s simply nowhere to run to. We must stand and fight!”

“Kurt honey, I gotta drink order for ya,” said one of the dancing girls, from the other end of the bar. She had blonde hair and blue eyes, with a sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her nose. She smiled at Shiloh, inspecting him from head to toe.

Shiloh nodded and smiled back, before staring into his cup of steaming coffee.

“Excuse me Shiloh, but duty calls.” Kurt said with a wink, before turning and walking to the end of the bar, where the girl stood patiently waiting.

Aware the girl’s gaze was still upon him, Shiloh turned and leaned with his back against the bar. He slowly scanned the room, sizing up the occupants within. Somewhere between fifty and a hundred men, were playing games, drinking booze and flirting with the girls.

Although he didn’t condone their behavior, Shiloh recognized the men were just the sort he was looking for. They were hard living, hard drinking and hard fighting men. With the right leader, they’d be a force to be reckoned with.

After a few minutes of observation, he walked to a round table, where several men were playing Texas Hold’em. “Mind if I join you gentlemen?” He asked, realizing it was his best chance to meet men who’d be willing to join the fight.

“Have a seat stranger,” offered one of the men, nodding to an open chair next to him. “My name is Baker, Van Baker and these scallywags are Charlie Grant, Aaron Darby, Daniel Funk and Adam Campbell,” he added, indicating each of the men surrounding the table.

“Nice to meet you gentlemen, my name is Shiloh Evans.” He shook each man’s hand, before dropping into the vacant chair and examining the cards he’d been dealt. He wasn’t good at poker, having had little experience, but much to his surprise he won the first few hands.

“Are you a card shark?” Daniel teased, after losing another hand.

“Beginners luck,” suggested Shiloh, pulling his winnings toward him.

“No one should have that much luck,” mumbled Adam, staring bleakly at the cards in his hand.

“Ya win some, you lose some,” said Van, staring at his own hand. “And this time, I think I’ve won,” he added, hoping to bluff the others into folding.

Shiloh was about to mention the foreign army camped at Lake Tahoe, when the large double-doors swung open and six rough looking men entered. The group sauntered over to the bar and ordered drinks, swaggering as if they owned the place. Shiloh watched them from the corner of his eye. He wasn’t sure why, but something about them made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

“Careful friend,” cautioned Van, when he saw Shiloh watching the men. “Those boys are trouble and they’ll kill ya just as soon as look at ya.”

“Who are they?” Shiloh asked, alert, but undaunted.

“They work for Damien Kirkpatrick, the Mayor of Dayton,” whispered Van, softly.

“I thought the Mayor of Dayton was a man by the name of Juan Martinez?”

“He was the Mayor,” agreed Van, “until he and Damien had a disagreement.”

“What happened?”

“No one really knows,” admitted Van. “Damien simply shot him dead in the middle of the street one day. He claimed it was self-defense and a gun was found lying on the ground by the Mayor’s body, but I’ve got my doubts.”

“Did anyone see the Mayor reach for his gun?” Asked Shiloh, glancing at the men by the bar.

“Nope, but that didn’t stop Damien. He saw an opportunity to seize power and took it. What bothers me is I knew Juan Martinez and he never, ever, carried a gun,” replied Van.

“So why hasn’t the Sheriff arrested him for murder?”

“You see the fella wearing the black baseball cap?”

“Yeah,” replied Shiloh, glancing at the group of men.

“He’s the Sheriff of Dayton and wouldn’t ya know it, he also works for Damien Kirkpatrick. His name is Cody Hyde and he’s just as dangerous as Damien,” warned Van. “He and his henchmen do Kirkpatrick’s bidding. Trust me, you don’t want a run-in with that lot.”

Almost as if he knew they were talking about him, Cody Hyde suddenly turned and strolled to the table, with a drink in hand. Standing at the opposite end of the table, across from Shiloh, he watched the game for a moment in silence.

Shiloh sensed the men around him become tense with fear, but pretended not to notice.

With Cody hovering over them, the mood at the table instantly changed. All discussions ceased under his watchful eyes, as the men focused on the cards held in their trembling hands. The tension was so thick, you could cut it with a knife.

From the corner of his eye, Shiloh noticed beads of sweat form on Van’s forehead, as he folded his hand, placing his cards face down on the table in front of him. He was surprised by Sheriff Hyde’s effect on the men and wondered what the man had done to earn such notoriety.

Shiloh won the pot again, yet not for holding the best hand, but rather because one-by-one the other men folded theirs and dropped from the game.

“Lucky you!” Cody bellowed, staring across the table at Shiloh, with a mischievous grin.

Shiloh didn’t respond, he merely gathered his winnings and began to shuffle the deck.

“I said you’re pretty lucky,” repeated Cody, glancing at his companions who still stood drinking at the bar. As if on command, the group of men turned and approached the game. They stood in a circle around the table, with one of them positioned directly behind Shiloh.

“I heard you,” replied Shiloh, without looking up. He finished shuffling the cards and began to deal.

“I don’t know you,” stated Cody, sizing Shiloh up from across the table. The stranger was tall and strong, but that didn’t worry him. A bullet placed in the right spot would make even the toughest man fall.

“Nope,” agreed Shiloh, as he finished dealing.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you!” Cody shouted, infuriated by the stranger’s calm demeanor. He was the only man at the table, and probably the whole saloon, who wasn’t frightened of him. This bothered Cody because he fed on fear, devouring it like a savage animal.

Without saying a word, Shiloh calmly placed his cards on the table in front of him and looked into Cody’s cold, grey eyes. He hadn’t come here looking for trouble, but he sure as hell wasn’t gonna shy away from it either.

Staring down into Shiloh’s steal-blue eyes, Cody felt a chill run down his spine, angering him even more. He wasn’t afraid of any man, especially not some random rancher, from God knows where. Yet, something about the stranger worried him and gave him pause. He glanced at his friend standing behind Shiloh and nodded slightly. Knowing what was expected of him, the man immediately stepped forward and reached for Shiloh.

Noticing the man’s movement reflected in one of the glasses on the table, Shiloh reacted without hesitation. Instead of waiting for the attack to come, he quickly stood up and swung his arm backward, elbowing the man in his stomach. The would-be assailant grunted from the blow, his eyes bulging in shock. Shiloh immediately grabbed the man’s hair and smashed his face into the table, scattering cards and chips in every direction. The man’s nose crunching was muffled by a scream, as he slid to the floor, his face covered in blood.