Reckoning by Mark Tufo
“Sergeant!” Monroe yelled from across the room. “Sergeant, they’re coming!”
The sergeant peeled himself away from Beth’s embrace. “Move, woman! Get this place squared away, and leave the door open.”
“Leave the door open?” she asked, confusion tinged in her voice.
“No sense in locking a door if nothing is in there, right?” the sergeant said with a small, sad smile on his face. He lingered for a second more, before the private yelled his warning one last time. “Move!” he mouthed wordlessly as he took up his position next to the window. Beth moved but almost as if a marionette on a string. Her arms and legs felt wooden as she did her best to clean up the room while chunks of wood and brick flew past her. She pushed her tray out into the hallway when Private Monroe was hit. He screamed in pain as the bullet pierced his lung. A slow, strained, sucking sound came from his chest as air rushed to escape.
“Aw frick,” he wheezed. Beth made her way over to him to aid as best she could. Sergeant O’Bannon yelled at her to get back.
“I’ll get him, Beth. Get back and hide.” She hesitated for a moment, but as the volley of bullets began anew, she retreated into the darkness of her cavern. She half closed the door and hid under her cot.
The sergeant made it over to the private and lifted his shirt to check the wound. Blood and air blistered out of the large caliber gash. There was not enough time or medical expertise in the room to save the private, and they both knew it. Monroe was rapidly falling into a state of shock as the sergeant did his best to place a pressure bandage on his chest.
The sergeant had almost completed his task when a gunman showed up at the window and placed a hastily aimed round into the sergeant’s arm. The sergeant spun around from the force as Beth shrieked in fright. The gunman looked to see where the sound had come from, giving the sergeant enough time to recover from the assault. He placed a well-aimed shot dead center in the attacker’s forehead.
“Are you alright?” Beth asked as she began to emerge from her hidey-hole.
“I’m fine,” he snarled. “If you say anything else or move again, I’ll shoot you myself. Do you understand?” Silence came from the depths of her confines. “Good,” he said as he turned his attention back to the private. But poor Monroe wouldn’t be needing any more assistance, at least, not in this world.
The gunfire from the barracks began to get increasingly intermittent as the enemy fire increasingly found its mark. The National Guard was inflicting heavy damage on the usurpers but, like the Alamo, it was all about numbers now. And the advantage favored the “away” team. Roars began to thrum through the mob outside. They smelled blood, which wasn’t all that hard, considering that the floors were covered in it.
Sergeant O’Bannon had, long ago, grabbed Monroe’s discarded weapon. He moved away from the window he had been occupying. He wanted to get as far away from Beth as possible for two reasons. First, he didn’t want her to see him die; and second, the further he was from her, the less likely it would appear he was trying to defend someone. The sergeant could hear boots as they ran down the corridor towards him.
'So this is it,' he thought. He never really figured it would end like this. Then, how did one really think it was going to end? Not many people put much effort into that endeavor, I guess, What would be the purpose? The sergeant mused. He hid himself behind the bulk of the private’s desk. He didn’t think it would stop a round but it gave him the illusion of safety. His finger poised on the trigger, he hoped to get at least ten of the sons-of-bitches before it was over.
Surprise overcame suspense as the colonel and two other men that the sergeant only knew by rank ran into the room. The colonel stopped short; looking down the barrel of an M-16 can be very intimidating especially when one doesn't know the intentions of the person wielding it.
“Get in here, Colonel. You’re gonna get shot with your ass hanging out in the breeze that way.”
“Monroe?” was the colonel’s reply as he attempted to regain his composure.
“Dead,” the sergeant answered as he motioned his head in the direction of the private. From the look on the colonel’s face, the sergeant added, “I didn’t do it.” The colonel didn’t think that he had but it was still good to get confirmation.
“What about the girl?” the colonel asked.
“I let her go before they got here,” he lied.
The colonel eyed him suspiciously but he didn’t have a better theory and besides, there were more pressing matters at hand. They all heard footfalls in the corridor and this time, there was no doubt, they weren’t military, at least not in the traditional manner.
The door burst open. The men, who were not really expecting any resistance, sauntered into a hail of gunfire. Three men crumpled to the floor before they knew what hit them. The men in the hallway stopped their advance. Sure, they wanted in, but none of them were suicidal.
The sergeant sprinted up from his hiding place and ran towards the door. The colonel put a bead on him with his rifle, figuring he was going to desert again. But the sergeant was interested in only one thing, well actually, three things--the weapons the men dropped when they were shot. The sergeant and the colonel weren’t quite out of ammunition yet, but why take the chance? The sergeant dragged the weapons back into the room as the disapproving rebels opened fire.
“Colonel, you had better get your men on the windows. Now that they know they don’t have free entry, they’ll try to take us out through them. The colonel nodded his agreement.
“Jenkins, take the window on the east.” The sergeant’s heart fluttered; that was close to Beth, hopefully not too close. “Adams, you take the other side.” The men had no sooner manned their stations when trouble erupted on all fronts. Although the men attacking might not have been military, there were a few of them that definitely had prior military expertise. The attack was fast, precise, and, for a third of them, deadly. Jenkins had barely made it to the window when he was met by two men. The bars on the window had hindered their angle to shoot but not enough to spare Jenkins’ life.
Sergeant O’Bannon spun and fired. At least one of the men had gone down; the second had just plain dropped out of the line of fire. The door to the holding area was littered with men who had unsuccessfully tried a frontal assault. Adams, on the west window, had repelled more than his fair share of gunmen. The attempt ceased for the moment the situation was far from improving though. There were only three men still capable of fighting and they were all in the jail.
The sergeant, the colonel and Adams could only bear witness to the occasional shot that rang out throughout the building, signifying the end of one of their not-so-lucky comrades. Those that were injured were being murdered ruthlessly, most to the cries of mercy, some just relegated to crying.
Beth shivered with every shot. That the men could be so callous frightened her; they were of the same stock that killed Deb’s parents. They cared for no one but themselves. And Beth knew very well that that was exactly what the aliens wanted. Divide and conquer was not something known only on Earth; it was a universal truism.
She didn’t believe she would be so lucky as to receive a bullet to the head, at least not right away. And that would just not do. She wanted to go out on her own terms. She began to uncurl her body and ease her way out from under the cot.
Her objective was clear, Jenkins’ gun; how to get it was a different matter. She crossed halfway through her cell when a shadow passed across the window. She nearly froze in place and jumped up running in the same instant. Sergeant O’Bannon caught the movement out of the corner of his eye and rose to meet the threat. What he was least expecting to find was Beth, prone on the floor like a discarded toy.
“What are you doing?” he mouthed, never really taking his eyes off the window. Beth’s adrenaline was so hopped up, she felt that if she spoke she would start screaming. She did the next best thing; she pointed at Jenkins’ sidearm which was still holstered. The sergeant saw her objective and understood it. He w
The sergeant pumped a round through the window to let whoever was out there know that might not be the best path to take if one was still enamored with life. The move, he figured, bought him a little time. He bent over to undo the strap that held the pistol in place. Once it was free, he pulled it from its constraints and left it on the floor. He stood up as the passing shadow came into view and placed a well-aimed three round burst squarely in the eye of the would-be assailant. Then he kicked Jenkins’ unneeded, at least to him, pistol to Beth’s outstretched fingers.
She clasped the gun and quickly retreated back into the darkness. She hoped she would be able to use the gun when the time came and its heft gave her a small measure of safety. The colonel watched the entire transfer happen, unbeknownst to the sergeant. But what was the difference? In a matter of minutes, they would all be dead.
“Hey! You in there!” a voice said that was obviously behind cover judging by its muffled quality. “Come out now and we’ll treat you fairly.”
“I’d love to know which dictionary they use to define fair,” Adams said from his defensive point at the west window. Sergeant O’Bannon laughed a bit at that, but the colonel didn’t. Being originally from North Carolina, he had never truly been comfortable when dealing with sarcasm anyway. He never understood the use for it.
“Hey! I’m still waiting for a response!” the muffled voice urged.
“Here’s your reply!” Sergeant O’Bannon yelled as he placed a round as closely to the voice as possible.
“Come on, guys! If you give us the combination to the armory, we’ll let you all go free.” Everybody in that room knew it was a lie, but it still sparked a little hope in each of them. The vault, as it was known, housed over five hundred small arms, mainly M-16s and some Colt .45s. There were more than a few shotguns and even some of the local Guardsmen’s weapons who, for whatever reason, were not allowed or chose not to keep them at their homes.
There were also two rocket launchers, although only one of them worked. The men once tried it out on an old combat Jeep many years previous, when they could get away with bending the rules and not having the code book shoved up their asses. In addition, there was a crateful of hand grenades and some sticks of dynamite. For what reason those were there, the sergeant never knew. He attempted, at one time, to send it back from whence it came, Army Surplus. The paperwork involved in that endeavor made the outcome not worth the effort.
On occasion, some of the lazier or more curious Guardsmen had taken a few sticks over the years to blow one thing or another to smithereens, usually after several six packs of beer had been swallowed. A staff sergeant was partially deafened a few years prior by a stick that he was holding for far too long. It nearly burst in his hand before his friends drunkenly warned him to throw the damned thing. After that mishap, the colonel placed better security over the volatile material.
He requisitioned and received one of the best armory vaults in the New England region. It was near bank quality. How the colonel pulled it off, only a handful knew. The colonel had, once upon a time as a young captain in the National Guards’ version of the military police, caught Lieutenant General Healey’s oldest son, Lyle, in a very compromising situation in the back bed of a Ford pickup with a corporal from the captain’s command.
The corporal was quietly expelled from the service with an “Other than Honorable” discharge. Formal charges had never been filed, due to the damage that it could inflict on the general’s career, and for which the general had been eternally grateful. So, when the request went up the chain of command to the now four-star general, it was a no-brainer. He would pay off his dept in full and be done with the whole mess.
Lyle, meanwhile, had moved away right after being dragged out of the closet. The relationship with his father also changed dramatically. Although never loving nor nurturing, Lyle’s father had always been cordial but stiff towards his son. When the truth emerged, it seeded open hostility in the Healey household. The elder Healey would not so much as stay in the same room when Lyle entered.
Genna Healey had, on more than one occasion, tried to mend the rift that was ever expanding between her son and husband. But bridging that gulf was equivalent to Evel Knievel crossing the Snake River on his rocket bike, doomed to failure. The ensuing backlash could strike from almost any angle. The one that hurt the most was when Jud, her husband, blamed Lyle’s “fagginess” on her, “for bringing the boy up like a momma’s boy.” She contemplated leaving his stubborn ass after that fight. Three days of heartfelt apologies and the glimmer of a tear from his tough, old hide of a face, Genna relented.
Lyle loved both of his parents. He didn’t always understand his father but he vowed he would not be the reason for their marriage’s demise. That would just be one more reason for his father to hate him. So, to a tearful mother, he said his goodbyes. His dad, for some reason, decided to go to work early that day.
And off to Paris Lyle headed and happily too because he became an up-and-coming fashion designer for one of the bigger firms over there. That was, of course, until his life was cut short by the aliens who leveled the Eiffel Tower. He hadn’t actually been on the tower but was enjoying a nice cup of coffee at a café not two blocks from Ground Zero.
***
The thugs who surrounded the building would not stop until they blew up the vault and all of its contents because they had no clue how else to get into it. Of the three surviving members of the Guard unit, two of them knew the code, the colonel and Sergeant O’Bannon. The colonel intended to change the code after the sergeant’s defection but was sidelined by the group’s initial attack.
The colonel looked over at the sergeant. “Looks like we have them right where we want them,” the colonel said with a laugh. Sergeant O’Bannon smiled in amusement at the rare display of sarcasm offered by the colonel. The sergeant shook his head before turning back to keep a vigilant watch at his window. The windows in the room, both barely wide enough to let a small child squeeze through sideways, were only about eighteen inches in height. They were used more for the ambient lighting than for anything else, but right now they posed the biggest threat to the trio and the hidden solo.
Sergeant O’Bannon feared a rocket attack or even a grenade floating through the defensive bars. He prayed if that were to happen, it would have already done so by now. While all was relatively quiet and the bikers plotted some sort of plan to unseat the defenders without killing them, (at least not yet), the sergeant wanted to try to shore up their defenses.
“Colonel, can you keep an eye on the window for me?” The sergeant asked as the colonel eyed him wryly.
“Why? You going to get coffee?”
“Wow sir! Twice in two minutes! I don’t think I’ve heard you joke the whole time you’ve been here.”
“It must be the stress,” answered the colonel. But for the life of him, the sergeant couldn’t see any sign of distress from the colonel. Sure, he looked tired, but definitely not afraid. He didn’t even look like he was sweating. The sergeant shook his head briefly in bewilderment and briskly walked over to the heavy filing cabinet.
He strained until kinetic energy won out over potential energy and the cabinet creaked and groaned its way towards the window. The room plunged into darkness, Beth equated the feeling to a full solar eclipse, with almost as much anxiety as the ancient peoples had during such an event.
He braced it with Private Monroe’s favorite chair. Jamming the chair between the bars of Beth’s cell and the filing cabinet, it would take nothing short of a rocket attack to dislodge the cabinet. Beth felt a little less exposed but no safer. She attributed the effect of the darkness on her mood, that was dampening even further.
“What do you think they’re going to do, sir?” Sergeant O’Bannon said
“Well, I would imagine…” the colonel began as he paused to pull out a cigar from his breast pocket. The sergeant couldn’t believe it, the thing was in perfect condition. The colonel bit off the end and lit it, taking a long puff and restarting his commentary. “Well, to begin with, they’ll try coaxing us out by promising to spare our lives and all that nonsense. Then they will try to root us out of here, preferably alive and kicking. And when that fails, they will just gang rush us until their objective is secured. Then they will take their chances with the vault, again, at which they will ultimately fail.”
“You seem pretty calm about the whole thing, sir.”
“Well, unlike you, Sergeant, my significant other passed away four long years ago. I’m more than ready to meet up with her again. Now, if she were here,” the colonel said as he turned his head to look in the direction of Beth’s cell. “My innards would be flapping around like a sunfish on a dirt lane on a hot summer day.”
“Yeah, I guess that’s exactly how they feel.” The sergeant said, the colonel nodded as he took another long drag off his cigar.
“You know, Sergeant, I never could stand that pencil dicked Lieutenant I can’t say I was sorry to see him go. But what you did still wasn’t right. I will say that I’m glad you’re going to be going out as a soldier instead of as a traitor.”
The sergeant wasn’t quite ready to throw in the towel just yet, but he nodded in agreement, nonetheless. If the end did come, this was infinitely better than the alternative.
Rounds pinged into the sergeant’s makeshift window dressing, bowing out the sidewalls closest to Beth. They held and the survivors quickly learned that the shooting was more of a diversionary tactic than an actual attack.