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Post by 9idrr on Jun 7, 2016 20:57:09 GMT -6
As if there ain't enough to do just survivin', they get to deal with these dipsticks. Thanks for updating.
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Post by pbbrown0 on Jun 7, 2016 20:58:43 GMT -6
EVERY time you write, it's good!
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Post by mic on Jun 9, 2016 19:07:41 GMT -6
Chapter 17: part 2: The Brink
Martin backed up quickly, turned into a driveway, then sped back to the center of town. High Pond Road ran parallel to Cheshire’s one main road. At Cantor Road, he hung a left, traveling a bit fast for having two men riding in the pickup bed.
Coming back up the main road, Charles motioned for him to slow down. “Take it easy. We need to find a good spot. Not here. They can drive through that meadow to get around us. Go a little further up.”
Martin could hear faint gun shots. The cluster of old homes that was Cheshire’s “downtown” were only a mile away and over a slight rise in the land.
“There!” exclaimed Charles. “That’s a good spot. Pull your truck across both lanes right up there by that big tree.”
“The rock walls will keep them from being able to cut across yards or get into fields,” Martin said, “But my truck doesn’t completely block off the road. There’s room between my bumpers and the walls.”
“How about those fence rails?” Tyler pointed to a split rail fence around one of the homes’ fallow gardens.
“Great,” said Charles. “You and Nick go get some rails as fast as you can.”
“Let’s roll some of the big rock wall rocks out into the space too,” said Martin. “They could blast on through some fence rails, but big rocks will stop a low-slung tuner cold.”
“Now you’re talking,” said Charles.
Martin worked on the right, behind his truck. Charles worked on the left, in front. They each rolled three big rocks off the walls, creating a dotted line between Martin’s pickup and the parallel stone walls. Nick and Tyler carried over several spilt rails. They laid them across the rocks, more to look obvious than thinking the balancing poles would stop a car on their own.
“Okay. Tyler and I will take the left side. You and Nick get behind that angled wall there. When they stop at our barricade, we’ll have them in a crossfire.”
Martin took up a position behind the low rock wall, near the big tree at the end of the dirt driveway. The driveway’s rock wall was roughly perpendicular to the walls lining the road. Nick took up a position a few yards further right. Everyone checked their rifles and patted pockets for last minute reassurance of spare magazines.
While the four men stared up an empty road, dozens of shots cracked and popped in the distance.
“Wilson, fall back,” Burgh radioed. “They’ve jumped houses. Bell, hold tight. Wait for my signal.”
“Which house?” demanded Charles from across the road.
“Some of them are in the Kendall house now,” said Burgh. “Wilson counted only eight. The rest must still be in Fenton. Careful.”
“They’re in Aunt June’s house!” Charles stood up. The sound of more gunfire echoed down the road.
“Bell. Center will give you cover fire. Move up. Wilson, you move up to the sheds. Don’t go further. Just be ready to keep their heads down if needed.”
“They’re planning to storm the house!” shouted Charles. He ran across the road and grabbed the radio out of Martin’s hand. “Don’t storm the house, Chief! My aunt and uncle are in there!”
“We know that, son.” Burgh’s voice sounded tense. “Keep this channel clear.”
“Man!” Charles paced in exasperation. “If they storm the house, there will be bullets flying everywhere.”
“Maybe your aunt and uncle got into a safe room or something before the hoods got into the house,” Martin offered.
“They don’t have a safe room.” Charles flailed his arms. “They think everybody should love everybody.”
“Go go go!” Burgh shouted into his radio.
Waves of gunfire erupted. It was hard to distinguish individual shots.
“Bell. Get ready too….No. Behind you. Get down. Down down.”
“Stockman,” said Burgh. “The four in Fenton’s house made a break for it while we were breaking into Kendalls’. Repeat. Suspects in car, coming your way. Get ready.”
Martin could feel a tingle of fear ripple up his back and across his shoulders. Trouble was speeding toward him. Charles was back across the road and positioned low behind the rock wall. Martin hunkered down beside the tree. He looked through his sights at the road.
The loud, raspy exhaust note of an approaching tuner sent a fresh tickle of fear across his shoulders. He tried to ignore it and concentrate on his front sight. The dark blue Mitsubishi seemed to be galloping as it sped over the undulating old highway. They looked like they were doing over a hundred. The driver must have suddenly spotted Martin’s truck across the road. He stabbed on the brakes, sending blue smoke trailing behind the tricked out Lancer.
At first, it looked like he was going to try to go around Martin’s truck, but changed his mind. He may have seen the big rocks. The passengers fired a few shots wildly out their windows. The driver attempted a wide U-turn, but once the back end of the Lancer was off the pavement, the rear tires skidded, sending up a spray of dirt and grass.
The car slid sideways for a dozen yards. As it slowed, Martin sensed an opportunity. He could not make out anyone inside the car, due to the glare on the windshield, so he aimed at the Lancer’s front wheel which was face-on to him and not turning since the driver had the brakes locked up.
Martin aimed at the sidewalls. He squeezed off a shot, quickly got the muzzle centered again and fired off two more. The front tire deflated rapidly. More shots came from the Lancer. The skid was nearly played out. The Lancer settled low in front as the tire deflated. The driver gunned the engine, trying to get them out of the crossfire. Martin fired two more shots into the tire. Between the holes and the acceleration, the tire began to shred. The Lancer shifted and swayed, but made slow forward progress on the spinning rim.
The driver abandoned his maneuver and got out. He fired over the top of the car, one-handed. The look on the young hoodlum’s face was desperate defiance. The back seat passenger had his window down, firing at Charles. Martin could never get a good look at the man in the back seat, so he sighted at the door, about where he imagined the gunman’s chest would be. He sent off two more rounds. Nick fired at the driver.
Martin’s gun jammed. Misfeed. Leaning back against the tree, he quickly dropped the magazine and racked the bolt. The jam fell clear. He popped in a fresh magazine. The back seat gunman was now firing at Martin. Splinters of bark raked across Martin’s head. Nick fired. Martin took a quick peek from the other side of the tree. The gunman was aiming at Nick’s position. One of Nick’s shots hit the front passenger window, sending a spray of glass into the car. Martin peeled off three more rounds into the door. The gunman sank down out of sight.
Was he hurt? Killed? Reloading? Martin glanced at the other gunmen. The driver was no longer visible. Was he down? The other backseat man was still shooting over the top of the car. Nick moved further right along the wall to get a better vantage point. More shots cracked through the air.
Then, silence.
Martin looked at Nick, who shrugged. Martin could not see Tyler or Charles. Were they hit?
“Everybody okay?” shouted Tyler.
“We’re both okay on this side,” Martin shouted back.
“Two down behind the car,” shouted Tyler. “Nick, come way around and cover me while I check them.”
Nick jumped over his wall and ran forward in a wide arc. He kept his rifle at his shoulder and eye to the sights. He stood several paces away, sighting on fallen bodies Martin could not see.
“All quiet. We’re clearing the house, room by room,” crackled the radio.
“We stopped the ones who ran,” Martin radioed back. “Checking them now.”
“Roger Stockman.”
“These two are dead,” shouted Tyler.
“I’m coming out,” shouted Charles. “Cover me.”
“Ready!” Martin shouted back.
Martin kept his front sight on the passenger-side windows for any sign of movement above the sill. He had the trigger squeezed to near the break point. In the flurry of the first round of shooting, there was no time to think about anything. With the pause, there was time for anticipation to crank up the adrenaline. He tried to slow down his breathing, but his lungs ignored him. His heart throbbed.
Charles stepped over the rock wall, pistol at full extension.
“Count nine down. All nine down. Searching house,” said Burgh
Charles approached the car crouched low and in half steps: his 1911 extended in front of him. Martin moved to stand 45 degrees off Charles’ right. Charles could fling open the rear door and stay flat along the car. Martin would have a clear view — and shot — inside, if necessary.
In the brief break in the action, Martin tried to take inventory. He saw the driver get out and shoot. He saw the left-side back seat man get out. Martin did not see either of them go down, but Tyler reported two down and dead. Martin saw the right-side back seat man shooting out his window and maybe saw him go down.
Burgh said there were four. The front passenger window was up. It was just a jagged ring of white glitter now, but Martin could not recall seeing anyone in the front seat — firing, or otherwise. Was there someone still lurking up there? Martin kept an eye on the hole in the glass too.
“Ready?” Charles asked without looking away from his sights.
“Careful of the front seat,” answered Martin. “I haven’t seen the fourth one. Ready.”
Charles reached for the door handle with one hand, the 1911 in his other hand. He yanked the door open and jumped back along the car’s rear quarter.
It was hard to make out any details in the dark interior. A motionless mass lay across the seats.
“I’m gonna pull him out,” said Charles. “Keep a bead on him.”
Martin nodded. Charles stepped forward and reached low in the open car. He grabbed a hightop sneaker and pulled. He backed up, dragging the inert man clear of the car. The man’s gray and blue hoodie was wet with dark blood. The half-opened eyes and slack jaw told of death. Martin realized the man was probably dead from his shots. He expected to feel horrified, but was not. It all seemed so matter-of-fact. What lay before him was more of a target than a man. It was a disconcerting feeling.
“Hey, no shoot, man,” came a voice from the front seat.
Charles jumped back to the rear quarter of the car. His gun was trained on the rear door opening. “Come out slow,” shouted Charles.
“I can’t open the door,” said the voice. “My arm’s all shot up.”
Charles looked at Martin. Martin nodded that he understood. He put the carbine’s sights on the front window. Charles closed the rear door. Crouching very low, so as to not be visible, he reached forward for the door handle, paused, then flung the front door open.
A skinny young man wearing a shabby Utah Jazz hoodie clambered awkwardly out of the car. His right arm had been hit in two places. His left hand was cut up and bloody. Despite that, he tried to raise his hands above his head.
Charles approached carefully from his side. Martin kept his sights on the young man’s chest. Charles patted him down with his free hand. He pulled a knife from the hoodie pocket and a magazine from a rear jeans pocket.
The wounds on the man’s arm, and the single bullet hole in the side of the door, suggested the man had been bent forward, with his arms over his head during the shootout. The bullet fragmented after hitting the door and mechanisms within, spraying the man with shrapnel. Martin wondered what they would do with their prisoner now. The other three hoodlums were easier. They would be thrown in the trench.
“We found the Kendalls,” hissed the radio. “Afraid they’re both dead.”
“WHAT?” shouted Charles. He grabbed the young hoodlum by a handful of hoodie neckline. He held his pistol to the man’s head. “You killed my family!”
“Don’t!” shouted Martin.
“They killed my family. I’m gonna kill them!”
The young man’s mouth trembled, eyes shut tight, waiting for the blast that would end his life.
“You can’t just shoot him,” said Martin. He remembered Burgh saying the four fled from the first house, not the Kendall’s house. The prisoner could be guilty of many other crimes, but not that of killing Charles’ relatives. “He surrendered. He’s our prisoner.”
“So what? Less work for everyone to just kill him and be done.”
This was a very dark line Charles wanted to cross.“Remember back in the horse trailer, you were telling me about your tour in Bosnia? You found all those dead Bosnians in that building. Remember?” It was a thin thread, but Martin was encouraged that Charles was arguing with him instead of simply killing the young man. That suggested an inner conflict that Martin might appeal to.
Charles was not answering, so Martin continued. “The Serbs took them prisoner, then just shot them. That Serb you captured later, what did he tell you?”
Charles looked angry at remembering.
“What did the Serb tell you?” repeated Martin louder.
“He said prisoners are too much work,” Charles snapped. “Why do you care about this scum?”
“I don’t care about him,” said Martin. “I care about us. We can’t just do whatever we feel like. Once we start killing people because we’re angry, or they’re too much trouble, where does that end?”
“Times are different now,” insisted Charles. “Everything is falling apart. There is no law.”
“Law only exists if we choose to keep it alive,” said Martin. “If we act without law, then there is no law. Everything will go completely to hell. We’ll be no different than them — throwing away everything you said mattered.”
Martin could see Charles’ gun back away from the young man’s head just a fraction of an inch. Charles face was contorted with rage, but his eyes were looking a thousand miles away.
Charles shook off the memories. He pushed the gun back into the man’s temple. “If my father was here, he would have shot this scumbag without a second thought.”
Tyler had slowly moved around behind Charles. “You hated everything about dad,” said Tyler solemnly. “Now you want to be like him?”
Charles twisted his head away, as if to resist the words and the memories. In the distance, the police car’s siren began to wail. Chief Burgh was coming their way.
“Damn…everything!” Charles shouted. He pistol-whipped the young man, who collapsed to his knees. Charles started kicking out one of the Lancer’s tail lights.
“He’ll be okay…in awhile,” Tyler said quietly. “We took some losses, but we stopped a pretty major threat from outside.”
“We did.” Martin nodded. “Let’s pray we can hold things together on the inside too.”
(end Chapter 17)
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Post by 9idrr on Jun 9, 2016 20:22:37 GMT -6
The way you got me wrapped up in this story, you make me think about whether or not I'd be capable of showing as much restraint as Charles did.
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Post by kaijafon on Jun 10, 2016 10:12:25 GMT -6
Thank you so much.
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Post by mic on Jun 12, 2016 19:01:18 GMT -6
Chapter 18: Return Home
Chief Burgh guided the handcuffed gang member into the back seat of his cruiser and closed the door. “Well now. What are we going to do with all this mess, eh? Not like we can call for an ambulance…or the Examiner’s office.”
“I say we hang their bodies from the trees along the road here,” Charles said, with grim enthusiasm. “And maybe burn their car along side the road here. It’d be a big warning to any other thugs who come along.”
Martin winced. The Vlad-the-Impaler technique. It might be intimidating with thousands of dead Turks on stakes, but three dead hoodlums? It would probably be more of a instigation.
“What would you do,” Martin asked Charles, “If on the way to Manchester, you saw three dead people from Cheshire, hanging from the trees?”
Charles face set into a dark glare. “I’d hunt those scum down. The first thing I’d do is…” His glare faded. His eyes darted around as he ran the ramifications.
“What if we just made them all disappear?” Martin asked.
“What, like throw the bodies in a pit and pretend they were never here?” asked Tyler.
“Kind of,” said Martin. “Oh sure, maybe we take something for ID on the dead guys, just for record keeping, but yeah, dump ‘em in the pit. No eulogies for these guys. But then, what if we clean all this up, like they were never here? No bodies. No shot-up car to find. No shell casings. No proof. That way, if any of their buddies come looking for them, there’s no clue to what happened to them.”
“But the rest of their gang will know where they were going,” protested Charles.
“Sure,” said Martin, “but they won’t know if they actually got here. Maybe they never got to Cheshire. Maybe they took some loot and split with it. Maybe they attacked a different town. The guys who come looking for them won’t have any idea.”
“You mean, like Amelia Earhart?” asked Burgh. “That the Japanese shot her down and tortured her as a spy in that Saipan prison?”
Martin stared for a moment at the high fly ball to left field. “Um…yeah.” He caught it, and threw to home. “Imagine the outrage if people did find her crashed plane, all shot up.”
“Boy howdy, there’d be hell to pay,” said Burgh with a nod.
“Right. But no one ever found anything, so there’s no one to be angry with.”
“Well then,” said Burgh. “We’ve got a lot to do. These clowns won’t be missed for a few hours at least. Better get to work. I’ll take the prisoner to the holding cell. Let’s get these bodies loaded into the back of your truck. Bring them up to town hall. I’ll look for ID and photograph them. Then we can take ‘em up to the trench.”
“What about the car?” asked Nick. “Should we try to push it behind one of these houses?”
“No,” Burgh stroked his chin. “It needs to disappear too. Got a tow strap or some chains, Martin?”
“A tow strap,” Martin said. “But we’ll have to change out that front tire if I’m going to tow it.”
“I’ll get on that.” Nick bounced off eagerly. He found the keys still in the ignition, and popped open the trunk. “Hey, there’s a bunch of food and stuff back here.”
Burgh peered in the trunk. “Looted from the houses. Help me get this into the cruiser. I’ll try to get it back to the people they stole it from.”
The other three men lifted each of the dead men from the pavement and carried them to Martin’s truck. Their bodies seemed heavy and extra-limp, as if they had no bones. Their skin was getting cool and clammy. More than once, Martin could feel his grip slipping and had to clutch the body close in order to get it hefted onto the tailgate.
Martin tried not to think of the bodies as dead people, one of whom he was certain he had killed. He wanted to think of the bodies as ultra-realistic mannequins for paramedic training. Yet, his mind could not lock on that notion. The tall dead hoodlum: his mother was probably happy to see her young son growing tall and strong. He probably loved his mother and remembered fondly when she comforted him over a skinned knee. When did the heart of that boy turn dark? Was he young when the gang ethos replaced his mother’s love?
The stocky hoodlum was a challenging load to carry. He had multiple wounds and, apparently, bled out. His body was particularly slippery. He could have been a football player, if he had been in high school. Was there a father, a brother, a coach, all hoping the stocky young man would put his energy into the game instead of the streets? Martin had to shake off such thoughts. It was mentally draining.
“This is what they had on them,” Tyler said. He laid onto the tailgate, the weapons found in the car, the road and the bodies. “A Kel-Tec P-11. A Smith & Wesson .40: two mags. A Hi-Point 9, two mags, and a Bersa 380, one extra mag. They were all empty except the Kel-Tec. I found some ammo boxes, half empty.”
“I’ll take the .40,” said Charles. He wiped the blood off the magazines before pushing them into his pocket.
“Guess I’ll take the Hi-Point,” Martin said. “Might as well have some magazines and parts for the one I have.”
“Could I have the Bersa?” Nick asked. “That could be good for my son.” Tyler nodded.
“No takers on the Kel-Tec?” Tyler asked.
“I don’t do 9s,” Charles said. Nick hesitated.
“You take it, Martin,” Tyler said. “We’re using your truck and your gas. You oughta get something for that.”
Martin shrugged, but was inwardly pleased. His household needed more guns to arm the patrols.
Chief Burgh drove up the hill with the prisoner and the recovered loot. The others set about changing the front tire on the Lancer. A tuner looks absurd with a donut spare. The engine would turn over, but not start. Shots directed at the driver had damaged the wiring. Martin pulled his truck around and hooked up the tow strap. Charles agreed to sit in the Lancer, to steer and brake. Tyler agreed to ride on the tailgate, next to the three cold bodies.
Martin pulled slowly, getting the Lancer lined up for the trip back to town, then stopped. The site needed to be cleaned too. Charles grudgingly agreed to pick up all the broken taillight bits. Martin and Tyler rolled the rocks back up to their stone walls. Nick replaced the fence rails. Some brushing with a tree branch almost erased the torn up shoulder where the Lancer had skidded. Some dirt layered over the blood, then swept around with the tree branch, turned the dark stains into innocuous dusty patches. Shell casings were scouted for and pocketed. It was tedious work, but finally the four men stood for a moment to admire their success.
“There,” said Tyler. “Now, you’d never know.”
“Good. Let’s get these obvious clues…” Martin pointed to the truck bed of bodies. “…up to town.”
As they rolled up to Town Hall, Gene Merdot stepped into the road to flag them down. “Hey there. Heard you all were coming into town. Everybody okay?” He glanced from one man to the next. Each man nodded with varying degrees of weariness.
“Great. Glad to hear it,” said Gene.
Burgh walked over to Martin’s truck. “I’ve got a place to stash that gangland car, but you’ll have to pull back around to the old fire station.”
“Think I could steal them for a couple minutes, Chief?” asked Gene. “I’m trying to finish up a little after-action debrief with the rest of Stockman Company. We’re over by the mailboxes.” Burgh acquiesced with a nod.
“Thanks, Chief. Only a couple minutes,” said Gene.
The four men joined Lyle, Lance and two other men in a semi-circle around Gene.
“Okay. Gotta make this quick. I told Chief only a couple minutes. I’m glad to report that of the nine men who responded to the call, all nine returned. No casualties. Only minor wounds on two of us. We did good today. Lyle’s group backed up North Pond at the rear door move, taking out at least two of the bandits in the kitchen. Charles’ group stopped the four that fled. Three of them killed, one captured.”
“How did the other companies do?” asked Nick.
“They did good too,” said Gene. Bell Hill and Wilson Hill stormed the front door. One of Wilson’s men was hit pretty bad in the chest, but seems stabilized. Another took a hit in the thigh. Some cuts and scrapes, but no men lost.”
“Where did they find my aunt and uncle?” asked Charles.
“Ah, well, we found them in the cellar. Looked like they were hiding down there. I don’t know if it’s any help or not, but it looks like they died fast. They didn’t suffer.”
Charles looked away.
“Bell Hill found the last of them hiding in an upstairs bedroom. He tried to shot the Wilson Hill man and ran down the stairs. That’s when a Bell Hill man took him out.”
“Time, Gene,” called Burgh.
Gene waved. “You boys head on home and get some sleep. Come meet at my house tomorrow around noon. Diane will work up something to eat. We can pick things up then.”
Chief Burgh had Martin loop around to pull up in front of the old fire station. abandoned years ago when modern fire trucks became too large for old garages. The men pushed the battered Lancer into the smaller bay. They draped an old canvas tarp over the Lancer and rolled down the door. Handily, the windows were almost too dusty to see through as it was.
Burgh climbed up into the pickup bed. He turned each body over, to lie face up. He photographed them and searched their pockets. Only one of the dead men had any ID. Jacob Winslow: 17. Pine Street, Manchester. The other two had small amounts of cash, keys or tokens.
“Maybe our prisoner can tell us who they were,” said Burgh. “He’s not talking at all…yet. A little cooling off time in that cell might help his mood.”
“What do we do with these guys now?” asked Nick.
“Take them up to the cemetery and dump ‘em in, I guess. Not much else we can do with them. You boys look wiped. I’ll find a couple other fellows to send up to the cemetery to do the filling in. How’s that sound?”
All four nodded wearily. Nick and Tyler rode on the bed sides. Charles got in with Martin.
“Part of me still wants to kill that guy,” Charles said, almost to himself.
“I know,” said Martin.
“And I don’t know if I’m mad at you, or mad at myself.”
“I know the feeling too well.” Martin nodded.
“I’ve been in that dark place before,” Charles said. “For a minute, back there, I was all too willing to go back into it.”
Martin had no idea what to say.
“So I guess I’m saying thanks.” Charles looked out the side window. Sometimes it’s easier for guys to say things if there is not eye contact. “Thanks for talking me out of it.”
“Any time,” said Martin.
Martin turned onto the narrow cemetery road. He pulled up as close to the trench as he felt prudent. They hefted in the stocky on first. They tossed the other two on top of the first one. It would save the other men from having to cover more. Again, the four stood and looked at another task done, as if to savor completion.
“We’ll walk home from here,” said Charles. He and Tyler waved as they left.
“I’d still like a ride, if that’s okay,” said Nick.
“Sure. Let me try calling home first.” Martin held his walkie-talkie close to his lips. “Base 9. Base 9. This is Fowler. You there Base 9?”
“Martin?” came Margaret’s voice. “Martin? Is that you? Are you okay?”
Martin rolled his eyes. He told her not to use their real names over the radio. “Yes. I’m fine. Coming home in a few. I’ll do the signal. Tell the others.”
“Right…I mean…Roger…or whatever. Just hurry home.”
“There.” Martin turned to Nick. “This way they won’t shoot me as I drive up.” Martin wanted to laugh, but could only muster a smile.
Nick waved as he stepped out of the truck. “See you tomorrow at Gene’s, I guess.”
Martin waved back. As he slowly rolled down the dirt road, he hit two quick beeps on his horn. That was the signal that it was him approaching, if anyone remembered that.
Everyone was waiting on the front steps as he pulled into the driveway. Anna had to hold Lucas back, to keep him from running up to the truck.
Martin had half-anticipated that Margaret might run up to him for a welcome-home hug. At least, he wanted to picture that. He hoped Susan did not do so too. He had no energy left to keep that problem contained. But, when Martin stepped around the front of his truck, no one moved from the top of the steps. No running for hugs. At first, he was a little taken aback at such a cool reception. Everyone simply stood and stared. Then he followed their stares.
The whole front of his jacket and pants were drenched in blood. He imagined that he looked like a walking dead, or something. Back at the roadblock he smelled the metallic-tinged odor of blood, but had gotten used to it and did not smell it any longer.
“Are…are you okay?” Margaret asked.
“Yeah,” he said looking down at his jacket. “It’s not mine.” That answer did not mollify the group on the stairs. It was still a great deal of someone’s blood.
Martin walked toward the front door. He just wanted to get inside and sit down. The others quickly scrambled to get inside and up the stairs before him. All, except Lucas, who had broken free of his mother’s arms and stood his ground on the porch. He stared with wide eyes as Martin passed.
His thighs ached as he climbed the stairs. His feet felt like they weighed a hundred pounds each. At the top of the stairs, Margaret pointed to his jacket and signaled for him to take it off. He set his carbine in the corner. Out of various pockets, he pulled out both Hi-Points and the Kel-Tec and handed them to Dustin.
Margaret took the bloody jacket with a thumb-and-finger pinch. She waved Anna over to help. Anna crossed herself first. They took the jacket to a wash bucket and poured water over it.
“We heard all kinds of shooting,” Dustin said. “From the radio, we heard how our guys were going to storm a house full of bad guys.”
“And that a man got shot in there,” said Lucas.
“We didn’t know if it was you, or what,” said Susan.
“I guess it was a guy from Wilson Hill. Gene said he’s hurt pretty bad, but stabile. You were all watching your corners, right? — not gathered around the radio?”
“No,” said Margaret. She handed him a glass of water and a half a flat bread. “They stayed at their posts. Dustin made sure of that. I gave Lucas the updates and he went around to tell everyone.”
“Things were happening so fast,” said Lucas. “I had to run.”
Martin chugged the water, then slumped into his chair. It felt good to have his boots off and feel the warmth of the wood stove.
“We heard the Chief talking about a battle at a roadblock,” said Margaret.
“That was us,” Martin said with his mouth full.
“Did you shoot the bad men?” asked Lucas. Anna pulled him out of the room by his shoulder.
Martin ignored the question. It reminded him of his earlier wondering of when each of the dead men had crossed the line from innocence to evil.
“What happened?” asked Dustin.
“We stopped them.”
“But, will more of them come?” asked Margaret.
“Don’t know.”
Martin leaned back in his chair and stared at the dancing flames. It seemed like everyone was done asking him questions, or at least he stopped hearing them.
In his mind, he mapped out things they needed to do. There was much more to work on — early-warnings and defenses — but from the action of the day, it seemed like the town had already started to organize itself enough to deal with any further threats from the outside.
The bigger challenge would be keeping things together on the inside. Even if the outside hoodlums could be controlled, the food shortage still was a problem looming on their horizon. Would people turn on each other when food gets scarce? That was probably what the federal authorities hoped would happen with their embargoes, sanctions and blockades: that New Hampshire could be starved into anarchy and forced to accept their aid — and control — regardless of all the strings attached.
Loss of hope would be worse, Martin mused. People without hope do desperate things: selfish things. Selfishness could crumble what semblance of civilization they still had. He realized that all he could control was himself. He vowed to guard himself against selfishness. If order were to crumble, it would not start with him.
Martin fell asleep in his chair.
(The End: Siege of New Hampshire)
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Post by pbbrown0 on Jun 12, 2016 22:26:37 GMT -6
A Standing Ovation For You, Mic. Thank you.
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Post by headlesshorseman on Jun 13, 2016 3:45:20 GMT -6
Great story Mic. Keep them coming. There will be a another one won't there?
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bwhit
New Member
Posts: 3
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Post by bwhit on Jun 13, 2016 14:20:21 GMT -6
Great read Mic! I went to the trouble to register with this forum just to be able to leave a reply. Both Book 1 and Book 2 were Great! Thanks.
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Post by kaijafon on Jun 13, 2016 15:30:37 GMT -6
thank you so much but you left so many dangling threads!!!! I sure hope that means there will be another story... ....yes I am a greedy story reader... thanks again!
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Post by mic on Jun 13, 2016 15:55:30 GMT -6
Thanks for the kind words. Glad you enjoyed Book 2. Yes, there is a Book 3. It is a couple chapters short of being done. (first draft). It does tie up some of the loose threads. But then, it has some new loose ones too. bwhit: Thanks for joining just to comment. pb, 9dlrr: Thanks for your encouragement Headless and Kaijafon: thanks for being such regular readers/commenters. My longer-term goal is to clean up Books 1 and 2 (and 3, of course) to where I could self-publish them via Amazon, or the like. Before I do all that, however, I'd like them to be as cleaned up as possible. That's where I'm hoping you guys come in. Now that Book 2 is fully posted here, I'd like to ask a favor: With Book 2, what "worked" for you, and what did not? Thanks in advance, -- Mic
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Post by 9idrr on Jun 13, 2016 21:02:31 GMT -6
Thank you, Mic, for givin' us such good reads. What worked for me is watching Martin stumbling along, as I'm sure most of us would, playing everything by ear. I still have no clue how the poor guy is gonna work things out with his "almost" harem.
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Post by kaijafon on Jun 14, 2016 8:46:04 GMT -6
what worked: showing the truth on how some guys are: Eric showing how it is possible to "have strong feelings" for more than one person and NOT be a perv showing how some people are still wanting all handed to them no matter what situation they live in showing how some people will still want to help, even if it hurts them in other words: showing in general, that people are different what didn't work: Leaving too many strands of the story danglin' making us hooked forever!!!! lol! looking forward to book 3! Now hurry up! cause I still want to know what happens with those hippies, the love triangle Martin has himself in, the neighbors who are not too bright, and most of all WHAT HAPPENED TO ALL THE ANIMALS!!!! Thanks so much
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Post by pbbrown0 on Jun 17, 2016 21:59:54 GMT -6
mic,
Kaijafon pretty well said it. What worked is showing every character is somewhat like a lot people we have seen before, but many of them do not fit completely in the boxes we want to put them in. By the way the parts you have included where pragmatic solutions are being found to seemingly impossible problems; That really works for me.
What doesn't work is our patience in looking forward to MOAR !!! Thank you so much for your work on this awesome tale.
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Post by mic on Jun 18, 2016 18:49:06 GMT -6
Thanks for the kind words. I will be posting the chapters of Book 3 in a new thread. Once I have it started, I can post a link back here.
-- Mic
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bwhit
New Member
Posts: 3
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Post by bwhit on Jul 5, 2016 17:10:22 GMT -6
Mic, I am looking forward to Book 3. I check back on a regular basis. You asked for feedback on the Book 2. I think everything on Book 1 and 2 worked very well: the tone and the speed were excellent. I was glued to it. One small technical point kind of jumped out at me. I really don't know if it is worth changing. But here it is. Somewhere in the story ( Book 1 or Book 2 )you had mentioned how much gas your generator used over a period of time. I can't remember the details or where in the story. Here is my experience with generators. I have lost power at my home many times over the years and I have used a gas generator that was barely powerful enough to power my refridge, some lights and a tv and a computer. The generator used about one gallon of gas in an hour or two. I can not remember the time to gas ratio you mentioned in the story but I think it was something like a couple gallons a day. I feel a little funny even mentioning it. It did not affect this great story in any way. I'll be checking back daily for Book 3. Thanks again for the great read!
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Post by mic on Aug 2, 2016 12:53:44 GMT -6
Mic, I am looking forward to Book 3. I check back on a regular basis. You asked for feedback on the Book 2. I think everything on Book 1 and 2 worked very well: the tone and the speed were excellent. I was glued to it. One small technical point kind of jumped out at me. I really don't know if it is worth changing. But here it is. Somewhere in the story ( Book 1 or Book 2 )you had mentioned how much gas your generator used over a period of time. I can't remember the details or where in the story. Here is my experience with generators. I have lost power at my home many times over the years and I have used a gas generator that was barely powerful enough to power my refridge, some lights and a tv and a computer. The generator used about one gallon of gas in an hour or two. I can not remember the time to gas ratio you mentioned in the story but I think it was something like a couple gallons a day. I feel a little funny even mentioning it. It did not affect this great story in any way. I'll be checking back daily for Book 3. Thanks again for the great read! Hi Bwhit, Sorry for the slow reply. Didn't see the 'new' marker on this thread. Hope you've found Book 3 by now. It's called "Hunger Season" btw. As for generators,it was probably in Book 2, Chapter 1. How thirsty a generator is, depends, of course, on how big it is, and how much load is on it. One guy reported getting 5.5 hours of run time from a gallon, in a Honda 2000. He reported 12 hours of run time per gallon under lighter load. My generator (a 1200W) gets 8 to 10 hour per gallon. (YMMV, of course) Thanks for the note, though. I'll go back and look into that. Maybe the consumption pegs Martin's generator as too small. Might up that a bit. -- Mic
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bwhit
New Member
Posts: 3
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Post by bwhit on Aug 8, 2016 17:54:10 GMT -6
Mic, Thanks for the reply. I found Book 3 a week ago and I am loving it. What a great story! --Bwhit
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Post by gipsy on Jun 24, 2017 9:42:35 GMT -6
Moving on to part three of this great tale.Thanks
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Post by mic on Jun 24, 2017 10:13:19 GMT -6
Thanks, gipsy. Hope you'll like Book 3. There is a book 4 too, but not posted on this board.
-- Mic
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Post by 9idrr on Jun 24, 2017 18:29:15 GMT -6
Thanks, gipsy. Hope you'll like Book 3. There is a book 4 too, but not posted on this board. -- Mic But, that's okay, 'cause we know that Mic's workin' on Books 5, 6, and 7, to be posted here any day now, right Mic? Mic? Right? We hope? We beg?
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Post by mic on Jun 24, 2017 18:46:35 GMT -6
9ldrr, Working on #5, yes. Book 4 was posted on another board, but moved to a private section before publishing on Amazon. They got kinda squirrely when publishing 1, 2 and 3, because the content was available 'for free' on the internet. You can check out the cover art and blurbs at the Series' own little website. mic-roland.com. --Mic
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Post by papaof2 on Jun 24, 2017 19:41:56 GMT -6
9ldrr, Working on #5, yes. Book 4 was posted on another board, but moved to a private section before publishing on Amazon. They got kinda squirrely when publishing 1, 2 and 3, because the content was available 'for free' on the internet. You can check out the cover art and blurbs at the Series' own little website. mic-roland.com. --Mic When KDP was iffy about something that was available for free, I just said to continue. Don't think you can do that if you have Amazon advertising for you. You probably can if you're paying for the advertising (pay per click, which I haven't yet tried).
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Post by 9idrr on Jun 25, 2017 20:07:19 GMT -6
9ldrr, Working on #5, yes. Book 4 was posted on another board, but moved to a private section before publishing on Amazon. They got kinda squirrely when publishing 1, 2 and 3, because the content was available 'for free' on the internet. You can check out the cover art and blurbs at the Series' own little website. mic-roland.com. --Mic "Susan's Bridge" is every bit as good as the first ones. I'm waitin' to find out the resolution of the whole Margaret-Martin-Susan thing, and not sure myself how I want it resolved. You've done a great job of gettin' me hooked with the story on both boards. I go by bugbor over there. Boy, sometimes it's hard usin' so many names on so many sites.
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Post by mic on Jun 26, 2017 17:06:18 GMT -6
Hey, 9ldrr, so, you're 'bugbor'. Small world. Yeah, so many names. Glad you liked "Susan's Bridge." Working on the outline for Book 5, which (at this early point) is intended to resolve a lot (if not most) of the loose ends. Of course, I went into Book 4 thinking it would be short because, well, how much could happen to her anyway? So, who knows. -- Mic -- mic-roland.com
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