Shadow patriots, p.2
Shadow Patriots, page 2
Winters reared back. “Take care of it?”
“Yep. We're sick of it. No one's doing anything about it, and if we wait much longer, they'll eventually come here. Sooner or later, it has to be done.”
“When are you going?”
“Tomorrow night. And we could use all the manpower we can get.”
“I'll bet.”
“Well?”
“Well, what?”
“Come with.”
“Please. I'm the last person you need.”
“After saving that girl, you're exactly what we need.”
“That was a fistfight. This is something entirely different. I don't have any experience with this?”
“I don't know anyone that takes down more deer than you. This is no different.”
“It's plenty different. Deer don't shoot back.”
“You're right. You stalk them, which is what we're doing. We've set up another church meeting and let it slip out when and where. Except this time, the churchgoers will be armed, and we'll be hiding across the street waiting for the mob. And when they do, that's when we strike.”
“How many are you?”
“Between the guys here in Sabine and Bloomington, we'll be right around a hundred.”
“Whoa. That's a lot of men.”
“We'd like more. You can never tell how big the mob will be. That's why I'm asking you. We need every man we can get.”
Winters let out a deep breath. It sounded like a good plan, and since the cops weren't around, it needed to be done. He didn't want to do it, but it was his duty as an American citizen.
Besides, it would keep his mind busy, and he needed the distraction.
Chapter 5
Winters was on the second floor of an office building in Bloomington, Iowa. He'd been there since this morning with Paul and thirty others from Sabine. They arrived at eight in the morning to avoid detection from the Black Shirts, who weren't the get up early kind of people. They were the children of darkness and didn't go to bed until the sun came up.
The militia was in three separate locations surrounding the church, which also had a contingent waiting inside. In total, they had one hundred and thirty armed men and women. Twenty more would arrive tonight to give the appearance that the church meeting was in session.
The militia had passed the day by playing cards and chatting with each other about the state of the country and the war out West with China.
The war had started over trade disagreements, China's encroachments in South America, and the U.S. debt. This was happening during a worldwide economic depression that included a complete collapse of the American economy. Tens of millions of Americans were out of work and out of hope.
Until nine months ago, negotiations with China had been going smoothly, with both countries agreeing on a resolution. But out of nowhere, China attacked southern California.
At first, U.S. forces made good progress against the enemy, but the momentum shifted, and now they were losing fighting men and women in droves. The government ordered all former military personnel under forty to report for duty. They had also upped the age of volunteers to the age of forty. They formed recruiting centers around the country to help in the recruitment of volunteers.
Winters walked downstairs and joined his brethren, who were putting together their dinner. He knew all of them, having gone to school or worked with most of them at the factory. Everyone was talking about what they wanted to do to the Black Shirts.
It was all bold talk bragging about their shooting and fighting skills. It's what you did to keep the fear from surfacing.
Winters did none of this. He had no fighting skills to brag about nor any past military stories since he had never joined the military. He was a fine shooter and good at hunting, but then most everyone here was as well. He kept wondering what it was going to be like to kill a fellow human being. He never imagined he'd ever be in this position and hoped to God he had it in him to do his duty.
“Hey Cole, you ever find out who that dude was?” asked Jim Pelletier.
“What dude?” asked Winters, not wanting to chat with him. He had been a bully back in high school, and the two of them had never gotten along. It's not that Winters hadn't gotten over it, but Jim had never changed. Bottom line, he was a man-child.
“That guy you got into it with?”
Winters shook his head. “Never seen him before.”
“Can you believe our favorite bookkeeper saved some damsel in distress? No offense Cole, but you've never been one to stick up for yourself, let alone some girl.”
Winters rolled his eyes and ignored him. He wasn't worth the effort.
“Jim, shut your piehole. Can't you ever leave things alone,” said Paul.
“Hey, don't mean anything by it.”
“Not everyone would have done what Cole did,” said Paul. “Look how long it took us to come out here and help. We should have done this weeks ago, but we didn't. We've just been hoping it wouldn't come to our town.”
Head nods spread around the group.
A tinge of guilt crept up Winters' spine because he included himself in that statement. He didn't want to be here now, but a sense of duty pushed him forward. If he had to guess, it was why most were here now, though some were more willing than others. Whatever the personal reasons, they were all here. You had to respect that.
Darkness had finally come, and the action would start soon.
The “parishioners” had started sneaking into the church through the back door. They came separately in pairs to sell the deception.
Three Black Shirts had already been spotted in their hidden perches spying on the church. The bloodbath was going to happen. The militia had to be patient and wait until the party got started before they opened fire.
This would test their nerves.
An hour later, the Black Shirts were pouring in from the south. There had to be a hundred of them. They marched up the street in silence. Whoever had trained them had trained them well. When they reached the church, a Black Shirt carrying a long-handled sledgehammer approached the front door.
Winters watched from a darkened window. He drew in a deep breath. His heart rate increased. He tightened his grip on the AR-15 he brought. There was no turning back. He wasn't sure what to expect and hoped he didn't embarrass himself. He cracked a slight smile. Perhaps he should be more worried about not getting killed.
The mob surrounded the building, and the signal was given.
The sledgehammer whacked the front door.
This glass door didn't have safety glass and shattered on the first swing. The mob cheered, and the bull horns came alive with the usual chants.
“When do we go?” asked someone.
“When the ones inside start shooting,” another answered.
Winters shook his head. They had already gone over the plan, but nerves were on overdrive, making them forget their instructions.
The first shot rang out from the windows of the church. The reaction was immediate. The mob ducked down with some scattering.
The first shot had done its job—expose the Black Shirts who were armed. They came forward and shot at the church. There were seven of them. Probably the same number on the other side.
“Hold on, guys,” said Paul. “Let them empty their mags.”
Five of the seven had pistols. The other two had ARs. They shot through the windows shattering the glass.
Whoops, and hollers came from the mob.
The shooting stopped.
They needed to reload.
“Now!” said Paul
Everyone piled outside in a single file and marched toward the sidewalk, forming a single row as if they were a high school drum corps.
They had practiced this move inside the building multiple times and had perfected it. They stood thirty yards from the mob at the ready waiting for the order.
Winters was the last to exit. He donned ear protection, knowing how loud it was going to get. He didn't worry about hearing the order to fire. He would know.
Like a drum corps, the drum major gave the order, and the firing started. Muzzle flashes lit up the darkness like fireworks. Rounds found their targets as the mob began dropping dead. The ones who had guns were the first targets. Screams were barely heard above the constant gunfire that echoed in the cold night air.
Some of the Black Shirts ran into the church for cover but were met by more gunfire. Others ran down the street, with some escaping.
Winters emptied his magazine and slammed in another one.
He wasn't sure if he had hit anything. There were so many bullets flying that you weren't sure who was hitting what.
The bloodbath didn't last but a minute. The firing trickled down to sporadic shots and then nothing.
There was silence but for the moans from the wounded.
The militia from Sabine didn't move in but stayed right where they were.
The “parishioners” from Bloomington came out of the building.
They had lost nine of their neighbors the other night and were in no mood to take prisoners. The executions happened right where the wounded lay.
Male or female—it didn't matter.
They were all Black Shirts and all the same.
The executions lasted longer than the actual battle if you could call it a battle. It was a turkey shoot and nothing more. They didn't stand a chance, but then that had been the plan. This was war, and there were no rules.
Winters' body jerked on every shot. He didn't want to see any more executions but didn't dare move. It wouldn't look right. He still had to live with his neighbors and friends. There was no reason to interject any slights or show any weakness.
He came here to do his duty, and this was part of it.
Chapter 6
Brian Fuller finished reading the report on last night's bloodbath. Ninety Black Shirts were killed—no wounded and no prisoners taken. The rest escaped and left the area. Typical. When the going gets tough, the pansies are the first to flee.
Fuller was Vice-President of Employ United. They were a human resourcing contracting company. His division was in charge of placing activists at protest across the entire country.
Fuller was not surprised by the makeup of the militia. It was what he had been expecting. Most came from Bloomington, and a small group came from Sabine, a town south of Bloomington. He was surprised they had fuel to get there.
The incident had answered the question his company had been hired to find out. How far can they push before the population responds? What are the demographics of the responders? And from how far had they come. It was valuable data for the man that hired them and would be put to good use in other parts of the country.
He picked up the phone and punched in the number to his contact, Commandant Boxer of the National Police.
“Brian here. It finally happened.”
“Where?” asked Boxer, a trained Psychologist.
“Bloomington, Iowa.”
“How many?”
“Ninety dead. No prisoners—no wounded.”
“Executed them, huh?”
“All of them.”
“Now, that is interesting.”
“Says a lot about their state of mind.”
“What was the final motivation?”
“Nine churchgoers killed a few nights ago.”
“That's their redline? I'm actually surprised.”
“As am I. It took them longer than I thought it would. We were closing in on two months there.”
“Tell me about this militia.”
“About what I was guessing considering the circumstances.
Late forties and up. Most of them were in their fifties with some early sixties. Report says there were well over a hundred of them. Good tactics. They baited my people into one area, and they came in from behind ambushing them with guns blazing.”
“Taking no chances, were they?”
“No. They were there to settle a score.”
“Where was this militia from?” asked Boxer.
“Right there in Bloomington and Sabine, a little town south.”
“Okay. We'll raise the age at the Patriot Centers to sixty-five.”
“You're going to do that with all of them?”
“No. Just the ones in the Midwest. Why don't you send Copeland down to Bloomington and Sabine. Have him give his patriotic speech and get these guys to sign up—usual promises of National Police patrolling the area.”
“Do you want any more activists in Bloomington?”
“No. We're done there. The locals will think everything is fine now. It'll alleviate their worries and give us more recruits at the Patriot Centers. Besides, I've got an Army Colonel reassigned to Rock Island. He'll provide the necessary support for the area.”
Chapter 7
Billy Gamble sat sulking in a recliner, licking his wounds from last night. The man was in charge of the Black Shirts who were no longer around. Most of them were killed, and the rest took off, no longer wanting any part of it. Gamble was a man in charge of no one. He was without an army, and it was gnawing on him.
The nerve of those bastards to ambush them and start shooting unarmed people. They didn't deserve to die like that. Whoever these gunmen were deserved to be whacked.
He had already put a call-in hours ago and was waiting for a call back from Brian Fuller. He was the one who signed the big checks he received as payment.
His phone started buzzing. “Took you long enough.”
“It's been a busy day, Billy. I heard what happened.”
“I lost everyone.”
“I'm really sorry to hear that. From the reports I've received, that militia was relentless. Heard they even got help from a small town south of them, Sabine.”
“Probably so. There had to be hundreds of them. Mister Fuller, when can I expect new recruits? I'm also going to need more guns and supplies.”
“Yeah, Billy, listen, I'm sorry, but we're not going to need your services anymore.”
“What?”
“We're cutting you loose.”
“But you can't do that. I need to get back in there.”
“So, you can get shot up again?”
“I just need more guns.”
“Not going to happen. I told you when I hired you for this gig that this was a short-term contract. The contract is up, and that's that.”
“But sir, what am I supposed to do now.”
“I don't know. I don't have anything on the board for you. Take a vacation. After what happened, you need it. Look, you've made plenty of money on this gig. You'll be fine.”
Gamble threw the phone against the wall and slammed his fist on the table. He'd been an activist and community organizer for the last three years and loved it.
He had gotten to do whatever he wanted without any fear of going to prison. He'd lost count of how many times he'd been arrested. The charges were always dropped by morning. Each time he got a free meal and got to hang out with his friends while waiting to be set free. It was always a party-like atmosphere in jail. It had been a great three years, and now it came to a screeching halt.
He should be grateful he wasn't killed in the melee last night, but he wasn't. He'd been getting his way for so long that he took it for granted that he survived.
He'd miss some of his friends for sure, but they should have run as he did. It was always best to run when the gunfire started. You never knew who had guns.
He did make a lot of money. Perhaps it was time to take a much-needed vacation. Buy a bunch of drugs and settle down somewhere while the war played itself out. Better to stay safe and cozy.
Chapter 8
Three Weeks Later.
Winters bent down to clear out the few branches that had fallen from last night's winds. It was about the only thing that got him outside. With no electric power, he had little to do but read books and piddle around the house. It was boring and gave him too much free time to dwell on his deceased wife.
He had fallen right back into this routine after coming back from Bloomington. The stimulation of the Bloomington Bloodbath, as it was now called, had worn off. He had come home with mixed emotions. For starters, he was happy to be alive. That had not been a certainty when he agreed to go. Anything could have happened. He was pleased with himself that he had done his duty. It isn't always easy to do the right thing, but he had and was glad for it.
The mixed emotions weren't about whether the Black Shirts deserved to die because they certainly did. There was an inherent risk in the kind of destruction they were involved in, and they should have known it could come to some pushback.
When he had volunteered, the main thing on his mind was how he would feel killing another human being. And he still wasn't sure what it was like. He had no idea whether he killed anyone. Besides being dark, there had been so many guns firing and bullets flying that he couldn't be sure. Once the shooting started, the Black Shirts ran in different directions, and it was difficult finding a target. For the most part, he just swept back and forth, firing, hoping to hit something.
The bottom line is he didn't get the man to query takedown experience like he did when hunting wild game. So, the answer to his question had not really been answered. Seeing the dead lying everywhere had been a surreal experience, but he never got up close to them. Didn't want to. It wasn't the gore that bothered him. He didn't want to look at a face and wonder what the person was like. He had built a detached wall between them and him.
He came inside and plopped down in an easy chair. Perhaps he'd been thinking about it too much. With nothing going on in his life, it was difficult to think about anything else. It was either that or worry about the state of the country, which was always too depressing. This left him with thoughts of his wife Ellie or their wayward daughter, Cara.
She had taken off a year ago with her boyfriend to God knows where. She had rebelled as a teen and had been a handful. As soon as she turned eighteen, she took off and never looked back. It had been heartbreaking for Ellie not to have her daughter there when she was on her deathbed.
