Be warned, it's not done. I intend to get back to it but can't guarantee when. I think it's enough of a chunk to enjoy. Definitely shadows current events. Hope it's a fun read.

Sam's War


Sam caught his dad glancing at him in the rear view mirror. He could see the tension and worry in his father's eyes. "Sonofabitch" he thought to himself. The sentiment was not directed at his dad so much as the situation they were driving into. The back seat of the Jeep Cherokee was cramped for his six foot frame and made even more so by the gear he wore and carbine he held. Marc saw his son staring at him. "I know, I know. I should have made her stay home, but we both know how that would have gone." Marc pushed down the tinge of guilt he felt in the back of his mind. This was no time to be distracted by second guessing or figuring where to lay blame. They had a task at hand that had a very real potential for death or worse.

The third person in the Jeep was Dan Burk. Dan had met Marc Crawford and his boy, Sam when they all joined cub scout pack 253, almost 11 years earlier. That seemed a lifetime ago, now. So much had changed. The country had steadily marched downhill both economically and socially. The goat rope they were headed for was just part of the result of many years of failed policies, societal decline, rabble rousing instigators and the resultant economic depression and lawlessness.

The three men were headed in a direction opposite of that any sane person would choose...into a riot. Of course it was a fool's errand and they were probably breaking an entire file cabinet's worth of city, state and federal laws. But there were two very scared women who needed rescued in the worst way.

-------------------------------

Jan Burk and Sarah Crawford had a small catering business. It was one way to earn cash money instead of having a “normal” job with an employer withholding the current rate which hovered at sixty-five percent. As the depression took hold and the government tried to spend its way out of debt, it had been increasingly difficult to make ends meet. Anyone who had the ability and opportunity had taken to earning money on the “black market”, as the television propaganda commercials defined it. Any money earned “legally” was subject to exorbitant tax. That ignores all the licenses, fees, registrations, regulations and the general bureaucratic red tape that precludes any but the already established and wealthy or the corrupt and connected from running any business. Working in the employ of a corporation was basically treading water, and even that required the life line of any and all government subsidies for which one could qualify. A viscious circle. Pay the tax. Feed the bureaucracy. Get back a percentage of what was taken and hope to make it up with wages or ….barter. i.e. black market..

The two women had taken a gig in one of the sections of Cincinnati that, a couple years ago, would have caused no concern at all, with regard to safety. However, with the events of the last month or so, the civil unrest was spilling out of what was ordinarily considered the bad part of town and into the places where the FSA thought they would get more attention. Do more damage. Get more stuff. After all, they weren't known as the Free Shit Army for no reason. Of course, they saw themselves as the “Have nots”. Virtual freedom fighters. However, after the last incident between the FSA, the hard line wing of the TEA party and government troops, the line had been crossed and in a big, bloody way. The U.S. was precariously balanced on the precipise of an all out civil war. The current administration had no clue as to how to handle the different players and neither side seemed anywhere near ready to conceed anything.

The two caterers weren't very intersted in politics or who wanted what. They wanted to be able to help keep food on the table and a roof over their family's heads. Where they found themselves, now, was quite different than anything they could have imagined. These were civilized, reasonable, considerate, generous women. They took the kids to their sporting events. They made buffets for the scouting ceremonies. They helped with homework and maintained flower beds in front of the house.

Now, they were stuck, along with the guests of the party for which they hired to cater, in a low rise office building. The mob outside had already torched or otherwise disabled several vehicles. Sarah had been ready to leave the considerable amount of gear they had brought and just make a break for it, with Jan. She had her concealed handgun permit and had her glock 9mm pistol with her, although, she knew that wouldn't be much more than a cap pistol if they were confronted by a mob. A sinking, sickening feeling settled in her stomach as she and Jan watched through the third story window as their SUV was set ablaze. She was already on the phone with Marc. He was trying to be his usual, calm self with the instructions he was giving her, but she could hear the worry in his voice. She tried to play it off to him as some small thing but wasn't doing a very good job of containing her desparation in wanting to get the hell away from the animals she was watching on the street.

“Think they'll come into the buildings”? Jan asked.
“I suppose it's possible, but I've not heard of them coming into office buildings. Only places they could loot”.
“How long 'til the guys get here”?
“They're on their way. I don't know. I wish I hadn't called. Look at that mess. We've asked them to drive into the middle of freaking downtown Mogadishu.”, Sarah's voice trailed off with the realization of the potential scenario ahead.
“Where?”
“Nevermind. Let's look around and see if it's any clearer on the street at the back of the building.” Sarah was trying to give them something to focus on and had actually tried to convince herself that there may be a better side of the building for them to get out, when their white knights showed...if they showed. No, she would not allow herself to start down that road. They'll be here. Marc is always there when he says he will be. She wiped a tear away before Jan could notice. He'll be here.

------------------------------------

Marc, Sam and Dan were well armed, considering the short notice they were given. Each had an AR-15 carbine of some kind as well as a handgun, along with a couple dozen magazines between them. Marc had told Sam, “Load for bear” as Sam was headed for the gun room in the basement. Sam had turned out to be more of a gun enthusiast than even Marc had been at the age of 17. He was a big kid at six feet tall and about a buck-seventy. He'd shot NRA high power rifle competition since the age of 14 and IPSC handgun for the last two years. Probably, for this excursion, his airsoft “combat” experience would serve as well. Sam had studied all of his dad's G.I. Field manuals on patroling, ambush, booby traps, etc. It had gotten to the point that when he played airsoft or paintball with his friends, Sam's team would necessarily be considerably smaller than the opposing team, just to be fair. Marc knew the boy would have no problem grabbing what they needed

Marc was gathering other things he thought they might need. A million things were running through his mind. “Should we take two vehicles? What if one breaks? No. That leaves less hands to shoot, if it comes to that. First aid kit, yes I need that. Lord I hope I don't. Tow strap? Already in the Jeep.”

Another battery of peculiar thoughts passed through Marc's mind; “How many people/bodies could the Jeep plow through or over? There has to be a limit.” He was remembering getting bogged down in a snow bank. It was sizable. “Twelve, maybe fifteen bodies would be about a ton. Probably be O.K. as long as I could gun it and get up, on top of them. On second thought, with the FSA it'd be more like eight bodies to the ton and they'd be extra slippery.”

The Cherokee in which they rode was hardly stock. Marc (actually Sam, with Marc being sucked in) had gotten into rock crawling with four wheel drive vehicles. It was just a hobby. The competitions didn't appeal to the pair. Nevertheless, the Jeep had modifications like coil over suspension, extended and detachable control arms, winches front and back which could be used to compress the suspension for road travel or leveling on steep terrain.

Marc was driving as fast as he thought was safe. The oversized tires and low gearing of the Jeep were not conducive to highway speeds. He knew that would be an issue when he'd chosen it to go get his wife. As they approached the area of the city where the women were holed up, the smoke could be seen
billowing into the sky from the fires. Vehicles, dumpsters, stacks of tires, anything that would burn littered the streets and sidewalks. The scene was surreal. Thankfully, the area to which they were headed was more industrial/office than residential. Still, there was a substantial number of the FSA vandalizing, looting, menacing people who just wanted to get away.

Bottles, rocks, sticks seemed to be the weapons of choice for the occasion. This was one of the reasons Marc had chosen the Jeep. There were no windows. They had been replaced with a heavy steel mesh on the sides and horizontal steel bars for the windshield. A windshield that sustains a solid impact is very difficult to see through. The men all had goggles on, at Sam's insistence. A single glass bottle, busting on the bars and they could have been blinded.

They were only a couple of blocks away and things were looking hopeful. Things were bad but could have been much worse. There had not been any significant road blocks and only a few rocks/ chunks of pavement and concrete had hit the jeep. The added dents wouldn't be noticeable among the many “trail wounds” the machine had already sustained during the many hours of trail riding and rock crawling.

Marc turned onto the road as directed by the GPS on the dash and the bottom of his stomach fell as Dan shouted,”Fuck it, Marc. We gotta go. Go. GO GO GO. Hit 'em!”

Marc was already letting out the clutch on the down shift as he stabbed the gas pedal. Dan was bringing his rifle up to bear on the mass of humanity that stood between themselves and their loved ones. Sam, in the back was glancing to the left and right as the crowd had started moving their way, during the momentary slowing while navigating the corner and then the pause as the driver took in the scene in front of them. He had made up his mind to shoot before he'd even grabbed the firearms, back in his basement. Now, that decision looked as if it may become a very desperate reality.

A medium sized, four door car sat in the middle of the two lane street, smoke or steam rolling from under the hood and most of the windows busted out. A middle aged man lay beside the car, a bloody mess, with half a dozen urban thugs dancing around, kicking, hitting and dropping chunks of concrete on his body and head. He was surely dead or very near. On the trunk, a woman, presumably his wife, was being beaten and raped by another group. There were women among the crowd, cheering, as the once well dressed woman was brutalized, her clothes ripped, bloody and falling off of her.

The FSA was not used to what happened next. They were accustomed to compliant victims. Middle class suburbanites tend to freeze in fear and are not able to unleash the violent animal within. An ability required for a life and death confrontation, if one wants to come out on top.

Instead, they were presented with the roar of the unmuffled exhaust of a small block Chevy engine having the coals poured on. The 40 inch, bead locked, off road tires actually barked a little against the pavement and a man with murder in his eyes was behind the wheel and bearing down on the crowd with no apparent intent to stop or swerve.

The crowd parted in a frenzy. It would have been funny in a Keystone Cops sort of way had the circumstance not been so deadly serious. Marc felt the wheel tug to the left and right a couple times and perhaps a bump or two. Had they hit someone? Possibly ran over one or two? None of the jeeps occupants seemed to care.

“Shit, shit, shit, shit! Do you fucking believe that? They killed that man, dad. Probably gonna kill the lady, too. We should go back. Why didn't I shoot? Damnit.” Sam was having a reaction not exactly typical of a 17 year old boy who'd just witnessed the carnage he had. Instead, he was full of anger, rage, the need to help and /or avenge innocent victims.

“I didn't do anything either, Sam,” Dan said. “I should done something. A few warning shots to scare them off. Maybe shoot them in the leg or something.”

Sam was in no mood to explain to Mr. Burk that warning shots are a waste of ammunition. Shooting someone in the leg with a high powered rifle, even if you could make the shot, is still a possible death sentence. In fact, Mr. Burk was not Sam's choice to come on this...mission. That's what it was in Sam's head, a mission.

Mr. Burk was not a gun guy. He had no training other than the occasional plinking they had done in his back woods. His only familiarity with the rifle he was currently holding was playing with his son's airsoft replica and the magazine Sam had coached him on while he fired it, back at the house. Time well spent as his dad dropped his little sister, Stacy, off at the Burks' house to stay with his friends and fellow scouts, James and Chris Burk. Chris would have been Sam's pick. They'd hundreds of hours together, shooting, moving, ambushing with airsoft. Chris was bitten by the gun bug, too. Sam had satiated Chris' every question and curiosity when it came to firearms and shooting. Mr. Crawford had taken the boys shooting many times. But he knew that no amount of reason is going to keep a man from helping his wife.

“We can't help them. Even if we wanted to, we couldn't have helped them.” Marc has always had a way of walling off reality when under extreme stress. He calls it his “bubble”. He has the ability to break a problem down to its very basic, core pieces and pick out the ones that truly matter, the ones he can change or influence and forget about the rest. It was aggravating to his wife, sometimes. It seemed to her such a cold, unfeeling way to deal with life. But this ability serves very well under conditions such as they were currently experiencing.

“Are they following, Sam? Anybody getting in a car?” Marc was trying to return his voice as well as his pulse to a non-panicked state. Dan knew not to look back. Sam had drilled him on sectors of responsibility on the way down. Dan was to look forward and right. Sam, to the rear and left. Marc didn't have to be told that he was to drive the car, no matter what else happened.

“No, I don't think so, dad.”

As they drove further, a gruesome reality started to sink in. What, at first, looked like a bunch of burned vehicles and debris, turned out to include charred and mutilated bodies. People. Human beings who were at the wrong place in the wrong time and they were set upon by the sub human animals that the three had nearly fallen victim to moments ago. The realization of what could have happened, had they hesitated, was setting in. It hardened them with resolve, should they be presented with another opportunity.

“Is everyone OK?” Dan asked. “Sam? Marc?”

“Dan, get the girls on the phone. Tell them to be ready but not too close to the front door. I don't want to wait longer than we have to,” Marc said.

They were rolling up to the front of the building. The crowd had dissipated, some. Mostly due to the noxious fumes of burning rubber and accelerants. Just a few stragglers milling around. Every so often an aerosol can would explode in a fire, causing all three to jump and scan the area for a gunman.

“Oh, my god! Dan, you can't believe how glad I am to hear your voice,” Sarah shouted into the phone.

The women had made their way back to the front of the building but weren't looking out the window to see the jeep coming down the street. They were hugging each other as Sarah was holding the phone to her ear. Jan had her ear pressed to the other side, trying to hear.

“You won't believe what we've seen in the streets around the building. They are beating people, Dan. I think some of them are dead.” Sarah was trying to hold it together.

Dan relayed the instructions as Marc stated them. Sam got into the back compartment. It was cramped and far from ideal, but would allow the women to quickly enter the rear seat. Time sitting still was not good. They would drive to the next intersection, pull a u-turn, and return to the front door. By that time, Jan and Sarah should have made it down to the front.

One thing no one had thought about was the reactions of the rest of the guests at seeing two of their numbers rescued while they were left behind. Most were the type to believe the police were on their way to save them. A handful had been with Sarah and Jan, looking out the windows at some of the worse atrocities committed on the street. One woman, in a bright red dress, impeccable hair do and some very expensive jewelry was now on the verge of hysterics and was begging to be taken with the caterers. The world in which she lived didn't exist in her current location. Sarah had briefly shot Jan the “Why couldn't you keep your mouth shut” look as she tried to reason with and comfort the woman.

“There's just not enough room, Ma'am. I'm sorry. I'm sure the police will be here soon.” She tried to say it convincingly.

The girls were descending the stairs so fast, their feet were barely hitting the corners of the steps, sling-shotting around the landings, hanging onto the railing. They were heading down the hall to the front doors as the jeep was pulling up. They could hear a faint “pop,pop,pop” and as they drew nearer the doors, the women could see something was very wrong. It dawned on Sarah what the popping sound was and she drew her pistol in preparation to help if she could.

The front of the building had an awning. Marc had pulled up on the sidewalk and under the awning so the driver's side was as near the door as possible. As they came to a stop, Marc could see the girls running down the hall. With his attention on the girls, the other two should have been looking out and away from the building, scanning for threats. They weren't. Sam and Dan were both looking through the doors, willing their family members to beat feet to the waiting jeep.

The first three rounds missed by a mile. Seems the FSA tended to use the tried and true method of marksmanship known as “spray and pray”. However, the sound grabbed the attention of the rescuers like no other sound could. More rounds started being fired in their general direction and the pace was increasing. They were getting closer, too. Relying on poor marksmen and bad luck of someone trying to kill you was not something Sam thought a very good idea.

There was a group of 4 or 5 guys, just walking up the middle of the street. They were about 100 yards away and appeared to be carrying AKs, and shooting from the hip, while walking. Sooner or later, they were going to get lucky. Sam wasn't about to give them any more chance than he had to. He leaned over the rear seat before Mr. Burk could be shaken out of his disbelief that they were actually being shot at. He steadied his rifle on his dad's seat back with his left hand and yelled at the passenger to hold his ear. He hadn't seen, as much as sensed, that his dad had exited and was in the process of deploying his own rifle.

At about the same time, father and son opened fire on the armed men in front of them. It wasn't the volleys of unaimed fire that the FSA gunmen were employing. These were aimed shots. Sam's first few shots ended up as fragments of lead and copper, spraying the inside of the Jeep, himself and Mr. Burk. His muzzle was directly behind one of the bars running across the front window. After a slight adjustment, he was sending rounds down range.

The women were exiting the building at the same time the men started shooting. The deafening booms coming from the rifles startled Jan. Marc yelled at his wife to wait. It went against her nature to not help her husband but she had learned to listen to him when he gives orders. He never gives orders. He didn't even tell her to stay home this morning, even though she knew he had wanted to. It was one of the strengths of their marriage.

One by one, the gunmen fell. “Three down”, Sam thought, “Two to go...I think. Damn it. You know better than that”. Sam quickly scanned around. He had fallen into a very common and very bad phenomenon; tunnel vision, target focus, blinders. Whatever you wish to call it, it's bad and potentially deadly. Sure as hell, there were two guys walking toward them from their right. They were just exiting an alley and weren't more than 50 yards away. Sam pushed off hard from the driver's seat back and landed on his butt in the rear compartment. The next 15 or so rounds out of Sam's rifle were not slow or particularly well aimed. They were a firearm's equivalent of an “educated guess”. Muscle memory from firing thousands of rounds served to put lead on target and one of the men was hit. The other lost any desire to continue toward the jeep. A large amount of grey matter and skull fragments formerly belonging to his friend and now covering the side of his head sufficed to change his mind in a dramatic way.

The remaining gunmen in front of the jeep had fled. Marc motioned for the girls to get in the Jeep, as he was reloading. Sam changed magazines, as well. Sarah pushed Jan ahead and into the jeep and slid in beside her, careful to keep the muzzle of her pistol in a safe direction. Marc jammed his rifle under Dan's legs, climbed in and they were away. Using both sidewalks and the street, he made another u-turn and headed for the river and more rural ground. He wasn't about to go back through the mess they'd just experienced.

They made their way over to the interstate which wasn't far. They were all heaving huge sighs of relief. Marc noticed blood on Sam and Dan. Sam explained what had happened with his rounds impacting the bars as he touched his face, feeling the little spots of blood. Jan craned up and over her husbands shoulder to see how much of the shrapnel his face had sustained.

The quick breath in and ”No!”, shouted over the loud exhaust, brought everyone up short. The right side of his shirt was drenched in blood. Dan was so pumped with adrenaline and fear that he'd not felt the impact of the bullet. Marc pulled onto the shoulder of the highway. This was bad in a lot of ways. If a trooper stopped, there would be far more questions than he had answers he was willing to give. Three “assault” rifles. Spent cartridge cases all over the floor. Bullet splashes on the windshield bars. Probably at least a few bullet holes in the body, not to mention one in his friend. He had to assess the wound, though.

Sam handed the trauma kit to his dad who opened it as he walked around the Jeep. He pulled out bandage shears, opened the door and started cutting the shirt away. Dan's eyes were wide and he was getting quite white. Marc thought about pulling him out of the jeep and starting treatment for shock. It would have been the prudent move, had the situation been different.

Once the shirt was cut away, Marc breathed a small sigh of relief, although he knew the situation was still very serious. A person can die of shock, even if the injury is not life threatening. It looked, to Marc, that the round had hit one of the bars before impacting Dan's trapezius muscle, the muscle running from the neck to the shoulder above and behind the collar bone. The wound was a large, ragged tear from front to back, doing considerable damage to the muscle. If the AK round had not been deflected, it would likely have just punched a small hole, the size of a pencil. Treatment could have been as simple as a drain tube, a couple stitches and a course of antibiotics. Probably some good pain meds, too. As it stood, the wound was bad but a couple inches lower and he would have been dead from a severed subclavian artery.

Marc knew Dan needed a hospital. At least society was holding together well enough that he wasn't going to have to play surgeon. Sure, he had read enough to probably take care of the wound. He had some antibiotics as part of his “just in case” stores. But, the wound, combined with the obvious shock that was setting in dictated a hospital, as quickly as possible.

It wasn't that far to Bethesda hospital. Sarah, sat up front and they laid Dan down across the back seat, his legs elevated and resting on Jan. Sam kept pressure on the wound from behind the seat. They didn't have anything to cover him with but it wasn't that cold in early September.

They contemplated ditching the guns before they arrived but Marc and Sam couldn't bring themselves to do it. They knew it would be almost impossible to replace in the current socio-political climate. They would drop Jan and Dan off and scoot. Their story would be that they were caught in the riot and a good Samaritan had dropped them off but wished to remain anonymous.

I figured there'd be at least one to tell me not to quit my day job.

I think it's pretty good....are you going to finish it?



 

It comes in spurts, for me. The above was written in a weekend, for the hell of it. I've spent a while trying to figure out what direction I want to take the story. I think I have enough of an idea to dig back into it.

So far so good!

Thanks for sharing.  One question/critique.  How successful will cellphones be during such an event?

It varies on location, the amount of redundant towers, amount of usage by the populace.

Not unbelievable that they'd still have service. Probably more believable than the wife having a 2m ham rig on her.


I'm more than open to other critiques/ suggestions.

A few spelling errors, but all in all pretty good so far.



When do the mutant biker zombies come into play?

Thanks.

Yeah, there are some grammatical errors and some awkward sentences. This was the first draft and needs cleaned up.

I figure that's an editor's job. One as creative and elite as I can't be bothered with trivial details.

needs more gangbang.

Homo or hetero?

Should the victim become a recovered alcoholic who saves the country?

Pretty good so far, I would like to read the finished product.  Please make sure we know when it's finished and where we can buy it.

Tag.

Tags

One thing that passed through what is jokingly called "my mind" - the hero is lucky no one was above him, playing "drop the rock".



A five pound chunk of concrete dropped off a three or four story building can wreck your day. 360 awareness should include threats from above.



Also, wouldn't surprise me in the least to have at least a half dozen women come charging up to him, screaming in his face "don't shoot, my baby dindu nuffin, don't shoot".

tag for later

Yup, in for wherever this ends up

Good stuff. Finish it up.

I enjoyed it... did you finish?

Nah. It'll be a while so don't hold your breath. Hence the disclaimer in the OP.

Thanks for the compliments, everyone.

And then......

I remember the first time you posted this. It is pretty good. Please continue.

hey, I'm just the idea-man.
you're the writer-guy.

if it's homo, make the victim eerily similar to a real person, say, a politician of alleged Kenyan extraction who hates America.
portray him as having liked the rough treatment, too.

I like to write, but I'm no writer. I always get the feeling that I'm just wasting time when I write very much. But, I enjoy it so I guess it's as good as any other hobby.

More please, good read.