Chapter Ten
The Peacekeepers all wore hard body armor. They had the old style Kevlar Helmets that would stop many handgun rounds and protected the head from blows and most small flying debris. They had thin Lexan face shields that they could attach to the helmet for riot duty, but even at an eighth of an inch thick, it still obscured vision somewhat.
Today they wore tough polycarbonate safety goggles and the black Nomex ninja masks to protect the face from light debris and to hide their identity.
I’d contrived to cast a .10 caliber tungsten carbide needle into a .357 caliber Keith style semi-wadcutter. It wasn’t exposed and if it encountered mild resistance it stayed dormant. When it struck something bullet resistant the lead peeled off leaving the rod to penetrate.
I didn’t invent penetrator cores of course, but I did figure out how to center them reliably in a bullet mold—a method that would work in a home casting setup. I load them a bit on the hot side, though nothing crack-brained. It probably wasn’t a load that you’d want to run through a small-framed .357 very often though.
Even Cooper said that there is no need to use full power loads for most of your revolver practice.
My short list was L or N Frame Smith and Wessons, .357 Ruger Blackhawks or one of the rare .357 Ruger Redhawks if you had one—and a few other choices.
Since none of my deputies wore a pair of 9mm pistols in a double shoulder holster rig, they had room to carry an armor piercing .357 in their stead.
Most of them opted to wear either a Ruger Super Blackhawk or Redhawk in .44 Magnum—most with seven and a half inch barrels. Some even wore two .44 Magnums. The .44 Magnum core was .15 caliber.
In a fast and furious gunfight at spitting distance against armored clients, if you haven’t eliminated all hostiles and/or taken cover by the time you have fired six rounds of hot loaded AP rounds, then you’re probably dead.
Still, hope springs eternal and anomalies do occur.
Having opened the ball by shooting the first client, I quickly emptied my new .357—at least the gun was new to me.
Grumpy took a shot to the nose. Maybe I should call him “Thumpy”. It doesn’t matter. He plays a very minor part in my memoirs. You might even call his significance “Picayune”.
The Kevlar does deflect the bullets a bit and one can hit a helmet dead on and still miss the head inside. Also, about fifteen percent of the .357s fail to penetrate.
I shot my second client in the side of his helmet at about three yards. The way the bullet wrecked his raised Lexan visor told me that I probably hadn’t hit his head.
As he turned toward me I got in a shot to the center of his head.
The penetrators tend to penetrate the skull with little damage. It is in exiting the skull where the most dramatic effects occur. It almost always blows away a dime-sized divot of skull as it exits.
When it tumbles in media it purees a swath through the brain and leaves an exit hole as big as a nickel—sometimes bigger than a quarter.
I shot the next Federale right in the hollow of his neck, right between his collarbones. I’d never go into a fight planning to shoot someone there, but my sight picture happened to lite there momentarily and I took it.
I had two rounds left in the revolver and I felt the need to holster the gun and get on with the rest of my life. I did a quick double tap—as close as you can come to a double tap with a revolver—on another storm trooper’s head and then I shoved the good old gun into its holster hard to insure against it not seating and being lost.
Remember what I said about six shots being a realistic limitation?
I was an exception this time because I can crank out six double action shots far quicker than most. Also, I had other people on my side. Some of the shots that might have otherwise have hit me were directed at my friends instead.
I have what’s been called “machinegun trigger finger”. I can take almost any semi-auto and fire it about as fast as an automatic—give or take fifty or a hundred rounds per minute—and I don’t need to resort to bump-fire to do it.
Generally machinegun trigger finger leads to sloppy aiming and wastes beaucoup ammo. As I said, firing two high capacity pistols down range as fast as I can work the triggers—without even bothering to aim at anything…
Well, it is one of those transcendental events that give life meaning and joy.
Shooting very fast at nothing is fun. While it may do no harm—except expending ammo—neither does it improve one’s shooting skills—much.
But I’d learned to harness the speed.
5906s with factory magazines have 15+1 rounds on deck. I’d found some good quality aftermarket 17 round magazines. Shooting two 17+1 guns gave me four extra rounds. Of course I have some thirty round magazines for reloads but they don’t carry at all well in the guns—but come a zombie apocalypse I’ll be prepared.
So lets see, torsos are well armored. Heads are at least half-assed bullet resistant.
Plan B:
Aim short bursts of fire at the thighs.
The 147 Grain +P hollow-points were loaded to an honest 1100 feet per second and a bit more. They would expand enough to matter about sixty percent of the time in living tissue. The hollow points mushroomed beautifully over eight five percent of the time in various test media.
Damn the hollow-point placebo anyway.
I started in with a 5906 in each hand. I can engage two targets at once if the targets are up close and personal and no more than crude accuracy is required.
I generally fire them in sequence. I almost always lead with my left just like a boxer. When I switch hands I also swap eyes. If I halt a flurry of shots, I generally default back to the left hand again to lead off the next flurry.
I was trying to focus on one thigh and shot it “Left—Right”. Two of the hot-
loaded hollow-points through the mid thigh stood a good chance of hitting the femur, the femoral artery or another big artery or vein or at least render the walking/standing muscles in that thigh unable to function.
Sometimes I got locked into the cadence and I’d shoot “Left—Right—Left” at one thigh.
A Peacekeeper sprayed me with his HK-MP5. I had my soft armor vest on under my shirt because I had expected trouble soon—just not quite this freakin’ soon. I could feel the 9mm bullets pitter-pattering all over my torso.
Jeff Cooper said that when a pistol bullet hits soft body armor that it feels like a good stiff left jab.
Point of fact Cooper actually said:
“A good stiff jab thrown by an athletic woman.”
We needn’t be so specific. I mean, is this “athletic woman” a bantamweight or some two hundred pound steroid-using contender for a world championship?
The longer barrels on the machine pistols as well as the hotter loadings—and the fact that I caught sixteen rounds fired in somewhat less than three seconds all conspired to make those left jabs remarkably sharp.
He could easily have hit my head, an arm or a leg and my story would have been quite different. I just lucked out the right way. The Baraka was with me or perhaps God was taking a personal interest in me for one reason or another.
As the Peace Keeper sprayed me, I could see each of his muzzle blasts with the brake induced star pattern.
For some reason I fixated on both his legs. I had three shots in his right leg from my left hand 9mm and three right hand shots in his left leg—In three left—right sequences—by the time he fell.
It takes awhile to tell, but I doubt I the whole gunfight took over ten seconds at most.
The gunfight seemed to have ended just as my spraying and praying client dropped.
I dropped both magazines on the ground. I held both 5906s on my left trigger finger as I shoved a fresh magazine in first one then the other. That is one of the very few usable gun-handling tricks that I picked up watching action movies. Since I hadn’t shot them dry, I didn’t need to top them off or to release the slide.
Once I’d reloaded each 9mm and had them safe back in their holsters I picked up my magazines off the ground. Later I found that the right hand magazine held four cartridges while the left hand magazine held only one.
Then I reloaded the .357.
Like the gunfight, it takes far longer to tell than it took to do it.
A deputy that everyone called “Doughbot” grabbed my arm and shouted at me that Gary had been shot and was down.
Doughbot had the complexion of a Kabuki dancer or the Pillsbury Doughboy. He was very strong and he shot like a human Ransom Rest—but there was always something ponderous and mechanical about his every movement.
I believe that his brain never generalized but treated every task that he chose to accomplish as a new and unprecedented challenge.
Gary was lying on her back with bright red blood spurting in the air. Duncan applied a pressure bandage. Then asked Doughbot to hold onto it while he applied a tourniquet.
I was just as close as Doughbot but maybe Duncan thought that I might be too emotional to perform well.
Duncan served two tours as a combat medic in the Middle East. If anyone could stop the bleeding he could.
I sent Mrs. Todd a scrambled radio message.
“We’re at Child’s place. The Peacekeepers beat him half to death before we arrived.
“Gary is down with a probable femoral puncture. We need Duke’s helicopter to come and take her take her to Duke’s infirmary,” I said.
We couldn’t send her to a public hospital. They might arrest her and cause her to disappear forever. They might deny her treatment and watch her bleed out. They could simply execute her on the spot. Any of those things were “legal” under the terms of The Executive Order.
“Also,” I said to Mrs. Todd.
“We have just made thirteen hobnails good here. So do unto others as they’d do unto you—only do them first. You might want to evacuate.
“Don’t sit around on the red ‘X’ whatever you do,” I advised.
With headquarters warned and help presumably on its way, the best thing that I could do at that point in time was to reassure Gary.
I clasped her hand.
“You can’t die Gary. I’d miss you so much,” I said.
I’ve never held much with lying, but I lied to Gary then. She might very well die. Me forbidding her to die might serve to rally her spirit, but that might all come to naught.
“There’s something that I’ve never said to you because it sounds maudlin…
“But now I need to say it because I may never get another chance.
“I love you Dew. Do you love me?” Gary said.
Did I love her? I’d never thought to ask myself that question.
Now that I needed an answer I hadn’t the time for the earnest and merciless soul searching that an honest answer required—not while Gary’s remaining lifespan might be measured in minutes.
She seldom spoke but she was always with me—when I ate, when I showered and when I went to bed. I was thankful that she gave me a bit of privacy to make deposits in the porcelain bank.
I would miss her so much—but was that love?
I lied once more.
“Of course I do. I’d have told you long before now, but I thought that you knew.”
The helicopter arrived merciful quickly. They took Gary, Childs and a couple deputies who’d need stitching, tetanus boosters, antibiotics and painkillers.
The last thing that Gary had said to me was:
“Watch over my guns for me,” as she handed me her gunbelt.
“We have a few wounded Federals that are still alive,” Doughbot said.
“Not a problem, I can easily remedy that, ” I said.
I drew my Cold Steel Tanto—the one with the twelve-inch blade. It was a bit over-engineered for mere throat slitting, but nonetheless quite usable for the task.
“What are you going to do?” Doughbot demanded.
“Right now we have some bad hobnails. This knife will turn them into good hobnails—because shooting captives is a bit orkish,” I explained.
“My conscious won’t allow that,” Doughbot said.
“Fine. Go sit in the shade and suck your thumb. If you try to interfere though—even verbally—I’ll fill both your legs with 9mm and leave you out here for the crows and the possums.
“Mrs. Weber was slain in her own home. Childs may never fully recover from the beating that they gave him. My wife may die…
“And you want to honor some code of land warfare or some such nonsense.
“To Hell with all that.”
I’d seen some of the tapes of the Mussulmen and their Primitive Pete executions. I’ve rarely seen such ham-handed knife handling. If those poor innocent people must die, I wish that they’d let me do the executions…
Not because I have blood lust. I don’t. I wished they’d let me do it because I could have spared the clients beaucoup pain and suffering.
I slit each Peacekeeper’s throat neatly getting both carotid arteries, both jugulars, trachea, esophagus and both sterno-mastoids in one efficient plunge and cut. While I didn’t try to inflict unnecessary pain, neither did I go out my way to be gentle.
“Doughbot, we cannot afford prisoners. Quantrill took no prisoners and neither will I.
“Now I’m going to take trophies. Do you know why? It is an excellent Psy-op, that’s why. If you want to resign feel free,” I said.
************** ****************** *******************************
Shortly afterward Duke called me on the radio.
“You need to come back to town ASAP. We were going to make a preemptive strike on the hobnails, but they beat us to it.
Apparently something had warned the federales of a shit-storm dead ahead and closing.
They’d been reinforced by a platoon of Peacekeepers right after I left. That many men must have been lurking close by awaiting something and then our warm southern hospitality—complete with a do it yourself lynching party—that barely failed to get airborne—had caused them to commit too soon—I guess.
Who understands how these incestuous government apple polishers think? Do they think at all? Is it just a perverted instinct that they rely on?
They’d gathered between twenty and thirty hostages and then they’d taken control of our gaol house—killing several of our deputies in he process. They were using Mrs. Todd to relay their crack-brained demands.
They wanted way too much to make any sort of deal possible. Amongst other outrageous demands, they wanted to live.
We didn’t know if the marshal was still alive or not.
Now the extra thick rammed earth walls, firing slit windows, generators and the large stores of food and ammunition was all going to turn around and bite us in our ass…
At least the govie was going to try to bite us. I’d thought through many possible scenarios—including having our stronghold taken over. I’d prepared some surprises and we’d soon see if they were sufficient.
If my plans worked, the Federales wouldn’t bite us in our ass. They’d just bite—big time.
The town might not be defensible over the long term, but they had our people and some of the gear was also worth rescuing or at least scuttling it so the govie couldn’t use it.
We needed to move soon while every thing was in chaos and the captains were still trying to choose up sides.
************* ***************** *************************
While we were preparing our counter-offensive the govie slipped in a number of punches in below the belt.
Duke had bought an old but sound building that had been a tubercular sanitarium back in the day. The building was shaped like a ”V” and it had a basement, three stories above ground as well as a stand-up attic.
One side of the building had been converted to an old folk’s home. It was the kind of rest home that you’d want to send your dear ones to if you just couldn’t care for them yourself.
The bottom floor of the other wing had all its windows boarded over with plywood. It looked deserted to the casual eye.
There were three operating rooms and a Dentist’s office on the boarded up ground floor. There were forty-four double rooms in the covert hospital and room for more beds in the hallways and other places, if things got that bad.
The place had doctors, nurses, maintenance techs and orderlies on call for when the hospital went into operation. I think that Gary and the deputies and Child’s were the first real patients.
They must have spotted the helicopter somehow—satellite surveillance, drones, ground observers or maybe psychics with crystal balls. They traced the flight straight back to Duke’s hdeout.
What kind of sick bastard strafes and then bombs a nursing home?
Drones damn them to Hell!
A human pilot might have balked at bombing a nursing home. It used to take some flying skills to fly a remote drone—but not anymore. Any fascist idiot can pilot a drone nowadays.
The govie wasn’t the least bit modest. They were running crap on CNN every half hour about all the rat’s nests and snake’s dens of right-wing extremists and terrorists and unfashionable folks who run around with unkempt hairdos.
We had gathered in Andrea’s Dress Shop as a makeshift headquarters while the Peacekeepers held our headquarters. It was close to the gaol—right across the street from it. There was plenty of electrical outlets and bandwidth…
Andrea gave us permission to use her shop. We weren’t Peacekeepers to barge right in and take over.
When they showed the inside of the hospital inside of the strafed and bombed hospital, I could clearly see Childs lying dead on gurney. There was Gary’s body. Her face was ruined beyond recognition, but there was her saved head and her uniform shirt with the bronze colored Major’s insignia.
I recognized a nurse that I’d seen in uniform in the café a few times.
Then there was scores of old folk. I didn’t know any of them, but I hoped that they had family to try to avenge them.
Doughbot put his hand on my shoulder.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know at they’d go this far. I was wrong earlier,” he said.
“I need any hackers and/or nerds who can help me get about a ten to fifteen minute manifesto on multiple sites online despite the govie trying to spike it.
“Everyone who has expertise gather at yon table. Please, if you don’t know anything then don’t get in the way of folks who do.
“Can anyone paint a portrait? Are there any computer graphic artists?
“Andrea, can make me one of these in a half hour?” I shouted out rapid fire orders and request as well as asking occasional questions.
*********** *************** ************************
“Friends, some of you know that my wife died when they bombed the old folks home.
“They’re making a lot of raid all around the area. Some of y’all came to my father’s fishing camp for my wedding.
“The place ain’t there no more. They razed just like they razed the private hospital and nursing home.
“I saw my father and my Uncle Dudley and Tate and his wife Eudora. Tate was just a neighbor back in Indiana, but he moved under our roof after the bombings and that made him kin. His wife was working so hard to lose weight.
“They had everyone laid out like a bunch of trophies—like a bunch of Carp that’s no good for anything except to be gawked at.
“One of them cracked a joke about Eudora’s weight. Eudora weighed over four hundred pounds when she first arrived.
“ Is that witty to observe that a four hundred pound woman is fat? And she’s lying on a plywood slab full of bullet holes.
“Revenge is pointless. Revenge won’t re animate my family. If a man s bond for Hell—he’s going to suffer more in one minute there than all the drawn out torture you could give him in a decade—so why bother?
“If he calls on Jesus he’ll go straight to Heaven and all you did was get him there faster.
“Does that seem unfair? It isn’t. If Jesus wasn’t in the practice of giving unconditional pardons to anyone who asked for one, we’d all be in trouble.
“There is something here that needs to be addressed. There is something that needs to be made right.
“That something is the idea that so many have, that they can rape, rob, murder, kill and torture without consequence.
“I’m going to educate some evil folk to the fact that actions have consequences.
“For as long as the Good Lord spares me I’m going to be 0educating these people how actions have consequences—and it’s going to be a very brutal course of instruction.
“Now gather round while I let you in on some of my methods…”
.....RVM45
