The Livormortis Womb (Part Fourteen)
Tags: Fiction, Crime, America, War, Novel

You locked the damn door! Wha’ the fuck did ja close it for?

Reno reaches inside the folds of his green pants pocket to pull out a thick wallet. It contains a magnetic card that automatically releases the lock.

Adrenaline pulses within his heart, prompting him move faster. His hand quakes while worming into the pocket.

They’re going to kill me! Reno thinks. The hick’s gonna to shoot me in the back!

As moments pass, Reno starts to lose control.

Command presence! he reminds himself again and again, but his authoritative veneer cracks like a crumpling dam.

He breaks into a desperate sprint for the station’s entrance — less than fifteen yards away.

“Get him!” shouts the hick. “Shoot the spik before he gets inside!”

“I give the orders here!” yells Spencer.

The echo of rifle bolts being pulled reverberates across the walkway.

As the fingers of Reno’s left-hand fidget with a stuck wallet, he turns to face the rebels. He believes that they are going to fire at him. Instinct directs Reno. He points his Type 77 and fires it at the hick. A slug bores into his sloped forehead — straight into his frontal lobe. The hick falls to the sidewalk like a ragdoll. His 30–30 drops to the ground; its wood butt and steel muzzle scrapes the asphalt.

Everyone is surprised: Reno, Spencer and the rest of the SAA militiamen. No one expected Reno to kill anyone — especially Reno. His eyes are wide with amazement and fear. He mutters something unintelligible and lowers his Type 77.

Someone releases a guttural, wrathful scream: “SHOOOT! SHOOOT HIM!”

Bullets fire like popcorn in an iron kettle.

POP! POP! POP! — POP! POP! POP!

Slugs ping the metal entrance doors and concrete sidewalk. Others split the building’s stucco façade, spraying flecks. Plaster dust floats down and a breeze blows it over the yard’s thick grass.

Reno’s back arches. His head jinks and his groin explodes. Bone shards spray from his body like mulched wood and tick-tack off the windows and onto the pavement. Reno’s arms flail about. The power of the bullets contorts his body, forcing Reno to twist towards Leon. Blood runs from his nostrils and open mouth. He collapses first onto his knees and then his stomach.

As he falls, his eyes meet Leon’s — the shocking, red fey of instant death.

Lead slugs rip into Reno’s body as he falls onto his face, motionless. There is a large red maw in the middle of Reno’s back, exposing the ridges of his spine. Wet red spurts fly and fall upon his back.

Leon fights the urge to faint. He stumbles backwards and almost collapses, but he steadies himself against the concrete block wall with his good arm.

“Oh, H-holy Mother!” he gasps.

6:22 am

“Seize it!” Spencer shouts. “Seize the station, damn it! We can’t let them get to their armory!”

Leon hears more gunfire.

POP! POP! POP! — POP! POP! POP!

He knows that the SAA militiamen will be inside the building soon. After obliterating the front gate lock with a shotgun blast, all they will need to do to get inside is shoot out the entrance door’s plexiglass window.

Leon’s feet stumble towards the end of the long narrow hallway; he weaves as he fights the temptation to collapse from pain and hyper-anxiety. He must get behind the reinforced metal door of the processing room.

Leon feels dizzy. He is nauseous. His vision grows dim. He begins to hallucinate. The hallway spins, stretching out before him. The processing room’s metal door shrinks into the distance. Black stars flicker in his retinas.

Despite his vertigo, Leon reaches the door and pulls on the handle. It won’t budge. He hammers the door’s cold surface with his good fist.

“Open up!” he shouts. “They killed him! They killed him! They’re comin’!”

“What?” Keogh asks through the metal door. Leon can tell by the tone of his voice that he doesn’t believe him.

“Open the door!”

“What happened to your English?”

“What?”

“What happened to your tongue?”

“Fuck that! They killed your agent!”

Silence transpires as Keogh and Benteen process what Leon is reporting.

“Open the door!”

“Where’s Reno?”

“He’s dead! Open the door now!”

“How’s that?”

“I said he’s dead! Open the damn door!”

Leon pounds the door with his good fist three more times.

Keogh pushes the door and Leon rushes through the small opening, hobbling inside. Once inside, Leon collapses onto his knees and huffs. Benteen and Keogh crouch down next to Leon and pull him to his feet.

“What’d you see out there?” Keogh asks.

“They — they shot him.”

“They? Who’s they?”

“Men outside — they have guns. They shot your agent.”

“What men shot Reno?”

“The men outside the fence line — thirty, forty, fifty of them — with guns — they shot your agent. He’s on the ground outside. He’s dead. There’s blood everywhere.”

Benteen and Keogh look at each other, paralyzed with confusion. No one’s ever attacked a DBS station before.

“We can’t get the police,” says Benteen. “The phone lines ’er dead.”

“Let’s try our portables again,” says Keogh, reaching for his radio on his utility belt. He pulls it, puts it to his mouth and thumbs the transmit button.

“Nine-ninety, Nine-ninety — one-three-zero,” he says.

Static shoots from of the receiver. Keogh pauses for five seconds before trying again.

“Nine-ninety — one-three-zero.”

No one answers. He continues transmitting anyway.

“The Blaine Station is under attack! We need back up! Green down! Green down!”

He lets up on the transmit button again, but again he hears the same static drone. It is an empty, lifeless sound.

“I should see what’s goin’ on?” says Benteen.

“The people who killed Reno could kill you too,” says Keogh.

“Well then, what the hell ’er we gonna do?”

“Good question,” says Keogh. He thinks for a few seconds before answering. “We’re going to hole up in here and play defense until help arrives or those men go away.”

“I — I don’t think they’re going away,” Leon says. “I overheard some of them say that they want your guns.”

“Our arsenal?” asks Benteen.

“Or our detainees,” says Keogh.

“Both,” says Leon.

“They may,” says Keogh. “But they’re going to have a hard time doing that.”

“How d’at?” asks Benteen.

“No one’s getting our guns,” says Keogh. “They may kill us, but they’re not getting our guns. We’ll destroy them first!”

“Shit,” says Leon. The yearning to faint comes upon him again. He feels his heart and guts thrash under his ribs.

“There’s going to be a bl-blood bath in here.”

“How we gonna fight ’em?” Benteen wonders.

“Simple,” says Keogh. “We’re going to establish a defensive perimeter at the end of the hallway with suppressing fire. When they poke their heads through those front doors, we’ll mow ’em down.”

“They have a lot of guns,” says Leon.

“What kind?” asks Keogh.

“Rifles, pistols and one really long, tube-looking thing — I think it’s a bazooka.”

“They don’t make bazookas no mo’,” Benteen says. “You’re probably talkin’ about a rocket-propelled grenade.”

“Yes,” says Keogh, “but RPG or not, I’d bet most of them haven’t any experience in shooting at something that can shoot back. When they come through the doors and walk down that hall, they’ll be contained. We’ll get at least one of them. When the rest see the sight of their own spilt blood, they’ll cut and run like chicken shits. I don’t think they have the guts to fight a real battle. I bet most of ’em are Michigan militia wannabes.”

“If they ain’t,” says Benteen, “it’s gonna be like the Battle of the Little Bighorn in here. We’re goin’ ta get slaughtered.”

“Don’t say that!” says Leon. He’s on the verge of tears. “I don’t deserve that!”

“None of us do,” says Keogh, “but that’s the situation we find ourselves in. When I woke up this morning, I had no idea that we’d be fighting a pitched battle in the hallway, but — here I am and now we have to do something. We can’t let ’em take the station and our guns without a fight — even if they kill us all.”

“Maybe they wouldn’t kill all of us,” Benteen says.

“What are you talking about?”

“What I’m saying is that maybe they didn’t kill Reno because he was a border agent, but because he looked Mexican.”

“Are you saying that they might not kill us because we’re white?”

“Well, yes — but not all of us.”

Both agents glance at Leon. His dark Semiahmoo eyes transmit desperation.

“I’m not white,” he says.

Keogh attempts to quell his unease: “I don’t think that’s why they killed him. I think they killed him because he was a government agent, not because he was a Mexican. They shot him because they hate the Feds — period — which means they hate us as well. Did you see anybody in that group that wasn’t white?”

“I don’t remember,” answers Leon. “I just remembered that they all had guns. Some rode Harleys and looked pissed off.”

“Bikers?”

“Yeah,” says Leon. “They wore leather jackets.”

“Did Reno recognize any of them?”

“Well,” Leon says, “I saw your agent talk to two people. One with a red beret — I think it was their leader — and another man he called ‘chief.’”

“Chief?” asks Keogh. “As in Indian chief?”

“No. I think a police chief.”

“Do you know which department?”

“No. That man didn’t wear any uniform — just wore regular hunter’s clothes like everyone else.”

Keogh pauses for a moment, scratching his five o’clock shadow, trying to imagine which chief.

“It can’t be Sumas Police,” he says to himself. “That’s almost thirty minutes away. He’d never leave his jurisdiction, especially during a crisis like this.”

“How ‘bout Lynden PD?” Benteen asks.

“No,” says Keogh. “Chief Begum wouldn’t leave his town during trouble. It must be Chief Brandt.”

“Brandt?” asks Benteen. “Ya really think that the Chief of the Blaine Police Department would be involved in this shit?”

Keogh focuses on Leon.

“Do you know if they’re surrounding our station?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did you see any men to the left or right of the building?”

“No. I didn’t go past the door. When I saw those men, I stayed far back and let your agent-friend do the talking. I didn’t want to get caught up in anything bad. Your agent told me to stay behind.”

“Command presence,” Benteen mutters to himself.

“What?” Leon asks.

“Command presence,” Benteen repeats. “It’s what we were taught at the academy. Y’er supposed to be able to take on more than one hundred Mexicans all by yerself when you see them come across. Y’er supposed to confront them alone and transport them back to the station for processin.’ Ya do that by taking charge with your voice and demeanor. Ya also have your gun if necessary. Ya can’t let ’em see ya sweat. That’s what Reno was tryin’ to do. He thought he could control the situation by force of personality.”

“I guess it didn’t work.”

“Yeah,” says Keogh. “Those men out there aren’t Mexican peons who can be cowed by a green uniform and a badge.”

“Didcha see any military men among them?” Benteen asks.

“Maybe,” says Leon. “It’s like I said. There’s people with leather jackets but some of the men with guns are wearing hunter’s camouflage — the kind you’d see in Cabellas or Walmart.”

“How about their leader? Didncha say he wore a red beret?”

“Yeah. He seemed very proud of himself. He looked like someone who wants to be an Army officer or some kind’a guerrilla leader — like Che Guevara or something.”

“Did he have any markings on him?” Keogh asks.

“I couldn’t see that far, but I did hear him yell at your agent that he was from something called the SAA.”

“The Second Amendment Association?”

“I don’t know any of that,” says Leon. “That’s an American thing. We Canadians don’t have anything like that.”

“That’s right,” Benteen says. “You guys don’t gotta Second Amendment.”

“About how many are out there?” asks Keogh.

“I don’t know — a lot.”

“Damn it!” Keogh erupts. “We don’t know how many or where they’re positioned. This is a problem.”

“Do you think they’d be behind the building?” Benteen asks.

“Possibly. If so, there’s no chance for reinforcements, even if the phones and the radio suddenly worked. Let’s go down the hallway to the building’s storage attic! There’s a trapdoor leading to the roof. From there we can do a quick surveillance. One of us can stay at the end of the hallway and hold them back if they come through the gate and front door.”

“We still got those stun grenades in the arsenal,” says Benteen. “That’ll give us additional firepower. The narrow hallway’ll bottleneck ’em. If I can hunker down where I can cover da exits, then we might be able to hold out for a few hours.”

“Hold out?” asks Leon. “For what?”

“For help to arrive,” says Keogh.

“Does it matter if the leadership can hear us on the phones or radios?” asks Leon.

“No,” says Keogh. “They know what’s going on. I’m sure they have contingency plans for such situations.”

“Maybe not,” adds Benteen. “Who’da ever thought there’d by another civil war in the United States? How’d the government operate without the entire loyalty of the DBS or the military?”

“Good point,” says Keogh, “but I’m certain they took that into consideration when Justice Wallenburg got killed.”

“I think it best that we negotiate,” Benteen says, spitting his tobacco juice onto the floor. “After all, we know Chief Brandt. I like the guy and he probably likes us too.”

Keogh raises his right eyebrow in consternation.

“Negotiation’s ain’t such a bad idea,” Benteen says. “It’ll stall ’em ’til Lennox’s troops rescue us or we escape. Plus, we could surrender the station anyways!”

“You’ve lost your mind,” says Keogh. “If we give up the station, we jeopardize our lives and careers! Sure, we can survive — maybe — but we’re dead in a professional sense. We’ll be fired — and our families . . . our families will starve. These things — this rebellion cannot last long; order will be restored soon. This rebellion is just a flash in the pan. I’ve seen it happen before in Bolivia and Sierra Leone in the news!”

Benteen isn’t convinced. Keogh can tell by the smirk on his face.

“Look at their weapons,” Keogh says. “Shotguns? Hunting rifles? Lennox’s tanks and jets are going to make short work of them. Hell, we may even agree with ’em, but in the end we have to take our families into consideration!”

By Benteen’s crinkled forehead, Keogh knows that he’s won the argument.

“I see whatcha mean,” says Benteen. “We’re ba-tween a rock-n-a-hard place. I guess you’re right, but what are we gonna to do ‘bout the moose-fucker here?”

“We’re going to do everything we can to save him.”

“Why?” asks Benteen, confused. “He ain’t nothing but a tweaker — a drugged up loser with no future. I don’t think my family would fo’give me for dyin’ defendin’ a drug smuggler.”

“I may be a smuggler,” says Leon, “but I am a human being with rights — war or not!”

“Ah!” says Benteen. “So you fess to smugglin’ drugs? Y’er a liar on top of a druggie loser! That’s ‘nough for me. I don’t wanna save this son-of-a-bitch!”

“I admit what I did,” Leon says, “and I’m sorry. I’m in the same boat as you guys, but much worse. As soon as they see I’m in here, they’re going to mistake me for an illegal alien and shoot me dead.”

“As long as he’s in our system,” says Keogh, “he’s our responsibility. If we let him get ethnically cleansed by the mob outside, it’ll be our heads. Canada will want an explanation as to why its citizen died in a US Government station. If we survive this, they’ll ask us why and we won’t be able to find an excuse. It’ll become an international incident. We’ll get fired or jailed. That’s why we should try to save him.”

Benteen doesn’t like it, but he doesn’t have a counter argument.

“It’ll be better for us to stay loyal to Lennox,” says Keogh, “even if we hate him ourselves. He is the commander-in-chief and we have to do the right thing.”

“The right thing?” says Benteen, as if Keogh spoke blasphemy. “The right thing is ta git that psychopath out of the Oval Office. That guy’s a murderer and he’s getting’ ‘way with it.”

“Lennox is still president. He’s not been convicted of any crime — ”

“ — and he ain’t ever gonna,” interrupts Benteen. “And that’s jus’ shitty. No wonder the guys outside ’er pissed off!”

“You’re right,” says Keogh, “but if we join these guys — sympathetic or not — we’re dead. They don’t have the power to overthrow the entire system. What are they going to replace it with, anyway? What are they going to do to ensure that the elderly get their Social Security checks? What are they going to do about providing teachers’ salaries? Postal services? Are those guys going to sort and deliver packages to my home on time? I think not! So, consider that before trashing the whole thing and starting over with a bunch of rubes.”

“Maybe those guys outside’ll get their act together,” says Benteen.

“Come on, man!” says Keogh.

“We don’t know what they’re gonna do,” says Benteen, “but I know this — they’re out there and they’re many. They got mo’ guns than we do. They’re surroundin’ us and wanna take this station. They’ll kill us if we can’t hold ’em back — and we can’t. Lennox ain’t gonna send help in time. I doubt it he will. They don’t even know that we’re under attack. I’ll bet that they been tryin’ to communicate with us jus’ like we are with them. What can they do without them knowin’ what’s going on here?”

“I do know this,” says Keogh, “the rebels will lose and that’s a fact. As soon as the situation stabilizes — ”

“Stabilizes?”

“Yeah — stabilizes, as in the front. The government’ll send the Tenth Mountain Division troops in Black Hawks to quash these backwoods inbreeds. The Third Army’ll bring big tanks and artillery. The Air Force’ll drop more bombs than you can imagine. They’ll withhold food shipments — we’re not in the Midwest, you know. Lynden can’t grow enough crops to feed them all.”

“Why don’t we jus’ surrender then?” Benteen asks. “That sounds better than fightin’ a pitched battle in here.”

“We can surrender,” says Keogh, “When Lennox’s troops take this place — and they will, sooner or later — we’ll have to show them that we put up a fight.”

“But the guys outside’ll massacre us all for resistin’,” says Benteen, before he spits on the floor. “If somma their men die, they’ll kill us.”

Keogh presses his lips together and looks down at his feet. His mind races through possible solutions and discards them as soon as they come.

“They might,” he says, “but I believe it’s the only way to make it out with our reputations intact.”

“I thought I’d never see the day where I’d be takin’ Lennox’s side,” says Benteen. “It’s a hell of a gamble, but if we’re gonna do something, it’s gotta be now.”

“You’re right,” says Keogh. “We defend the station.”

“I’ll get the rifles and ammo,” says Benteen.

“Get the flash bangs too!” shouts Keogh. “Cover the end of the hallway and I’ll get on the roof and provide supporting fire.”

“What do I have to do?” asks Leon. “Do I get a gun?”

“No,” says Keogh. “You’re going to stay behind in a cell.”

“Why don’t I get a gun?”

“Because you’d shoot us in the back just to get in the good graces of the militiamen.”

“No, I wouldn’t,” he says.

“It’s out of the question. You’re going into a cell.”

“Which one?”

“Where your dead friend is.”

(to be continued . . .)