Uncle Evans: A Fictional Tale of Anarcho-Tyranny in America

Evans

Kyle took a moment to wake up. One moment was a moment too long. Evans was not playing around. He wasn't Uncle Evans anymore. He was back in Marine mode. He was back in war mode. One wasted moment was enough to get people killed. It was enough to get you killed.

“Get your ass up!” Evans shouted. He kicked the bed.

Kyle jumped to his feet.

Evans didn’t speak. He barked. He shouted. He ordered. “Get dressed! Now! Right now!”

Evans didn’t wait for a response from his nephew. He went into his own bedroom. He felt more than a little ashamed for yelling at his nephew, but this was not the time to be nice. Things had to happen. Time could not be wasted.

At the foot of his bed sat his old footlocker. He opened it up. He’d gotten rid of most of his old things from his time in the service, but not everything. `He pulled out his old boots and a set of his old Nomex coveralls. He saw his old Kabar fighting knife in the bottom of the locker and he grabbed that too. He got dressed. He dressed the way he'd been taught in boot camp, a flurry of clothing and movement, all performed on the go. His coveralls were halfway on when he got back into the office. He shrugged them on as he started tapping at the computer.

When Kyle came into the office, Evans took the carbine off the ready rack and handed it to Kyle. “Load that,” he said. Then he grabbed the hammer off the ready rack.

Evans drew back the hammer and then smashed it into the wall. A chunk of drywall flew. A hole appeared. Evans swung again, and again. Bits of drywall flew in all directions. Dust clouds filled the room. Evans kept swinging, enlarging the hole. Kyle watched, frozen with disbelief at his uncle’s violence. The black void in the wall grew. Evans threw down the hammer, grabbed a ragged edge of the drywall with both hands, and ripped it free. He tossed the drywall onto the floor and then reached deep into the hole in the wall. He pulled out a bundle wrapped in black trash bags and duct tape. He made a chest pass to Kyle.

“Open that.”

Kyle caught the bundle. It was heavier than it looked. While he did that, Evans pulled out a second bundle, a longer one. Kyle tore into his. Inside the plastic was a cheap nylon gym bag. Inside that were three 75-round drum magazines and another four 40-round magazines. Kyle could tell by the heft that they were all loaded. He looked up. His uncle had the second bundle open and now he held a Yugoslavian RPK machine gun. Evans cycled the action several times. The bolt glided easily along the rails.

Evans held an open hand out to Kyle. Kyle instinctively handed over a drum. Evans slapped the drum into the RPK and cycled the action.

“Okay Kyle,” Evans began. “Get on that computer and get the camera going.”



Lori

Lori peeked out of her blinds and smiled smugly. The first of the buses were there. They'd offloaded their passengers and now about two hundred community activists were standing at the entrance to Silver Springs. They waved their signs and chanted their chants. Word had spread on social media, and more people were showing up; some activists, some just opportunists eager for a chance to loot. Behind the mob, news crews began setting up their antenna masts and cameras. Behind them, the police sat in vehicles. Behind them, the PVD buses were just pulling up.

“Yeah,” Lori said aloud. “You are all going to get what’s coming to you.”



The Police.

Officer Cervantes could retire in less than a year, and he planned to do just that. He’d given up any idealistic notions about law enforcement long ago. Now he just wanted to survive his career choice.

He’d volunteered to be a training officer simply for the money. He couldn’t care less about the department or the community. The department was led by political opportunists who would throw him under the nearest bus without a second thought. The community elected and reelected those same opportunists. And while they suffered more and more under those elected officials, they showed no signs of electing a better class of leaders.

Cervantes also had no real loyalty to the new generation of Law Enforcement officers he was expected to train. Cervantes didn’t want to be the jaded old man who always said that things were harder/tougher/better “back in my day.” But they were. These new rookie officers wouldn’t have made it past the recruiter back in his day, much less the academy. And yet, here he was, at a high-profile political protest with a rookie in the seat next to him.

“What do we do?” the trainee asked.

“We don’t do anything. We sit here.”

The trainee looked at the demonstrators. He couldn’t tell exactly what the protest was about, but he could tell it was picking up steam. More and more buses and cars were coming in. Their occupants were joining in the fray. The trainee, Macer was his name, could tell these weren’t locals. He looked from the angry mob back to Cervantes.

“It looks like this might get ugly.”

“It will get ugly,” Cervantes said.

“So, what do we do then?”

“Nothing,” Cervantes said. “We do what they want us to do, which is sit here with our lights flashing and nothing else. If somebody messes with the mob, we’ll arrest them. Otherwise, the mob will tear them apart. If the mob messes with somebody, we sit and watch, because the DA isn’t going to prosecute any of those protestors. Even if they did, no judge or jury is going to convict them or send them to jail. If they aren’t going to let us do our jobs, we aren’t going to do our jobs. We are going to sit here and that is it.”

Macer looked back at the mob. Some were lighting torches. Their embers drifted up into the night sky. He was about to say something, but Cervantes cut him off.

“The people we work for, they want all this to happen. They want it. If we do anything to interfere with what's going on out there, they will come after us. And they will come after us hard. Harder than they'll come down on any of those protestors out there, no matter what they do. This isn’t about the law. There is no law here. This is about politics and power. So, we are going to sit here in this car and hope we don’t have to get out. If we are lucky, we’ll still have our jobs in the morning.”



Dale

Dale already felt overwhelmed. He’d spent the last ten minutes scrambling frantically through his house, trying to find the things he needed, yelling at his wife and children. He moved from room to room and back again, looking but not finding, or finding something he wasn’t looking for and then trying to decide if he needed it or not.

He had all the things he needed; he knew that. The problem was none of the things he needed were in the same place. His helmet was in one room. His NVGs were in another. The batteries the NVGs needed were in a third. Dale rushed through the house, gathering things, and looking for things. He'd ordered a sling for his rifle, but he never put it on, and he couldn’t remember where he stored it. Was it in the garage? Was it in the gun safe? He couldn’t remember. All the while, the mob at the community entrance was getting bigger and bigger.

And the things he did have, he wasn’t certain they were ready to go either. He had an optic on his rifle, but he couldn’t remember if he zeroed it. If he couldn’t remember, then he probably hadn’t. What should he do then? Should he try to sight it in with his laser? He could, but then he’d need to grab his laser. Should he do that instead of looking for his sling? He couldn’t decide.

His wife called to him from another room. He answered her with profanity and instantly felt bad for it. He was just so stressed out. Dale had always intended to get all of his stuff ready and staged in one spot so that if things got bad he could just grab it and go. He always intended to do that, but he never did it. He spent too much time on the internet buying new things instead of just taking care of the things he already had. He never tested the gear he had bought and see if it worked. Things got in the way. Life got in the way. Now it was the moment of truth, and the truth was that while he had bought a lot of stuff, he had not prepared.

His wife and daughter screamed from another room. More buses were arriving. Dale knew he had to start calling people, and he knew who he needed to call first.



Kyle


“Why are you calling me on your cell phone, Dale?”

Kyle felt panic building deep inside his chest. He was of course scared. In the feed from the camera on the roof, he could see the protestors and now the PVD building up outside the development. He could see the news vans and knew the commentators, the anchors, and the field reporters would revel in his destruction. He could see the flashing lights of the police vehicles and he knew that they would do nothing to protect him and his uncle. Seeing it all made the fear worse. The fear combined with humiliation and despair and together they made his heart quicken, his breaths shorten, and his thoughts race. But the worst thing of all was his uncle's change of character. He was no longer the kind and patient uncle he'd spent the whole summer with. His uncle was angry and frightening, and an aura of violence seemed to radiate off the old man.

“Dale, I told you not to use your fucking phone. I fucking told you that,” Evans yelled into his own phone. “If you want to get over here, get over here. If you don’t, then don’t. But don’t use this phone again. You fucking understand me?”

Kyle didn't hear Dale's response. He didn't even know if his uncle allowed him one. Evans shut down his phone and threw it on the desk so hard it bounced off and skittered across the floor. Evans didn’t even give it a second glance.

“What’s happening at the entrance?” His uncle demanded. This time the yelling was directed at Kyle. Kyle stammered halfway through some nonsensical answer before his uncle cut him off.

“Kyle, slow down and tell me what you see,” Evans said. His tone was more even now. No fury. His uncle was patient again. Kyle knew it wouldn't last. Who was his uncle? Was he the kind teacher of the past summer months, or this angry old fighter?

“More buses arrived. I think… I think… they look like the PVD. They’re all wearing masks and the same body armor.”

“Move aside,” Evans said. Kyle slid out of the seat and Evans slid in. Evans tapped some keys. The camera zoomed in. The PVD had offloaded from their bus and were headed to the nearest house.

And that house was Lori’s house.

 

Did Evans mail that RPK home one piece at a time?

 

Gotta wonder how much of that stuff goes on?

 

I read a book years ago about a 20-year veteran (can't remember what branch) that had worked in the armory in his last few years and had taken an M-60 machine gun home one piece at a time. He would remove a part, declare in worn and replace it with a new part, and then just walk out with the "worn" part. He said that he was used to full-automatic and couldn't imagine civilian life without it. Only problem is Uncle Sugar isn't going to supply the ammo!

 

Karma's a bitch!

 

I think it happens a lot less often that the stories make it out to be.
From my experience, the military keeps a tight inventory of government weapons. I know some get out, I don't think it is that many. I'd bet Law Enforcement loses a whole lot more weapons in a year than the Dept of Defense.
Captured enemy weapons would be easier to acquire just because they aren't listed on any inventory, but getting them into the States is a different matter. Again, I'm sure it has been done since the GWOT, but I bet its less often than the stories make it out.

Next Installment is up on my Patreon Page. I'll repost here Monday AM.

 

The suspense is killin me!

 

Yeah, but they used to be more trusting, especially of 20-year sergeants and chief petty officers.

 

Kyle

From his vantage point in his uncle's office, Kyle could track the progress of the different groups of invaders. The political activists remained near the entrance to Silver Springs. They waved their signs, and they chanted their chants and they put on a mostly peaceful show for the cameras. In the background, the looters and opportunists did their thing. They came from the nearby urban centers to get a quick score, and they weren't going to leave empty-handed. They'd gone after the houses near Lori's. They smashed into any car or truck not parked in a garage. Several sheds and outbuildings had been ransacked and set afire. On a live stream, Kyle watched as a pack of youths loaded Lori's old golf cart into the back of their truck.

The real worry was the shock troops of this new American revolution: the PVD. They left their fellow travelers behind and made their way up the road towards Evans' place. Kyle tracked their progress from the camera and kept the sparkling green laser on them. He wanted to throw up. He wanted to run. He wanted this whole thing to be over, or to just go away. But most of all, he wanted to keep faith with his uncle. Evans told him to stay at the computer and keep the laser trained on the PVD. As much as he did not want to, Kyle did just that.



John

John did what Evans told him to… kind of. He found a public place. He used his credit card and made sure people saw him. But he used his phone, frequently. He sent over a dozen texts to Dale and George before he accepted the fact that they weren't going to text him back. He texted other people in the neighborhood, with mixed results. The last person he tried to contact was his wife. He didn't text her. She got a phone call. John knew that a text message was not enough to drag her away from the TV.

Her phone rang, but she didn't answer. She just sat on the couch. The glow of the TV reflected in her blank, staring face. She sat mesmerized by whatever was on the screen, so placid and still she might have been lobotomized. She didn't even notice the small army of PVD fighters outside the window, marching past her house.



The PVD

For all their faults, the PVD were motivated. They headed straight for the source of the laser, which of course was Evans' place. They didn't slack. They showed no signs of tiring. All of them were veterans of this new war. They'd been doing this all summer. Many had done similar things in summers past, though never to this degree. They'd never been as well organized or as well supported before. They'd never been given as much latitude to commit violence either. Over the years, the PVD had steadily prepared for war while the political leaders on the opposite side of the spectrum slept at the switch, preached about their high-minded principals, or hocked reverse mortgages and gold-backed IRAs.

The laser was a new thing for the PVD though. It was a manifestation of defiance they had never seen before. Certainly, they'd met some resistance that summer, but nothing like this. Most of the opposition they encountered had been weak and ad hoc; just a lone defender here or there. Most were rightfully scared. Most looked meek, like they didn't really want to fight. Whoever was operating that laser was different. They weren't meek. They were disrespecting the PVD in front of the whole world. They were asking for a fight. Well, the PVD members thought, if the person controlling that laser wanted a fight, they were going to get one.

One member began an angry chant. The others joined in. They raised and shook their fists. One raised his chopper a fired a celebratory burst into the night sky. Another followed suit. Angry, marching, shouting, firing their guns, they made their way to Evans' place.



Evans

"I told you to stay down in the hole, now stay down in the hole," Evans said. He didn't shout, but he spoke forcefully. The tone of his voice made it clear that he didn't want to repeat his orders. "There is nothing to see. If there is, I'll see it for you. Besides, you'll hear 'em long before you see them. Are your rifles loaded?"

George and Dale both nodded. Evans asked if they had a round in their chambers. Both had to check. Once both men had a round chambered, Evans got their rifles on safe.

"George, how much ammo do you have?"

George pulled a couple of boxes out and showed them to Evans.

"Dale, how many magazines do you have for that rifle."

Dale rattled off a number. Then he asked. "Not all the magazines are loaded. Should I load all of them?"

"Yes, Dale. Load 'em all," Evans answered.

Dale began rummaging into his backpack. He looked up at Evans and said, "I’ve got this thermal scope for my rifle. Should I put in on?"

"Leave it off. You won’t need it."

"I’ve got more gear in my truck."

"You won’t need it."

Dale fumbled with loose rounds and a magazine. He asked, "Are you going to blow them up?"

"What?"

"Are you going to blow them up? A bomb? Claymores? Are you going to set off a bomb and then we start shooting? That's how we do it right? Detonate a bomb first?"

Evans took a second to answer. "You see that house up there? That's my house. These people coming up the road, they're only pawns. I'm not going to set off a bomb and blow up my own house just to get a few pawns."

"But…"

"But nothing, Dale. Just get those magazines loaded and listen.

"When the PVD march up the driveway, they're going to come in close order, one big mob, a thick cluster of people. I'll do most of the shooting. I need you two to get any squirters… that's anybody who tries to run out of the zill zone. George, you get anybody who tries to run from the back of the mob back out to the road. Dale, you get anybody who tries to run for the house.

"George, your rifle is slow to reload. Once you run dry, I want you to just hand me ammunition when I ask for it. Start with the big drums. After we run through all of those, pass me the magazines. Can you do that?"

George nodded.

"Both of you. It is night. People tend to shoot high at night. The PVD are wearing armor too, so aim low. Aim for the belly or the pelvic region. A hit there will work. When you shoot, don't just shoot once and then look to see what happens. You shoot until whoever you are shooting at is on the ground. Once they are all on the ground, they'll be easy enough to deal with.

"Now, this is the most important thing: stay in the hole until I start shooting. In the hole. Safety on. Finger off the trigger. If you fuckup and make a noise, the game is up. When I shoot, then you start shooting. Until then, you stay down in this hole. Got it?"

They both nodded.

"Repeat it back to me," Evans ordered.

"Stay in the hole. Don't shoot until you shoot," George said. Dale stammered out something similar. Evans gave a nod. They waited.

To George and Dale, it seemed like forever, but the wait wasn't that long. Evans had worried the PVD might miss his driveway and keep on walking. But they found it. They turned off the main road to his house, a loud, angry, and confident mass. Evans scanned the road for any police vehicles. He saw none, just an unmarked van, the kind a person could rent anywhere. Then he crouched down deep into the hole so that his eyes just cleared the parapet.

As the PVD made their final approach, Evans thought of other Marines, in other places, with other machineguns: water-cooled .30 calibers at the Tenaru River and Henderson Field on Guadalcanal, M2 Brownings on the hills around the Chosin Reservoir, M60s on the streets of Hue City. Every war is different. Those wars were fought in faraway places. Evans looked towards his house and his nephew. His war would be different still.

The PVD kept marching. Closer now. Louder now. They shouted towards the house and the laser. One fired a burst in the general direction of his house. All the muscles in Evans' face tightened. The PVD might have been angry, but Evans was angrier. Evans had been trained to channel his anger. He'd been doing that all summer.

When the first members of the PVD came alongside the brush pile, Evans grabbed the end of the parachute cord. With one hand on the RPK, his other hand tied another bowline knot. He looped the knot over his hand. The main body kept coming. All the PVD kept coming. When the center of that destructive mass aligned with the center of the gasoline-soaked brush pile, Evans grabbed the line with both hands and pulled it as hard as he could. Dale and George watched breathlessly to see what was about to happen.

First, there came the sound of breaking glass. A split second later came the hiss of a chemical reaction. And then…

The center of the brush pile came alight. A sputtering, guttering fire boiled up. It was a chemical fire. Unnatural. Dante-like in its sputtering brilliance, as if it were bubbling up straight from hell. The PVD mob froze in their tracks and turned to face the fire. It took only a moment for the fire to spread but spread it did. The chemical sparks fountained out and touched gasoline. The gasoline caught. There was a whoosh and a boom of air being displaced. The PVD stood with flat feet and opened mouths as if they were looking at just another 4th of July fireworks display. Evans set the bipod of his RPK on the edge of the parapet, shifted the selector to automatic fire, and squeezed the trigger.

The RPK's noise surprised everybody there except Evans. Evans swept it across the PVD from back to front, pressing in on the butt of the gun with his shoulder. When he got to the front of the column, he traversed his fire back again, pulling the weapon this time. The RPK roared. It thundered. Its action hammered back at forth. Steel cases flew. Down on the driveway the PVD fighters, most frozen with shock, tumbled to the ground. Others turned to run, but run where? On one side they were pinned in by a wall of burning brush higher than they were tall. From the opposite side came death at a rate of 600 rounds a minute

Changing the barrel on a machine gun is a necessary element of machine gunnery. During sustained fire, changing out the barrel prevents overheating and damaging the weapon. The barrels on RPKs cannot be changed. Thus, most RPK gunners were taught to fire short bursts, a take pause between firings.

Evans wasn't having any of that. He emptied his first 75-round drum in one long burst. When the weapon went dry, he moved with the smooth efficiency of a machine. The empty drum went out. A fresh drum went in. He worked the action. He paused in reloading just long enough to tell Dale and George, "Start shooting." The Evans depressed the trigger again and delivered another long burst of traversing fire across the kill zone.

George and Dale had been mesmerized by the initial display of violence, but when they were ordered to shoot, they shot. George popped up from the bottom of his hole and scanned his front. The PVD were backlit, silhouetted by the burning pile of brush. They were flailing black shadows against a field of orange. It looked like most were already down. One tried to run back to the road. George raised his rifle. His target contrasted with the orange wall of flame. George couldn't miss. He squeezed the trigger, levered the action, and squeezed again.

Dale saw three PVD members run for the house. He aimed in on them. Squeezed his trigger, and nothing happened.

"Safety," Evans called.

Dale looked down at his safety, flicked it, brought his rifle up again, and fired.

For all his imperfections, Dale was a decent shot. They were close to their targets and silhouetted as the PVD were, the shooting was easy. Dale's rifle had a sight with a red dot for a reticle. He put the red dot on his target, fired, and fired again. He kept firing.

Evans swept the kill zone in a "Z" pattern, spraying everything. The PVD that still stood, the PVD that were already down, it did not matter, Evans fired on them all. He intentionally fired low, putting the center of his cone of fire at groin level. When the second drum was empty, Evans dumped it and grabbed a third. His motions were as mechanically smooth as before. No fumbling. No rushing. No wasted effort or wasted motion. He got the next drum in, worked the action, and sighted in.

The PVD fighters who survived the initial fusillades were starting to react. Some ran back down the driveway for the road. Others ran up the driveway to Evans' house. Evans let George and Dale handle those. He focused on the main body in the kill zone.

One PVD raised his chopper and, one-handed, fired up the hill towards their hole. He didn't have a chance of hitting them, but Evans put a burst right into that gunman's center mass. The PVD fighter's arms flew up. The chopper went spiraling through the air. The man tumbled back into the bonfire.

Another PVD fighter rushed towards their position and dropped behind a small lump in the ground. Too small. Evans repositioned the RPK on its bipod and went after that one with searching fire. He started near, then worked his bursts out towards the fighter. Clouds of dust and dirt rose with the impacts. The searching fire found the PVD agent, and the cover he'd taken was insufficient. A burst nearly ripped him in half lengthwise.

"Out on the road!" George yelled.

Evans turned to look. Up the road, the van was pulling forward and shifting back into reverse, trying desperately to make a multi-point turn. Evans leaped out of the hole and onto the parapet, angling for a better shot. He moved the selector lever to “semi” twisted his support hand into the RPK’s sling, aimed, and fired from the off-hand. The rifle barked and a half second later came the “slap” sound of bullet impacting sheet metal. Evan fired again, and again. Semi-automatic shots, but faster now. Slap-Slap--Slap-Slap-Slap.

The van went into reverse, stopped, shifted into drive, then accelerated hard. Slap-Slap-Slap. The van veered to one side, too fast and too hard. It went off the dirt road and onto a steep embankment. The embankment was too steep. The van's angle of approach was too sharp. The engine revved. The van accelerated. The van toppled over onto its side. Its wheels went into the air. The engine revved again and with its wheels in the air and running resistance-free, it howled into the night and still Evans kept firing away. Slap-Slap-Slap. Slap-Slap-Slap. Something flared. The gas tank. It ignited. It wasn’t like the movies, with a huge fireball rolling skyward. Fire, orange with oily black smoke, bubbled out of the van. Evans jumped back down into the pit. He untangled his arm from the sling and swept the selector lever back to automatic fire.

Back at the burning brush pile, some of the PVD tried to surrender. One girl threw down her weapon and raised both arms in a "Hands up-don't shoot" pose. Evans wasn't having that either. In his mind, if the PVD didn't give quarter, they didn't get to ask for it. He rattled off a burst and sent the surrendering girl pirouetting backward into the fire.

The drum ran dry.

Evans turned to George. "Ammo." Evans' voice had less emotion in it than a robot's. George dropped his rifle and grabbed frantically for a magazine. He handed one to Evans. Evans went through the reloading process and then opened fire again. The RPK chattered away. Spent cases flew. Evans traversed his fire back and forth across the kill zone, sweeping the bodies until the weapon went dry.

"Ammo!"

George grabbed one of the long, curved, 40-round magazines out of the bag. Evans already had the empty magazine out when George handed the fresh one over. Evans got the new magazine in, worked the bolt, and fired.

Even above the din of the weapon, a few muffled screams could be heard amongst the PVD. None stood. They were all just crumpled balls of clothing and flesh. Evans fired on them all. Dead bodies jerked as the RPKs' heavy rounds thudded into them.

"Ammo!" Evans called again. George handed over another magazine. Neither he nor Dale fired now. They just looked at Evans with dread. Evans worked the action, then fired another long, sustained burst. He traversed his fire across the kill zone and back again. This time, when the magazine went dry, Evans didn't ask for another.

The silence was deafening.

At the bottom of the gentle slope lay a stretch of crumpled, black-clad PVD fighters over 100 feet long, with even more straggled out at either end.

Nobody spoke for what seemed like a long time. Evans dropped his empty magazine. It made an empty, metallic, clattering sound when it hit the ground. Evans grabbed his last magazine. He rocked it into the magazine well, worked the action, then moved the selector lever to safe. He climbed up out of the hole and stood on the top of the parapet. George and Dale followed.

"What do we do now?" Dale asked.

Evans answered, but he didn't look at Dale or George. He kept his gaze locked on the kill zone. Not all the PVD were dead. Some of those black-clad lumps moved and moaned.

"Now," Evans began. "Now you go home. You grab your family and anything you can, and you run. Anything you leave, you aren't seeing again. Ever. Your old life is gone. You will never get it back. You need to accept that.

"Head south. You can be across the border in three hours if you move. Before you cross the border, you could try cleaning out your bank accounts. I wouldn't risk it. Once you get into Mexico, keep heading south."

"I'm not running. This was self-defense. They were coming to burn our homes. They would have killed us."

"That's true, Dale," Evans said. "But it does not matter. No judge or jury will care. They won't be allowed to care even if they want to. A message will be sent before you step foot in a courtroom, and you can bet that message will be received. It’s a big machine that's turning right now. All of us just got caught up in its gears."

A moan rose from the kill zone.

Evan said, "You two need to get going. You don't have much time." Then he moved the selector lever from safe to semiautomatic, and he walked down the slope towards the kill zone.

 

Finally.... Yahoos got a taste of their own medicine. Brown stuff gonna hit the osculating device now.
Thanks Sharkman enjoying your stories.

 

We have waited sooo long! Was in good for y'all too! Funny, but I have a sudden desire to light a cigarette...and I don't even smoke!

 

The Texas Hill Country. August 6th.

Evans walked down to the driveway. Behind, he heard Dale and George scrambling to leave. Ahead, the brush pile fire had mostly gone out. A few thicker pieces of wood still burned. The orange flames wavered and shimmied, casting off ominous light and shadows. All over the drive lay crumpled bodies. Most had been hit low. Evans saw shattered knees and exploded thighs. He saw legs bent at the joints at impossible angles. Many femoral arteries had been ripped open and thick black pools of their flow shined in the firelight. But not all the PVD had been killed outright. There were wounded here and there, still alive… for now.

One of the wounded PVD members sat up amongst the bodies. This one tried clumsily to get a tourniquet around his leg. Evans could tell the man didn't know how to apply the tourniquet. Evans could also tell the man didn't need it. Evans approached the PVD fighter and stopped maybe a pace away.

"Help me," the man said. His voice was panicky.

"You don't need that," Evans said. "If your femoral got clipped, you'd have bled out by now."

"Help me. You got to help me."

Evans pondered that for a moment. Then he said, "No."

When he heard the refusal, the man looked up. His mood changed from desperate to petulant.

"I said help me. I'm hurt. You got to help me. You hurt me, now you have to help me. It’s the fucking law. You can't just stand there. That's a fucking war crime."

Evans looked right through this PVD fighter's eyes and into his soul. It was a black, venal, and spiteful place.

"That ain't gonna work on me," Evans said. "And I didn't come here to help you. I came here to kill you. And that is what I'm going to do."

Now the wounded PVD man looked into Evans' eyes, and his mood changed again.

"Please. Don't kill me."

Evans shook his head once, slowly. "No," he said. He let his words hang in the air for a bit before continuing.

"There's nothing in it for me, letting you live. I'm in this all the way, up past my neck. You came here tonight to ruin my life, and you did just that. There ain't gonna be any mercy for me. No ruling of self-defense. No innocent verdict. No time off for good behavior. No parole. Nothing. I can die here, or I can suffer through some show trial and die in jail. That's it. That's all I'm gonna get." Evans shook his head. "Not matter what, I'm paying the full price. So, I'm gonna get my money's worth.

"Besides, I help you and let you live, and then what? Are you going to have a change of heart? Are you going to appreciate my magnanimity and change your ways? No. I let you live, and you'll turn right around and go fuck up some other person's life. You couldn't change if you wanted to. You're a scorpion. But I ain't no frog. I'm a scorpion too."

The PVD man said something. Evans did listen. He went on.

"I used to wonder what I'd do if I had a time machine time. I always figured I'd go back and try to change things. Try to get to a bomb earlier. Warn those guys about the bridge. Maybe I'd go back and change places with somebody in that truck. Take their place so they could get to live their life. That's what I used to think I'd do. Now, I know what I would do.

"If I had a time machine, I'd give myself just one more day here. So much about him I don't know, and I'll never get to know. So much I could still teach him, to make him a better man, a better man than me.

"But there isn't going to be any time machine, and there isn't going to be another day. Not for me. And not for you."

Evans raised the RPK. The injured PVD fighter raised his hand as if it could ward off the bullet. Evans shot the man through his hand and through his head. Other PVD fighters, the ones that were wounded or playing possum screamed and whimpered. Some tried to crawl away. Evans calmly spun on his heels and walked over to the nearest PVD fighter. He put the RPK's slant muzzle break against the downed woman's temple and fired. Then he moved on to the next. And the next. And the next.



Kyle

Kyle had the presence of mind to shut off the laser when the shooting started. Now that the battle was over, He went to the window. He cracked the blinds and watched as his uncle used single shots to execute all the remaining PVD.


The Police

The rookie set down his cell phone and lowered his window. The fire had been going on for a while. First, it was the high-speed chatter of automatic fire. Now it was slow, paced, single shots. The rookie turned to the training officer.

"They're still shooting up the hill," the rookie said.

"They sure are."

The rookie looked from his trainer to the sound of the gunfire and then back again.

"Maybe we should go check it out."

"Why? Those are our guys firing."

"How can you tell?"

"The PVD carry AKs. That's AK fire."

"How can you tell?"

The trainer smiled. "The AK-47 makes a very distinctive sound." The rookie looked confused. He obviously didn't catch the reference. The trainer felt a little disappointed.

"Look, like it or not, the PVD are our guys now, and it's our guys shooting. So, we sit here. If we hear somebody shooting at the PVD, we step in. Otherwise, we sit here and let the PVD do their thing. That's what they pay us to do now. If dispatch needs us to go up there, they'll tell us to go up there. In the meantime, we wait in the vehicle and hope we don't get caught up in this mess."

The rookie took one last look in the direction of the gunfire. Then he shrugged and went back to playing on his phone.



Evans

After he fired the last anchor shot, Evan reached down to a dead PVD and pulled the rifle magazines out of the man's gear. As Dale's truck and George's motorcycle sped past, Evans dropped his own magazine and reloaded his weapon. He looked back down at the body. The dead man had a couple of illumination grenades on his gear. Serbian. Evans could tell just by looking at them. He looked up towards the main road and saw the overturned van there. One of its turn signals was still blinking. Evans grabbed the illumination grenades and walked to the van.

When he got to the crash, he leaned down and looked in through the passenger window, bringing the muzzle around in unison with his eyes. Two college-aged kids were inside. The one in the passenger seat was undeniably dead. His head was twisted around at an impossible angle. The driver was busted up and bleeding, but not dead. He'd been pinned by something and couldn't get out of his seat. He saw Evans and mumbled.

"Help me."

Evans ducked back from the window but kept the muzzle of his weapon pointed inside. He fired a burst into the driver. Then he shifted the weapon and fired a second burst into the passenger just to be sure. That done, he went to the back of the van and found the fuel tank. He drew his Kabar and slashed the fuel lines. Then he stabbed holes in the tank. Then he walked a safe distance from the van and tossed the grenades onto it. Sparks from the illumination set the gas on fire and soon the whole van roared with fire. Evans turned and jogged back to his house.

Kyle stood at the front door.

"You got five minutes to get packed. Bring me your phone and computer Bring that carbine too.

Kyle went to work. Evans got his own computer and all the phones and pagers he kept. He took all the electronics to the cement pipe by the front door. He kicked off the cover and threw everything inside. He unloaded the RPK and threw that inside too.

When Kyle came back down, he had a pair of duffle bags, a big backpack, and all the other items his uncle told him to bring.

"Break the carbine down and stuff it in your bag. It is yours now," Evan said. He grabbed Kyle's phone and computer and put those in the cement pipe. Then he grabbed one of the metal cans he had set aside, tore off the lid, and dumped the contents inside.

"What's that?" Kyle asked.

"Magnesium," Evans said. He grabbed a second can and did the same thing. "Magnesium. Powdered aluminum, iron oxide, and a few other things. Step back, and don't look at the fire." Evans produced a road flare, struck it, and then threw it inside the pipe.

There came a hissing sound, and then another chemical fire erupted. This one burned blindingly white. It filled the whole cement pipe. Sparks snapped and hissed like they were living things. Kyle could smell the plastic and the metal burn. Everything inside the pipe turned to slag. The phones, the computers, the RPK, everything. The chemical fire crackled and spat, hungry for more.

"Do you have anything else in your room? Anything else of yours in the house?"

"I didn't bring that much."

"I know, but we have no room for mistakes here. Is anything of yours still inside? Toothbrush? A stray sock? Paper receipt? Anything?"

"I'll check."

"Go quick. We don't have long."

Kyle went inside. Evans went back to the fighting position for the parachute cord. He found that, and Dale's thermal scope. Dale must have left it behind. Evans grabbed both. He used the parachute cord to lasso the dazzler and camera off the roof. That contraption went into the crucible too. Kyle came down with a handful of things.

"Do you need any of these?" Evans asked.

"No."

"Toss them into the fire."

Kyle tossed the items into the fire. The flames flared when they touched the new fuel.

Evans handed Kyle the thermal. "Put this with the carbine. It is yours now, and so is this," Evan handed over his Kabar knife too.

"Now listen, Kyle. This is what's going to happen. You are going to grab all your stuff and head down the trail. When you get to the road and the sign, wait in the bushes. Stay out of sight. The cops are going to come flooding in soon. All the cops in the world. Maybe more PVD too. If they see you, they will arrest you or worse. So you need to stay hidden.

"Eventually a car will pull up by the sign. You'll know it when you see it. Get in and go with the men inside. They're old friends. They'll take care of you."

"What about you?"

"There is no me. I'm staying here."

Kyle shook his head.

"Kyle, somebody has to stay here and account for this. If we both run, then they get both of us. So I'm staying here. I stay. You run. That's the way it works."

"No," Kyle said. He felt too many emotions welling up inside him. He started to shake. "No," he repeated. No, we both go."

“We can't. I just killed dozens of politically protected people. They are going to come down hard on this, with everything they got. The fallout on this will be worse than if we shot a bunch of cops. Anybody they can tie to this they are going to destroy. Anybody and everybody. If that's going to be me, fine. I can take that heat. I've planned for that. But it can't be you. You understand? It can't be you."

"We can fight. Together," Kyle said. He was pleading, almost sobbing. "We can fight them together."

"And what? We both die in some meaningless last stand? I've seen too many die for nothing. That's what would happen. That, or they'd get you and throw you in jail. That can't happen either, Kyle. If they put you in jail, it would destroy me. Do you understand? There would be nothing left of me. I didn't live my life up to this point just to see you get murdered by some government thugs or thrown in prison forever."

"No," Kyle said. He shook with emotion. He was crying. His eyes watered and his nose ran. "No. We're in this together. We'll stay. We can fight or we'll do something. I… I won't just let you… I won't…"

Evans grabbed Kyle by the shirt and shook him. He pulled the younger man in close, so they were nose to nose. He didn't want to, but he knew he had to. There wasn't time to be nice. He had to protect Kyle, even if it meant protecting Kyle from himself. Otherwise, it was all for nothing. He yelled at his nephew.

“I’m your uncle and you'll do what I say. It is my job to protect you. I told your mom I’d protect you and that is exactly what I’m going to do. I tell you to go and you go. Now grab your shit and get going down that trail. Now dammit."


Kyle stepped back from his uncle, he looked at the man like he'd never seen him before. Kyle's emotions turned to revulsion, disgust, disappointment. Slowly, he shouldered his pack. Kyle moved slowly. He looked like he wanted to say something. There wasn't time.

"Go. Move, your fucking ass," Evans yelled.

Kyle moved. He got his gear and his duffle bags, turned, and headed down the trail. Evans watched his nephew disappear into the oaks and elms. Kyle didn't look back, and Evans felt sad about that. But that was it. That's how their summer together ended.


The sun broke over the eastern horizon and washed the world with the golden light of a new day. Evans watched the sunrise and considered what to do next. He thought about burning the whole house down, but he decided against it. Too much, he thought. Overkill. But there was something. He went into the house and grabbed up all his mementos from the walls: the plagues and paddles and certificates. Even the mounted bomb disposal helmet with his old teammates' names on the back. He flipped it over to the back and took one last look at the signatures. His old team. Gone now.

"You don't get these," Evans said aloud. "You can take my house. You can kill me, but you don't get these."

He threw the armloads of mementos of his military service into the crucible and watched them burn.

And then there was nothing left to do. Evans watched the road. Nobody came. Evans went inside and headed for the kitchen. He started brewing up some chai but stopped midway through the process. He'd never get another cup of chai, not where he was going, and he decided his last cup would be the cup Kyle made him the day before. That seemed fitting. It wouldn't get any better than that. He put the tea away and grabbed his colas out of the fridge. He headed for the front door, took off his shirt, sat down, and opened a can of cola.

Evans sat like that for a long time, sitting and drinking colas, just like he did on the river bank, waiting for the police.

The first cruiser came alone. It turned down his drive, got halfway down, then it stopped. It seemed like the occupants were so shocked by the bodies that they needed to sit for a moment and figure out what to do. After a few minutes, the cruiser turned around and headed back the way it came.

When the police came back, they came in force. They didn't know what to do with this shirtless old man and the heaps of dead PVD fighters. They handcuffed Evans and asked him questions. Evans told the police he wasn't answering any questions. Some officers poked at the smoldering crucible. Others rummaged through the house. Others still walked amongst the bodies, both horrified and impressed by the carnage. Some would huddle together, deliberate and cast sideways glances at the handcuffed Evans, then deliberate some more. A TV van showed up. Then another. Evans heard the thump-thump-thump of circling helicopters. Patrol officers strung crime scene tape. Detectives arrived and asked Evans more questions to which they got no answers. One officer looked at the mangled bodies and vomited. Another looked at the bodies and burst into tears. On and on it went. After a few hours, Evans was loaded into the back of a patrol vehicle and driven off to his fate.

On their way out of the Silver Springs community, Evans saw an armada of police vehicles parked in front of John and Dale’s homes.

I hope you all ran, Evans said to himself. Then he sank back into the cruiser’s seat. There was nothing to do now but to wait.

He knew how to wait.

 

I hope Uncle Evans isn’t done!

 

Whatever happened to those two cans of transmission fluid, the pool chemicals and all of that barbed-wire?

 

Not done yet. Still a lot of loose ends to tie up.

7-8 more installments total. I'll post most here.

 

Just started reading your stories.... Wow great job! Not an AK type but do love shooting golf balls at 300mtrs with my bolt action.. My hope it that is all I will ever need to shoot. Other than some nasty ground squirrels. Practice once a month min 250 rnds. Keeps me occupied when the range is slow. Love the sound of rounds smacking steel plate.... Excited to read more

 

Thank you for your kind words.

 

Uncle Evans. Installment #21. | Patreon

Next installment is up on Patreon. will post here in the next 48 hours.

 

Kyle

The last thing Kyle wanted to do was head down the trail, but he did. With his pack on his back and his bags in his hands, he trudged down the familiar path. His mind raced with thoughts, none fully formed. When he got close to the road, he put down his bags and sat on them. He remained inside the tree line, amongst the scrub cedars, where he could see the FM 325 sign, but passing motorists could not see him.

After a while, he heard police sirens in the distance. At first, there were just a few. The sun climbed and the temperature rose, and soon it sounded like every cop in the state was heading his way. He didn't see any police cars though. He just heard them in the distance, as if they were only an imagined thing. They weren't imagined though. They were real and Kyle knew that his life had changed forever. Kyle thought about his uncle. He worried, and he began to cry. He worried about himself. What would he do? Where would he go? He felt selfish and ashamed for thinking of himself. That made him think about his cowardice before the battle and about how he conducted himself in those last moments with his uncle. That made him feel worse, and that made him cry even more.

On the side of a back country road, sad, angry, and confused as only a teenage boy can be, Kyle sat and waited.

Uncle Evans said Kyle would know the vehicle when he saw it. His uncle wasn’t wrong. After about an hour, it came. It looked like a jeep, but it was not a jeep. It was a red 4x4 with an open cab protected by black roll bars. A red 4x4. A red, 1969 Ford Bronco to be exact. Kyle stood, grabbed his things, and slowly emerged from the bushes.

The Bronco eased up to the FM 325 sign.

Two men sat inside. Old men. Old, like his uncle. The one in the passenger seat had a thick tangle of shiny black hair with distinguished streaks of gray, and a moustache to match. His skin was dark, and his eyes were bright. Those eyes twinkled with no small amount of mischief. The old man had mischief in his smile too. But his was an easy and natural smile, one that he probably always wore, no matter how grim the circumstances.

The driver didn't smile and looked like he might have never smiled in his life. He looked like a hard and serious man, serious to the point of joylessness. He had the look of a man who'd never had a childhood, never had a happy or carefree moment in his life. A man who had emerged fully formed in some hardscrabble place, maybe deep in a coal mine, or up on some bitter and barren high desert plane. Taken together, they looked like trouble.

The Bronco slowed and pulled onto the gravel shoulder. It slowed but when Kyle thought about it later, he wasn't sure if it ever actually stopped. The passenger saw Kyle and waved him forward. Quick as a flash, he vaulted out of the Bronco, grabbed Kyle’s bags, and tossed them in the back as easily as if they were empty.

"You ride up front," the man said. Then he vaulted into the backseat. Kyle stood dumbfounded until the driver spoke. His was a voice used to giving orders and having them obeyed, instantaneously.

"Get in. Now."

Kyle obeyed. His compliance was instinctive. A second later the Bronco was back on the hardball and moving at speed. The road and the truck hummed along. They sat wordless for about a mile before the driver spoke.

"We used to work with your uncle. Is he still alive?"

Kyle hadn't even considered that possibility. "I… I don't know," he stammered out.

"Was he alive when you last saw him?" the driver asked.

Kyle nodded. "Yes."

"Then he's probably still alive," the driver said. The man in the back seat chimed in.

"If he's not alive, I think we would have heard it."

"Does that mean the police have him?" Kyle asked.

"Probably," the driver said. "He would not have let the PVD capture him."

"What will they do to my uncle?"

"The cops?"

"Yes."

"Nothing good," the driver said. "We'll know soon enough, I'm sure. I don't know what your uncle did up there, but I can guess. They'll be parading him in front of the courts and the cameras soon enough."

"Then what are we going to do?" Kyle asked.

"'We' aren't going to do anything, not about that," the driver said. "The two of us," and he motioned to the passenger on the bench seat in the back, "we promised your uncle we'd take care of you. That's what we are going to do. Your uncle also made us promise not to try and do anything for him if he got picked up by the cops."

"We got a friend coming up behind us," the passenger announced from the back.

Before Kyle could turn his head, the driver instructed him, "Use the mirror. Don't look back." Kyle looked in the mirror. Behind them was a black and white SUV with the trappings and decals of local law enforcement. The passenger fiddled with something in the backseat. From the corner of his eye, Kyle could see it was a short-barreled semi-automatic shotgun, stained wood and satiny black metal. The police SUV got closer.

"What’d you have that loaded with?" the driver asked.

"A full magazine tube of defenders: one-ounce slugs backed with three buckshot pellets."

"That should be enough to change the course of our lives dramatically," the driver said.

"If it isn’t, I’ve also got my Krink loaded up with a forty-round magazine."

The SUV got closer, close enough that they could make out the color of the driver's nail polish: bright orange.

"If she hits her lights, I'll start to pull over. But I don't think we can bluff our way outta this one," the driver said.

The police officer did hit her lights. But as she did, she pulled around into the oncoming lane, hit the accelerator, and passed the Bronco like it was standing still. After she disappeared, the driver spoke.

"That could have gotten a little nutty," the driver said. His tone was completely neutral. He could have been happy they escaped, or disappointed they missed a chance to get into a gunfight. Kyle thought about that, and the idea of not getting into a gunfight brought all the old feelings back up: shame, regret, cowardice, disappointment in himself. After that came anger, and the anger became a barely controlled rage. His eyes welled up and his nose began to run. His face went flush red. He dropped his head and stared at the floorboards.

"I never even fired a shot."

The Bronco hummed along, eating up the two-lane blacktop.

"You're angry, aren't you." The driver said. It was a statement, not a question. Kyle nodded. The driver nodded back.

"There is nothing wrong with getting mad. I used to be mad all the time. Mad at this and mad at that. Angry at the system. What it was doing. What it wasn't doing. Mad at the war Mad at the people who weren't letting me fight the war. Mad at the bad guys. Mad at the good guys. Mad at the people who were supposed to be our allies but weren't. Angry at the people who just wanted to be left alone. Back then I was always mad. And then, one day, I met this old timer, and he taught me a valuable lesson."

The driver turned away from the road and looked Kyle directly in the eye.

"He taught me, it's okay to get mad, but it is better to get even."

The driver turned back to the road. The Bronco hummed along. The driver continued.

"That's what you to decide. Do you want to get mad, or do you want to get even?"

"Getting mad is what most people do. It's making noise and blowing off steam. It is now, and immediate, and self-indulgent. It is posting on the internet in all caps. It is shouting on the radio about principals, in between the reverse mortgage commercial and the pain cream commercial. It burns hot and bright, but then it burns out and when it does, things are the same as they were. Getting mad may be self-satisfying but it doesn't change anything.

"Getting even is different. It isn't just noise and wind. It is cold and it is calculated. And it is patient. It is action and results. You don't let them get away with it, the people who wronged you. You give it right back to them, and worse than they gave it to you. Worse than they can stand. You make those people pay a price. You make them feel pain. You send them and everyone else a message, that if you fuck around, you will find out.

"We promised your uncle we'd get you somewhere safe, and we will. I imagine you've got a lot going on in your head right now. A lot of different feelings. We'll give you some time to sort things out. If you decide you want to get mad, we'll let you get mad. As mad as you want for as long as you need. And after the anger passes, we'll set you up somewhere where nobody is going to find you. You can get a clean start and live your life.

"But, if you decide you want to get even… well, we can help you with that too."

The Bronco kept humming along. The road noise vibrated up through the tires and filled the open cab. In the back seat, the old man began to sing.

"Out in the West Texas town of El Paso, I fell in love with a Mexican girl."