White Wasteland Jeff Kirkham (book series for 12 year olds TXT) 📖

edge with two Ferrets and three crew-served machine guns. He unleashes fresh hell onto the exposed fundamentalist riflemen. Simultaneously, Zach clicks off more IEDs on the escarpment. Nails, bolts and ball bearings shred them riflemen while Evan chews them down with steel from above. The roar of the crew-served bridges the concussions of the mortars and the thumping of the IEDs.

Brrrrrr…Brrrrrr…Burrrrrrrrr. Boom. da-Boom.

Even that price in flesh does not break the will of the fundamentalists. They have more men to feed the devil, and the commanders haven’t recognized the beast that consumes their body from the feet up. The fundamentalist army renews its frontal assault down the center of the I-15 freeway, pouring men into the flaming gristmill.

All the claymores have been expended and the napalm canisters are gone. The flames on the roadway gutter out as the fuel finally dies out.

Jeff’s main force of three hundred men retreat to the next set of concrete barricades on the freeway and resume firing. The fundamentalists seize the first row of concrete barricades, grateful to finally reach cover—thrilled to feel the pull of victory.

But the rows of concrete Jersey barriers are yet another ploy to gorge Jeff’s reptiles.

Hidden beneath garbage piled at the foot of the Jersey barriers, claymores rip the fundamentalists to pieces with nails, bearings, scrap metal. The Jersey barriers focus the shrapnel, project it up the road and into the enemy reinforcements.

Evan rains machine gun fire down upon them from the escarpment, scything through men like the Black Death. The hunting rifles rush back into battery and add their focused hate to the melody, felling anyone who appears to be in command.

Brrrrrr…Brrrrrr…Burrrrrrrrr. Ka-thud, Ka-thud. Brrrrrr…Brrrrrr…Burrrrrrrrr.

Every tier of concrete barricade overrun by the fundamentalists exacts the ferryman’s price. The men are torn through with buzzing steel, the claymores shred arms, legs, eyes, genitals. The River Styx overflows with corpses.

Firing over the barricades, Jeff’s men take losses as well, but the the directional claymores and machine gun fire from above know only fundamentalist flesh.

Brrrrr. Thud. Thud. Thud. Zzzt. Boom!

The symphony climaxes. The malice of the demons wanes. Their bellies distend, and they slink back to the black, leather trunk in Jeff’s mind.

The lid clunks shut.

The freeway has become an open butcher shop; guts, blood—charred and torn body parts across every foot of the imperturbable asphalt.

Sometime during the fight, the will of the fundamentalists has broken. Somewhere in that quarter mile of carnage, they decide it is better to live in peace on their side of the border. Sometime during the horror, even soulless leaders, their camouflages fatigues still spotless, realize that the demons might eventually come for them.

When the cost grows high enough, any mortal concludes that the next notch of power is not worth the price.

Jeff returns to the present and to his perch over the snow-spotted freeway. He’s been dreaming and planning, squatting above the I-15 gorge in snow camo, his rifle slung on his back.

With just four or five hundred men against two or three thousand, Jeff must bring maximum violence for there to be any hope of victory. He must find the quit in the enemy commander. Otherwise, they will all die.

Jeff turned back from the scene, satisfied with his advantages and clear on his battle plan. Of course, much of what he foresaw depended on the decisions of the enemy. Jeff had no reason to think the enemy commander a fool, though he had no reason to believe the enemy commander could match Jeff’s experience in asymmetrical battle. That could be said of very few men.

This was not the first time Jeff imagined a battle like this one. Not even close to the first time. But the sheer numbers of combatants was greater than he’d ever experienced. Jeff knew the cadences of war—he’d fought insurgent battles like this one in Afghanistan—and he felt confident he could wring every advantage out of the scenario. He didn’t know if it would be enough. The numbers felt heavy, beyond clashes with an Afghan tribe or a gangbanger army.

Jeff walked back to Evan’s MRAP, but an oscillating, buzzing sound caused him to look back over his shoulder. From the south, a lone motorcycle bobbed up and down the hills, crossing the bench. The dirt bike sped directly toward their cluster. Jeff checked the chamber of his big, Robinson .308 and hustled the rest of the way back to Evan.

“We’ve got company.” Jeff nodded south toward the growing snarl of the motorbike.

Evan’s team took positions behind the MRAP: Evan, Tommy, Jake, Colton and then Jeff.

The sun would set over the hills on the far side of Utah Lake in half an hour. The late afternoon chill had begun to nestle into the nooks and crannies of their cold weather gear. The wind had picked up, blowing the cold of the snowfield valley before it.

The motorcycle rolled up to the MRAP, oblivious to the five ARs pointed in its direction. Chad Wade popped the kick stand and climbed off the bike. He wasn’t wearing a helmet.

“How’s it hanging?” Chad rubbed his ears furiously. The ride must have frozen them solid.

“What the hell are you doing, Chad?” Jeff didn’t feel like chatting. This was the first time he had seen the man in weeks. But this was Chad Wade—and certain abstractions were to be expected. “What game are you playing?” Jeff challenged.

“Fifth column shit, brother. I’ve got myself a billet with the southern whack-jobs.”

The team relaxed a little. Probably no one but Jeff and Evan understood what Chad was talking about, but Chad didn’t have a rifle, so he probably wasn’t a threat.

“You want to tell me what ‘fifth column shit’ means to you?” Jeff lowered his rifle. Chad leaned on his motorcycle, still rubbing his ears.

“I’m training the southern guys and I’ve been hanging with them for almost a month. I think I can take their army apart from the inside out.”

“You’re going to take down a three thousand man army for us? How’re you going to do