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

over their heads,” Jeff gave the order. “Repeat: fire over their heads.”

Rifle fire drowned out the wailing and hacking of the enemy as Jeff’s men shot high, killing only a few of the enemy and driving them backwards. Jeff’s men wore do-it-yourself gas masks made out of plastic soda bottles. As the fog drifted back and forth, visibility waned. Accurate fire wasn’t necessary for his plan to work. Jeff’s objective wasn’t to kill the fundamentalists, at least not yet. He wanted them to taste death—think they were being slaughtered.

The mortars and claymores had been loaded with the homemade, yellow slurry; heavily laced with the capsicum extracted from the Ghost peppers, Carolina Reapers and Scorpion peppers Jason Ross had grown in the Homestead garden. They scavenged even more dry peppers from local stores, not surprisingly still sitting on the shelves even after months of looting.

The enemy crawled back the way they’d come. Jeff wanted them to think they’d been hit with mustard gas. Given the histrionics of their infantrymen, it’d worked.

Men wailed, dropped rifles and ran back toward their side of the county line. It would probably be an hour before they figured out they weren’t going to die from being gassed by chemical weapons. They’d just been pepper sprayed on a scale never before seen in the world of combat operations—but the bravest five hundred of their men would spend the longest hour of their lives certain they were dying a horrific death. Nothing took the fight out of a man quite like coughing until he bled from his lungs.

“Evan,” Jeff radioed. “Report.”

“This is Evan. They’re running away. It looks like your shooters, or maybe the falling paint cans, killed a few. A shitload of men didn’t get gassed, though—they’re too far back. Will advise.”

“Roger. Standing by.”

“You didn’t kill them,” President Thayer stated, approaching the command bunker. “I can’t tell you how relieved I am.”

“We killed some of them.”

“Is it over?” The Mormon president asked.

“I doubt it. They still have the same motivation to attack as they did before. Next time, we won’t have the option of less-lethals. We used up our claymores and most of our propellant for the mortars. Our margins just got a lot thinner. We might regret not killing them.”

“I’m glad, no matter what happens next.”

Jeff heard the thrum of the helicopter again.

“JT. Why are you overflying the battle space?” Jeff growled into his radio.

“That’s not me, Bossman.” JT called back.

Jeff looked to the south and saw a glint of metal in the late morning sky, racing over Utah Lake from the south.

“Get in the air JT. We’ve got enemy helicopters.”

Jeff turned to the Mormon prophet. “It’ll be a bit before they figure out that we didn’t really gas them. The scorpion pepper in that smoke feels like someone poured acetone down your throat but it doesn’t last forever. Now, it’s going to get ugly. You need to head back to your men.” Jeff put his hand on President Thayer’s shoulder and pushed him back.

The drumming of the helicopters grew.

Chad’s string of trucks reached the bottom of the mountain and turned east. The canyons flattened as they hit the plain, and this two-track skirted the upswell. If he stayed on the road long enough, he’d end up four miles east of the battle. There was no way Evan would counter-flank that far out of position. Then again, traveling that far east, for that long, would make Chad’s team about as useful to their army as a cock-flavored lollipop.

The caravan moved at the speed of the slowest truck and it drove Chad nuts. He gunned his motorcycle and powered past the trucks, spitting mud onto their windshields as he passed. It didn’t take long for Chad to work his way into the lead of the column; probably not the best place for a commander, but this circle jerk was making him punchy.

Chad left the caravan behind and the muddy road suddenly climbed up and onto a stretch of asphalt, the snow had almost entirely melted off. Chad braked hard and looked up the blacktop. The two lane road climbed up the Traverse Mountains, carving switchbacks in the ridges and valleys. Chad recalled there being a housing development on top. The road must be residential egress south into Utah Valley; an escape for homeowners if the mountain caught fire.

It took every bit of Chad’s self-discipline not to race off up the road ahead of his troops. If he could get on top fast, he could drop a gnarly flank on Evan and the boys. Even if he didn’t actually shoot at them, he’d count coup on those plodding, army muppets and that would be well worth the effort. He’d get some speed over security; which was another of Chad Wade’s personal mottos. He didn’t actually have to shoot Evan. He just wanted to make him look bad.

If Chad jammed up the mountain, though, he would drop his high school football team. They would reach the paved road and get confused and either stay there, turn the wrong way or waste a bunch of time dithering over the decision.

Chad had comms with his boys, but the reception on the little Kmart radios had been spotty, and he knew from experience that giving someone navigational directions over a radio sounded a lot easier in theory than in practice. So, Chad waited and fumed.

After an eternity, the trucks pulled onto the paved road. He ran to the first truck and gave hurried instructions. Then, he jogged back to his bike, threw his leg over the saddle and blasted up the paved road, climbing toward the housing development.

“Holy shit,” JT swore as he passed the Bell 206 at a closing speed of over two hundred miles an hour. JT caught a glimpse of a man hanging out of the helicopter firing down onto Jeff’s men with an AR-15 rifle. The guy swiveled to shoot at JT’s bird, but in the split second it took to make