Dear Diary, It’s Me, Jessica: Part 20

Missed the other parts? Find them here:

• Check out Part 1
• Part 2 is here.
• Part 3
• Part 4
• Part 5
• Part 6
• Part 7
• Part 8
• Part 9
• Part 10
• Part 11
• Part 12
• Part 13
• Part 14
• Part 15
• Part 16
• Part 17
• Part 18
• Part 19

Dear Diary,

It’s me, Jessica. We were in trouble and we knew it.

Jack looked past the Northern barrier. 

“He knows.  Everything.  Our defenses.  Layout.  Numbers.  Weapons.  The militia.  He knows.  Everything.”

“Chicken and biscuits, Jack,” Rae sighed.  “Don’t you go on blaming yourself for something you had no control over.”

“Aye, Jack.  Rae’s right.  No point in crying over spilled milk.  What do we do now?” Sean asked kindly.

Jack continued to look to the North for several moments.  I was beginning to feel a little uncomfortable when Jack suddenly said,

“He has the intelligence his spies provided.  He will be making a battle plan.  He will need time to implement it.  I will put a machine gun up on the hillside with some of our best marksmen on the hill overlooking the barrier where Jessica and I got blown up to prevent him from flanking us there.  We will bulk up that position as a defense.  We will have to reinforce the barrier.  He has something else in mind.”  Jack paused, still looking North.  “Whoever he is, he is very cunning and -”

He cut the sentence off when we saw two riders approaching.  The reverend Ishmael was on horseback, as was the other man we saw with him the first time.  He carried a white flag as they rode up to the defensive trenches and stopped.  They waited.

“Aye.  Let’s go see what they have to say.”

“Jessica,” Jack said to me.  “I want you to come with.  Carry your rifle as I taught you, Mozambique carry.  Do not say anything but look them in the eyes at all times, as calm and neutral as you can.  I want them to see you.”

“Okay,” I replied, not understanding, and followed Sean and Jack to the defensive trenches.

“We are blessed with another glorious morning allowed by our good father in heaven, the almighty God,” Ishmael stated, Bible in hand held to his chest. He gave a slight bow.

“Amen,” he and the other man said.

“Good morning to you, Mayor Sean and friend Jack,” Ishmael said with a warm smile.  

He ignored me.

The other man gave me a once over but paused at my shouldered rifle.  He then looked me right in the eyes.  I just looked back.  He then looked away.  

“Morning,” Sean said simply.

Jack said nothing but gave a slight nod of his head.  

“Gentlemen, I implore you in the good Lord’s name to submit to me and my congregation to forgive you for your sins and welcome us as your saviors.  To make you a part of something greater.  A strong community of God-fearing men and women!  Who will sing in His praises in His name!”  Ishmael raised his Bible to the sky with his eyes closed and said, “Amen!”

The other man repeated, “Amen!” with closed eyes.

Ishmael lowered his Bible to his chest, leaned forward in his saddle, and looked at Sean in a quiet but stern voice,

“There needs to be no bloodshed.  We know of your defenses, your weapons, your militia.  Submit to me now, and no one needs to die needlessly.”

“Reverend,” Sean said politely, “As I said before, many of us are simply not interested in your interpretation of the good book.  I am perfectly capable of delivering those from sin as you are for those who follow.”  Sean shrugged.  “Some do.  Some do not.  That is their choice.  It is not my place to pass judgment on anyone.  Nor is it yours.”

Ishmael’s face flushed at Sean’s rebuke. “All are sinners!  All need to be forgiven!  All need to submit to His will!  To enter into His kingdom, they need to obey my word and the word of our Lord in heaven!  My Lord commands it!”

“I know of your strength and weakness,” the other man said suddenly, looking directly at Jack.  “I will exploit your weakness to my advantage.  Surrender now.  Or I will raze this entire town of sinners like a scythe before wheat.”

“Amen,” Ishmael cried, Bible upheld, eyes closed.

Jack did not say anything for a long moment, looking directly back.  Then he gave an odd smile and said, “I look forward to meeting you on the battlefield.”

The other man’s eyes narrowed.  He suddenly looked uncertain. The reverend looked at him concerned, then at Jack.  He then suddenly turned his horse and rode off, the other man following.

“What was that about, Jack?”

“An idea.”

Entry two

We spent the rest of the day fortifying the position on the hillside and the Northern barrier.  

We could also hear the sounds of hammers and the ring of steel coming from the cult camp.  They were working on something.  Later in the afternoon, the hammering had stopped and we heard singing.

“What are they singing,” I asked Rae.

She paused, turning her head to one side to listen.

“Hymns.  They are singing hymns.  They must be having a service before dinner.”

I nodded but still did not understand.  It seemed odd to hold service and sing hymns before a battle.

Rae must have seen the confusion on my face. She explained, “It gives people a sense of calm.  Being together, praying, and singing.  Supposedly, some warriors, even on the battle line just before the fighting would start, would sing a battle hymn together.  Gave them courage.”

I nodded again, understanding better.

Jack arrived a short time later and gave the order for every other person to get “chow” while the rest manned the barrier.  Once they were finished, they would return, and the other people would get their meals.

Rae told me to go first with a nod and smile.

“I will be back soon,” I assured her.

“Don’t rush, honey.  It is not like we are going anywhere.”

“Wolfing down your food will give you indigestion and give you weird dreams at night,” Jack added with one of his grins.

“Okay,” I laughed as I stepped out of the van that made up part of the barrier.

Rifle slung, pack on my back, I made my way toward Four Corners and South side to find a meal.  When there is a threat, and Four Corners’ own militia is “stood up,” as Jack would say, those manning the barrier or the gates, those expecting to fight during that time, do not have to trade for a meal.  But I always give what I had for a meal.  Most try to refuse, but I give them my best smile and slip them something.   

I found the young couple and their two children with the outdoor cooking fires.  They had built something bigger than a shack that was common in Four Corners but not quite a small house.  They had seasoned beef, chicken, and venison skewers, grilling over a fire.  I took two of each and gave the young woman eight Halloween-sized candy bars from my pack.  Eyes wide, she started to refuse.  I just smiled and held up a hand.   “Please.  For your children.”

There were several camp chairs and upturned logs for people to sit on one side of the cooking fires to eat.  I recognized a few, said “hello,” and began to eat.  The skewers were still hot enough that I could not “wolf” my food down.  I asked if anyone knew what the seasoning was, as I could not put my finger on it.  The young man tending the skewers and the cooking fires replied, “Mexican!”

Someone commented on how they would kill for a proper burrito or taco.  

Another yearned for a spicy fried chicken sandwich, with waffle fries and special sauce to dip them in.

Others chimed in.  

New York-style pizza.

Chinese carry out.

Crab cakes.

I added, “Peanut Butter Waffle Cone ice cream.” I got several, “Ohhhhs!”

Then several others shouted out flavors.  Some argued against a flavor.  Others defended.  We all laughed.  

I then realized this was like the “gallows humor” some of the militia expressed before a fight.  We all shared a meal, shared common interests, and had a laugh.  

And we weren’t thinking about the coming fight.

Diary, now I understand.

Entry three

Just before nightfall, Jack assigned people to a two-hour “fire watch.”  After their watch, they would wake their replacement, and so on.  Everyone was to get as much sleep as they could.  He assigned himself to the last watch before sunrise.  I was assigned to the first watch.  After two hours, I would wake Rae.  Jack wanted me fresh at dawn.  I said I was not sure I could sleep.  He nodded and said,  “You will.”

Jack was right.

I awoke with a start as Jack gently shook my shoulder.  I nodded I was awake, stood up and hopped out of the van that was my “rack” for the night.  As I stretched my arms, back, and legs, I could see to the East. The sky was beginning to lighten, but there were still stars visible to the West. 

Jack and the others had been busy during the night.  Two vehicles to the left of the one I was sleeping in had been removed and replaced with two wooden panels, each eight feet wide and eight feet tall.  

Rae joined me a moment later, also stretching the kinks out of sleeping in the seat of a vehicle.  

“What is that?” Rae asked, her arms stretched over her head.

“No idea.”

Rae then twisted to one side to stretch her lower back and asked, “Who are they?”

Looking behind me, I responded again, “No idea,” prompting a giggle from Rae.

I could see the forms of people sleeping on the ground on either side of the road behind the barrier. 

Jack walked up.  

“It is our militia.”

“What?  How did-”

Jack interrupted me,

“I sent Mr. Miller and Billy to get them.  Not to send them East.  Had them arrive during the night so the cult would not see them.”

“Chicken and biscuits, Jack!  You staged that whole thing for the kids to see!”

Jack gave Rae a grin and winked.  

As dawn broke on the Eastern horizon we saw the cultists had also been busy during the night.  Two wagons were out front of their line.  Jack, looking through binoculars, described what he saw.

“Heavy wood construction.  The tops are boxes covered in plate steel.  The fronts are slanted at a forty-five-degree angle away from us.  There appears to be a hinged plate covering.  Firing slots.”

He handed the binoculars to Sean, and said, “Mobile machine gun nests.”

Sean looked through the binoculars and asked, “How many guns per wagon?”

“At least one.  Perhaps two.  No more.  Small or medium machine guns will make things interesting.  A heavy machine gun, we are in trouble.”

“Our machine gun on the hillside be of any use?”

“If the whole wagon is covered in plate steel, not likely.  They won’t have a clear shot at the gunners inside, either.  To advance them toward us, they will need half a dozen men pushing those nests.  They will have to stay behind the wagons for cover.  Send a runner to our machine gunner and the marksmen on the hillside.  Tell them about the machine gun, short burst, and harassment fire to the rear and behind the wagons.  Keep those men out of the fight.  But husband their ammunition for the machine gun.  We don’t have a lot to waste.  If they or the marksmen can get a good, clean shot, take it. ”

Sean turned to see who was available to act as runner.

“Jessica. If you will be so kind.”

“Jessica,” Jack turned and held out the binoculars to me.  “Take these do a once over and report back.  Stay low and out of sight.”

“On it, Jack.”

Diary, I don’t mind a hard hump or a run, but low crawling is just plain awful.  

I returned fifteen minutes later to report, sweating and dirty, with scrapes and bruises on my elbows and knees I would have for the next few days.

“Cooking fires going.  All their riding horses are saddled and have rifles on them, ready to ride, close to their wagons by the sides of the road.  The other horses still picketed.  I could see some movement between the wagons.  A few women and children are going between the cooking fires and the big tent.”

“Should we fire on the tent,” Sean asked.

“No.  We have limited ammunition.  With every shot taken, the machine guns come that much closer to becoming big heavy clubs.  I don’t want to hit women and children, either.  Unless they are shooting back.”

“The horses?”

“Dead horse is cover.  A panicked horse is live disaster for the rider or anyone in the immediate vicinity.” Jack paused. “I have something else in mind too.”

About 1stMarineJarHead

1^stMarineJarHead is not only a former Marine, but also a former EMT-B, Wilderness EMT (courtesy of NOLS), and volunteer firefighter.

He currently resides in the great white (i.e. snowy) Northeast with his wife and dogs. He raises chickens, rabbits, goats, occasionally hogs, cows and sometimes ducks. He grows various veggies and has a weird fondness for rutabagas. He enjoys reading, writing, cooking from scratch, making charcuterie, target shooting, and is currently expanding his woodworking skills.