White Wasteland by Jeff Kirkham (best color ebook reader .txt) 📕

guards over. “Maybe you can tell me where you were the night my tent was destroyed?”

“Aw, fuck it,” Chad swore.

Time for action.

Chad drew his 1911, lightning quick, and leapt behind the bullshit prophet. He wrapped his arm around his chest and put his gun barrel to the man’s throat.

The prophet gurgled.

Ho-eee-shu-whaaa?

“This old alley cat won’t survive my forty-five, boys. Now, hold out your guns with just two fingers and set them on the ground, just as if you were handling your sister’s virginity… well, I’m not sure if you’re the kind of fundamentalists who handle your sister’s virginity, or in what way you handle virginity… Just put your guns down or I’m going to skull fuck your holy roller here.” Chad cocked the hammer on the 1911 for added drama.

The violence, the cursing and the vulgarity stunned the Mormons. Chad duck walked himself and the prophet back against a wall.

Rex Burnham tightened his back and hissed, “Do what he says, you idiots. Put your guns down.”

Elder Clawson, the two guards and the radioman complied.

“Let’s review,” Chad waved the .45 for emphasis. “This blowhard claims he’s a prophet of god. He’s plainly a corn-holing motherfucker. Everyone can see that, right? Call me crazy, but I was under the impression that a prophet would be a good guy. What am I missing?”

In the distance, the pop-pop-pop of rifle fire grew into a steady roar.

“Kneel.” Chad pushed the false prophet around to face him. He forced him to the ground on his knees then pointed his hand cannon at the bridge of his nose. “Tell them the god’s honest truth or I blow your skull out the back of your head.”

“Tell them what?” Burnham seethed on the last word. like a snake hissing. Whaaat? The tone was defiant, but Chad could see the terror in his eyes. Control freaks hated to lose, but they feared death just like everyone else.

Chad touched the bridge of the nose with his cold barrel. Something in the man’s eyes finally broke. The hard squint he’d been holding dropped.

“Don’t shoot me,” he whined. “God doesn’t talk to me. I’m not even the next in line. Please don’t shoot. I don’t care. Someone else can be prophet. I’m done with these fools.”

Chad nodded. “That’s a good boy.” He turned to Elder Clawson. “Your actual, no bullshit, church leader is over there,” Chad pointed his 1911 at the battle. “On the other side of the fight. Your men are shooting at him right now. Why don’t you ask them to stop?”

Elder Clawson nodded. He jumped on the radio and shouted orders.

Chad turned back to Burnham. He widened his stance, hardened his grip and rested his finger on the trigger.

“Now you die for real, knob goblin. Just like the kids you sent into battle for your ego trip.” Chad leaned in. The former prophet closed his eyes and his camo pants bloomed with piss.

Chad’s face broke into a big grin and he chirped, “Pew. Pew. Pew. I’m not going to shoot you, dude. Who do you think I am? Charles Bronson?” He holstered his 1911. “Charles Bronson had no game with the ladies. I’m way more genghis than Charles Bronson. Shit, I’m more genghis than Ghengis.”

Chad walked out of the command post, jumped on his bike and blasted back out of camp.

He needed to get back to his high school football team before they wandered into some real soldiers.

Evan had a decision to make, as often happened in a target-rich environment.

At least two thousand men charged up the I-15 freeway toward his friends.

Option Number One: work them over with the belt-fed and kill a shit-ton of guys.

Two helicopters were lining up to overfly the battlefield. Evan felt seventy percent sure the second aircraft was his buddy JT Taylor.

Option Number Two: take another whack at the enemy helo.

After his first miss, Evan thought he had figured out his mistake. He’d underestimated the distance. This time, he’d give it more elevation and maybe lead it a bit more. He had less than a second to decide between killing a crap-ton of men or trying his luck with the helo.

They’re our neighbors. Probably forever.

He imagined Tanya hunkered below the Ferret, scanning for enemy, protecting him like a mama bear protects her cubs.

Earlier, Tanya said, “They’re our neighbors. Probably forever.”

His father whispered in his mind: to catch the man-fish, you gotta let the boy-fish be. His father meant both women and war.

Evan swiveled his turret to meet the incoming helicopters.

The helicopters bore down upon the canyon. Like scavengers of death, they came to pluck human flesh and carry it away to Valhalla.

Whompf, whompf, whompf, whompf…

The battlefield exploded in the roar of men. The enemy charged.

Jeff’s mortars fired, momentarily drowning out the choppers. The paint cans whistled and tumbled in the air overhead.

Over a thousand men rushed from the opposite edge of no man’s land.

Jeff had lost the battle. He’d followed his heart. Pulled his punch. It’d been a foolish gamble. Now, they would die.

A line of tracer rounds lanced from the Evan’s Ferret, hunting the lead helicopter. The rail of flaming, red bullets sliced through the helicopter a half mile out, closing fast.

Rolling flame erupted in the middle of the freeway, stealing Jeff’s attention away from the choppers. His napalm bombs burst in the freeway and splashed incendiary sludge that reached ten yards into the air and twenty yards around. The slurry caught fire, and the flames rolled across the battlefield, engulfing a hundred charging fundamentalists.

A ululating screech in the air tore Jeff’s attention away from the charge. The lead chopper—the enemy Bell 212— gushed ink-black smoke from the engine cowling. As the helo screeched overhead, a loud ka-chunk split the air and the rear propeller blew apart. The fuselage whipped and the chopper banked hard toward the steep hillside of Traverse Mountain.

The battlefield suddenly quieted and every warrior stopped. Their hands shaded their eyes into the rising sun and tracked the doomed aircraft as it rocketed toward the mountainside. In