WELCOME TO

The battle of the Alamo, Again

by

Bill MacWithey

The Alamo, July 4, 2006

"How many rounds you got left, Rick?"

Rick Schaefer sat against the wall, his head hung down, almost in a trance from lack of sleep. He raised his head slightly and stared at the big wooden doors for several seconds before answering, "’Bout twenty, I think. What the hell difference does it make? We’re dead, anyway."

"Not yet, buddy. As long as we’re still alive…"

Rick and David had been partners for years, both good cops, with never a bad word between them. But, things being what they were, Rick screamed at David, "Don’t give me that bullshit! You remember what happened to the last bunch that tried to defend this cradle of liberty? And, there were a hell of a lot more than six of them!"

David Thompson crawled carefully over to the door and peered around the corner. Bullets from a half dozen automatic weapons further splintered the already battered wooden door to the chapel. The little scumbuckets had them pinned down, with no way out, and the punks knew all they had to do was wait for them to starve or die of thirst. As David leaned back against the thick wall, his mind wandered. Seems I remember reading that you can live as long as two months without food, but just a few days without water.

He crawled across the chapel and sat against the wall opposite his partner, wanting to distance himself from Rick’s negative thoughts about their future. It was a constant battle to keep his sore, red eyes open. But he couldn’t fall asleep. He shook his head and wondered how in the hell things had come to this. The united gangs must have had outside help putting their plan together. They had driven the last remaining force of sanity to the gang graffiti covered walls of the Alamo, and pinned them inside. It had been a perfect operation, and there was no escape. Now, they partied, as they destroyed the city, while the last remnants of the San Antonio Police Department slowly died.

David’s thoughts went back to the day he graduated from the academy. A slight, forced smile crossed his face as he thought about how, at age twenty-three, he was going to change things. Damned if he’d ever get caught in a donut shop. Not while young kids were out there killing other kids and innocent citizens. No, by damned, he’d nail the little punks and send them off to prison, where they belonged.

He laughed out loud. How could he have been so wrong and naïve? Rick was right. It was all so much bullshit. But, why? Why couldn’t the juvenile terrorists be defeated? Why couldn’t they take them off the streets and lock them up? Did someone or some group want anarchy on the streets of America? David suddenly sat forward and shook his head. His mind was wandering again, and his eyes had closed. He had to stay focused and remain awake! How long had they been trapped here? He couldn’t remember.

"Hey, Rick! You awake, buddy?"

Rick shook his head and rubbed his hands across his face. "Yeah, I’m awake." There was utter surrender in his voice.

"We gotta stay awake, Rick."

"What the hell for? Their gonna kill us, anyway. Just a matter of the little bastards picking the time for us to die. Haven’t heard from Gerry or Pete. Think their dead?"

"Dammit to hell, shut the hell up! Why’d you turn into a candy-ass on me Rick?" David cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, "PETE! GERRY!" He frowned and felt a fear in his gut, when they didn’t answer.

"Rick, watch the door. Keep your eyes open. I’m gonna check on them. Don’t fall asleep on me!"

As David scurried to the small side door of the chapel on his hands and knees, Rick gave him an "okay" wave. Tourists exited through this door to the gift shop and small museum on the Alamo grounds, after passing through the chapel and reading the names of all the earlier defenders. Pete and Gerry were dead. Oh, God. He had to check on Cerna and Lambert. He found them dead, also, a bullet through the head, just like Pete and Gerry. How the hell had the punks gotten so close? His friends must have fallen asleep.

David leaned back against the wall, tears in his eyes, knowing Rick was right. It was only a matter of time. It really was the end. He’d never see Joan or Melissa again. He was going to die. His face contorted into a mask of rage, as he said aloud, "Don’t you punks think for one damned minute you’re going to put a bullet through my head. I’ll take some of you little bastards with me!"

When he moved back toward the front of the chapel, Rick excitedly motioned for him to come to the front door. He lay on the stone floor next to Rick and peered out the tiny crack. A small group of people, ranging in age from five or six to probably eighty, sat on the stone plaza, their hands tied behind their backs. Some fifteen youths, dressed in their gang regalia, stood around them, their automatic weapons pointed at the captives.

The apparent leader of the gang yelled out, "Hey, Mister Policeman, wanna see some people die, man? Come on out and watch if ya got the guts. We ain’t gonna kill ya. You thirsty? We got water out here. Hey, we’re gonna let you live, man. We already got rid of the other cops. All of them. Closed down all them damned schools, too, man." He laughed hysterically and continued, "Hadda kill a buncha them teachers. They just wouldn’t listen, man."

He was quiet for a minute, then again yelled out, "You gonna come out? Hey, ya know what else we did? We turned everyone outa the lockups, man. All the state jails, the city jail, the county jail, everybody. Whataya thinka that, Mister Policeman? We killed all the judges and Jaypees, too. But, we ain’t gonna kill you, man. We know you and yer buddy are still alive. We’re gonna put you in a sort of zoo. We’ll feed and water you." After another hysterical laugh, "We wanta be able ta look back at how things was before we took over, man. Betcha didn’t know this was happenin’ all over the country at the same time, did you? Hey, we killed all your buddies, man. Did you notice they’re dead?"

David knew the punk was trying to bait him into running out, guns blazing. It hadn’t been much fun shooting the others in the head after they passed out from exhaustion. This fool wanted combat. David yelled, "Who you going to kill when you’ve killed all of us, you stupid idiot? I’ll tell you who. You’ll kill each other, you dumb-ass." The minute he said it, David knew he’d made a horrible error.

The punk had plenty of people to kill. He opened fire on the helpless people sitting on the plaza, and his friends joined in. They killed them all, then turned their weapons toward the massive doors. Bullets glanced off the doors and stone floor. A fragment from a bullet or a stone slammed across the side of David’s head, and blood spurted onto the floor, as he rolled over and over, away from the door.

Lying against the wall, trying to get up, David cried aloud. All his adult life, all he’d ever wanted to do was help people, protect people. That punk had just murdered twenty people, and there was nothing he could do about it.

When he caught a glimpse of movement to the side, he found Rick jumping to his feet, his 9mm in one hand and his last extra clip in the other. As David yelled for him to stop, Rick slammed through the small opening between the double doors and pulled the trigger on his weapon as fast as he could.

David rolled over to where he could see under the door, just as Rick went down, jamming his second clip into his weapon. Three of the punks riddled his body with continuous automatic rifle fire, rolling it nearly back to the big door. He quickly moved away, as the fire was directed at the door once more. Then, he puked. If only he had some grenades or something to counter all the automatic weapons. But now, he was all alone, with nothing but his service handgun and one last lousy spare clip. He was resigned to dying, and his big regret was that he couldn’t take all the killers out with him.

"Hey, Mister Policeman, yer partner was a brave sonofabitch, man. Whatsa matter? Ain’t you got no guts? Sure was fun blowin’ that asshole full of holes. You oughta be proud of him, man. He killed five of my buddies. Why don’t you come on out and kill me, Mister Hero. Or are you a coward?"

David blocked out the kid’s taunts and wondered why the people hadn’t risen up against the gangs. Why hadn’t the courts put them away? Why in hell did some damned federal judge, who was probably spoon fed until he was thirty, tell us we had to turn the criminals back out, because they were too crowded in the jails? Why did his own state pass laws protecting the rights of criminals, but so few for the innocent victims? Where the hell did everything go wrong? Why didn’t they hold the parents of these punks responsible? If they had, maybe these kids wouldn’t be out there killing people.

"Hey, man! You still with me, Mister Policeman? Wanta know what we did this morning? We burned down them power plants. There ain’t nobody gonna have no electricity to operate their alarms. Ain’t that somethin’?"

David moved as close to the door as he dared and yelled, "Hey, punk, who you gonna kill when you’ve killed everyone but the punks? Where you gonna get food, stupid? Who’s gonna run things? You’ve committed suicide, you stupid jackass!

"Aw, man, that ain’t nice, Mister Policeman. You’re supposed to be the law, man. That don’t include callin’ citizens bad names like that. Didn’t your mama teach you better? Tell you what I’m gonna do, Mister Hero. I’m gonna find out who really has the guts here. I’m gonna lay down my weapon and walk right in there and kick your smart ass. You can’t shoot me. You’re a cop, dedicated to upholdin’ the law and all that. I’ll come in, and when you see I have no weapon, you can lay down your gun and we’ll get it on."

"You just do that, punk. I’ll whip your ass seven ways to Sunday!"

David watched under the door, as the punk walked to within ten feet and lay his AK47 on the ground, then walked slowly toward the door. He rolled to the side and got to his feet.

He walked in weaponless, his hands out to his sides. "See, man, no gun."

David raised his 9mm level with the boy’s head and said, "You made a big mistake, fool."

"Aw, man, you ain’t gonna shoot me. You’re a cop."

David grinned. "There ain’t no more cops, man. Hell, by your own admission, there ain’t no more judges. If I just arrest you, there wouldn’t be anyone to try you or keep you locked up." He grinned even wider. "Guess what else, punk. There’s no police review board to see if I was justified in blowing your stupid brains out." David continued to grin, as the worried look on the punk’s face became a look of terror.

"Shoe’s on the other foot, now, so to speak, ain’t it, fool? How’s it feel, knowing you’re about to die?" When the seventeen-year-old didn’t answer, David pulled the trigger, then stood staring at the blood oozing from the young man’s head.

What a shame. Perhaps that dead boy could have become a doctor, or a policeman. He shook his thoughts from that line of thinking and said softly to the walls of the chapel, which had seen death before, "Doesn’t really make a lot of difference, now, does it? Maybe when the punks are done killing each other, there will be some decent people left to put the country back together. I sure hope so."

The punks outside had all retreated behind a stand of live oak trees, when they heard the gunshot. It was uncannily quiet.

David knelt and said a quick prayer. "God, please forgive me for what I just did and for what I’m about to do." He crossed himself, stood, then moved to within a couple feet of the door. As he dashed outside, gun blazing, his last thought was, "Damned if it isn’t the Fourth of July."