Ned K’s War Journal
Chapter 2 “Revolver”
We had the I-35 Bridge rigged for a huge explosion. The idea was to detonate the bridge with the fleeing O-Dawgs on it, burying them in a pile of rubble. The South Siders messed up our plan, but it ended up being better for us in the end. We knew there were a lot of Mexicans holed up in the South, but we had no idea exactly how many. Juan and his crew, much like we did, recruited and trained children for duty. They went the extra step further and armed every last one of them. As the trucks began to file onto the freeway, I noticed that the army contained vast ranks of the very young, armed with every implement known to man. They had rifles, pistols, shotguns and the occasional military-style weapon.
One thing that saved our ass in battle was that we had raided the National Guard Armory and stole every selective or automatic fire weapon they had. We had SAWs, selective fire M-16s and M-4s, .50 cals, M-60 light machineguns and piles of Beretta 92-f pistols. Our enemies had AKs and other weapons that had been converted to fully automatic, but except for the AK-47s, they were poor substitutes for the real thing. We did some conversions as well, but with a pile of Selective fire AR-15 type weapons lying around, there was little need. Some of them had the M-203 grenade launcher too. We had a good stock of ammo. We also had AT-4 and LAW anti-tank weapons, but decided not to bring them out unless we saw too many vehicles or were overrun.
Our jaws fell in awe as the army of Mexicans in their armored pickups just kept coming. There must have been hundreds out there. Truck after truck passed and we just waved as they drove by. At that time, we decided not to detonate the bridge. Wiping out the bridge, even with the South Siders on it, would not decimate their army the way it would the straggling remains of the O-Dawgs. We agreed that we would blow it up once they finished what they came to do.
The O-Dawgs had rallied and were trying to force their way through the lines but were cut down by hundreds of bullets from hundreds of weapons. The Mexican juggernaut just kept pushing them back, slinging their weapons and hacking with machetes when the fighting got close. It was a massacre of gunshots, people being plowed under trucks and hacked to death with the wicked blades. Karl and I watched with wonder at first and then finally got our heads straight.
Watching the endless file of South Sider force made us remember our own battered, poor diminutive posse of determined but tired souls. What if the Mexican rampage continued after the O-Dawgs were gone? Much of our ammo was dry. Our people were scattered all over town, engaging in small skirmishes or picking up the pieces. Karl keyed up his radio.
“This is Karl. I want all forces back to base.” Karl looked at me and we got back in the clown truck, racing back to base. We had to pull all our people together and prepare for a possible second attack.
We had discussed the possibility of an invasion by the South Siders. They had become strangely silent and we honestly did not know where they stood regarding us or the Dawgs. They never really invaded our space after a couple of initial skirmishes. We just assumed they backed off once they found out that we were heavily armed and for the most part, we were right. We always expected them to be a threat and eventually they were, but not in the way we expected. They controlled the southern corridor near I-35 and Highway 6, all around loop 340 and back into Robinson. It was theirs and we left it alone. They could have been building a nuclear bomb back there and we never would have known. What was building there was a thousand times worse, in my opinion.
I call it “The Prison Model”. Before the world fell to shit, I used to watch these shows, called “Lockup” on TV. They were all about prison life and for some stupid reason, I found them intriguing. According to the shows, violent gangs ran the prison and they were mostly separated by race. There were white, black and Latino gangs and for the most part they never crossed cultures. Looking back at our situation, we were in a prison of sorts, trapped in a town full of enemies with no idea what was going on in the rest of the world. We were afraid to stay and even more afraid to go. It was all we could do to huddle together in the midst of all the anarchy and scrape up enough to eat every day. Before it was over we had emulated prison almost perfectly. Karl and our mostly white group were accosted on two sides by gangs of blacks and Mexicans.
As the black and brown part of the Battle of Waco raged, all of our straggling units met back at base. Everyone had questions. They wanted to know if we planned to detonate and try to wipe out the Mexican ranks. Karl and I had already decided not to. We told the story of the vast numbers we saw and eyeballs widened. The din of battle was still in the background and the smoke and flame all over town was very real.
Karl ordered all fortifications rebuilt and all dead and wounded brought in. If anyone found any weapon of any type, they were to grab it. We still had enough barricades to funnel an onslaught and lessen its impact, but we now had wounded to deal with. With fewer than 50 people in fighting shape and the rest either killed, wounded or managing other jobs like dealing with the dead, wounded and the children and infirm back at the safe house on Lindsey Hollow, we were going to get rolled if Silva turned around and attacked us.
As for the fires, we just let most of them burn. I will write of what I called “The Burning Lands” later on. There was a huge natural gas deposit under Waco nobody knew anything about and we were lucky not to get blown out of existence. We ended up forming a massive debris wall at one point surrounded by a land on fire that never went out. It was surreal.
Back to the Battle.
From the tops of buildings, Dave, Alfred, Karl, Wes and I watched the war rage on in East Waco. The casualties were heavy on both sides. The sad and sickening sight of a Hispanic boy no more than 12 years old whose weapon had jammed swung it like a club as 2 grown men hacked him to death with a knife and machete. He fought like a champion and I wish I had known his name. He was soon vindicated as both men were shot down by Silva himself. I saw Silva take the boy’s body and load it into the bed of a pickup. There was Spanish chatter on the radio now and again we were dumbfounded.
More Mexicans. That’s right.
Out of South Waco came a line of trucks and RVs almost as long as the first. Through binoculars, we could see it was mostly women, babies and old people. Silhouetted by the raging fires near the interstate the procession looked like a doomed caravan.
“Hey Fonzie,” squawked Karl’s radio. It was Silva.
“What’s up, Jefe’?” Karl replied nervously.
“We’re all done here, man. I think you can do what you want with this place. Don’t you worry about us Mexicanos bothering you no more? We are leaving for good, homes.”
“Back to Mexico?” Karl asked, almost jokingly.
“You wish, Guerro.” Laughed Silva. “No, we are going north to find a new place. There is a curse here. La Sal, I call it, but you should leave this place, too. At first we thought maybe we could take this town over, but then La Sal came. We couldn’t stop it. La Santa Muerte hates this place, man. We knew the O-Dawgs would turn on us so we cut a hole through them.”
“Man,” Karl looked at his radio like a dog looking at a June bug in its water bowl. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“You will see, Ese Fonzie”. Silva almost hissed. “Then maybe joo get some fucking senses and leave, too. You will see.”
The radio went dead and we all watched from the roofs as the caravan rumbled away. Fonzie, I mean Karl tried to hail Silva a few more times but to no avail. What was La Sal? We found out it meant “The Salt” but according to Jorge and it had some evil connotation, like “Mala Suerte” or Bad Luck due to witchery.
We found “La Sal” soon enough and things. Well, they just ain’t been the same since.
