Short Story: The Raid

In Post Collapse America, a tribe of Neopagans raids a village like their forefathers before them.

Note: This story is a modern retelling of the Scandinavian raids of the Viking era. Some of the characters might seem like caricatures of “actual” neo-pagans, this is intentional.

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The unblinking, humanoid eye scanned its surroundings. Calculating, morbidly. Like the unfeeling, merciless orb-like eye of a spider passively observing its prey struggling within its web, knowing the fangs would come out next. This situation was hardly different.

The orb belonged to Jimmy “Jorvik” Rawlings, illuminated behind the dull white glow of a PVS-14 night vision monocular tube. It flicked about as his head, cupped under a high cut Team Wendy  “bump” helmet, turned slowly.

Analyzing, observing. Within his field of vision, several interesting variables radiated in the dark. A couple sentries were posted, positively glowing underneath his night-vision aperture. Clearly, these guys had not learned from the last slaughter. If they lived, they might not learn yet. The guards were posted in rather unimaginative positions. One was hanging off the rail of the Church steeple in clothes that radiated under NVGs. Another was laying prone atop a hill in the surrounding trees, likely some sort of over watch element. A couple more were patrolling the darkness in pairs, dimmed red lens lights still almost blinding him. They really hadn’t learned, or at the least hadn’t figured out night vision was involved. 

Jorvik flashed a series of hand signals back to Leif. A pump to the chest, sentries. Fingers jetting out from the hand, four total. A fist pump, patrolling on the ground. Two fingers, in pairs. Hands cupped around the eyes in the shape of binoculars, followed by a point, overwatch sentry. Another point, atop the hill. In five seconds, he had picked apart their entire security posture. One more hand sign, a middle finger. Kill them all.

Leif flashed a yellow, toothy grin under his own NVGs, recently plucked from the body of a fallen Berserker. The dried blood still stained the top of the helmet surrounding the impact area and hole punch delivered by a 7.62 round. It made a fine trophy for Leif.

They hit this place before, about a year ago now. It was hard to keep track of time now without calendars, but it was right before the last frost. Frost had come again, and now it was summer, the perfect time for a butchering. Last time was a little chaotic. A dozen of his men were hit, a half dozen killed outright. They left the others behind, a signal to anyone in his outfit of their fate if chosen by the Valkyries. To Leif, life and death were merely two steps of the same dance. Those who lived were chosen by the Norns, those called to death had no further purpose in this world. What the gods planned for those claimed by death was really none of his business. 

 Despite the losses, the first raid was a success. He plundered ammunition, clothing, a few weapons, even a handful of serviceable slaves, to say nothing of the mountain of fish conveniently preserved and stacked. That fish had gotten them through the winter. The casualties were bad, sure, but the booty was good and the young blonde had made a fine concubine for him. Her brother made an excellent sacrifice to Wotan. 

Since then, Leif had more or less left the village alone, even posting patrolling sentries to alert him to any other raiding. Like a fattened pig kept safe for harvest. A few small groups had filtered through, even bringing a sting by the cartel, but nothing major suffered the small village since their raid. Moreover, the villagers started to believe the violence had stopped for good, for whatever reason. As if their last raid was a freak accident, and their relatively isolated location was good enough to keep them safe. 6 months of peaceful fishing, trading, and moderate prosperity made them fat and lazy. It made them forget. As if it was “over”. In reality, it was “over” because Leif had marked his territory. He had decreed the village, along with several others, would remain untouched. For the most part, it was so. The last ones to cross him also found themselves upon his altar. 

Now, they looked ripe for the harvest again. More people moved in, bringing their families. Livestock pens dotted the perimeter around the 15 or so vacation cabins the villagers now called home. Overall, Pine Lake was still an idyllic little resort town,a reflection of the pre-collapse world. The church, small general store, and gym rounded out a little gem of a community, only an hour drive from Fairfield. The villagers had done well in choosing this place, and it blossomed into a small trading post. Fish sustained them, and the surplus funded a motley assortment of chickens, a goat, and a cow. The pistols and farm rifles from yesteryear were gone, slowly replaced by AR15s and Remington 870s. Rumor had it there was even a mayor, and a defensive force. Impressive for an outpost of barely 100 souls. Of course, that number was about to be lowered. 

Leif turned to his guys. They knew the plan, most had been there for the first raid. “I’ll keep this simple. We don’t have time for an initiation.” Groans emanated from the small crowd, stifled by menacing from some of his elites. The initiates were promised first blood, and now they’d have to wait. “Erik, take your rifle and kill the man in the tower. The rest of you, divide into two strike teams and cover both sides of the valley. Lars, take the north side. Igor, take the other. 10 guys a piece. When you hear Erik drop that idiot in the tower, give them hell.”

The crowd choked back cheers, barely able to withhold their excitement at the coming slaughter. Jittery muscles spasmed with excitement, weight shifting from leg to leg in anticipation. Some even wretched, the stomach acid coating their throats. The plan wasn’t thorough, but it was simple and promised the men what they signed up for. Not just wealth, food, and bloodshed, but adventure. Leif loved that word, adventure. It was growing on Jorvik. In a way, raping the first white beauty he saw in the village below would be an adventure. 

Leif fell in with Igor’s crowd, silently, just another pair of boots for now. He felt the loot would be better on the side of town with the cabins, and he wanted to ensure the plundering went according to plan. Even he conceded some structure was needed during the chaos- otherwise his little band would dissolve when their rucksacks were full. No longer. Leif would divide up the booty whether it be treasure, slave, or trophy. Death called any man that challenged his orders.

It was on in a flash. Erik’s muzzle erupted in a brilliant shower of light and sound that rippled through the small, sleepy valley. There was no point in stopping to see if the man was hit or not, they all heard the report anyway. Stealth was never Leif’s strong suit. 

He followed the men, breaking off into a dash and unsheathing his war ax. It was a tradition that his ax scored his first kill of the outing, and this raid presented the perfect opportunity. It bounced in his hands as he ran, closing in on 50 yards to the closest building. “Bjorn!” He barked, “set up a cordon of the town. No one gets out!” Bjorn flashed a thumbs up before pulling a couple berserkers off from their mad dash. They positioned themselves behind the wreckage of several sedans scattered outside the town, something Leif assumed were crude defenses long forgotten. They certainly didn’t make a difference during the first raid, he thought. Bjorn turned and pointed at several others, inhaling to command when his head erupted into a geyser of bone shrapnel and brain matter. The flash from the Church steeple confirmed it as his body slammed into the grass, oozing gore.

Damn! Thought Leif. That bastard Erik missed! He dove to the ground with the men in front of him, save for one who writhed on the ground, holding his stomach. Flashes emanated from inside the cabins, rhythmic bolts of white light roared from inside the gym. “I need fire on that steeple now!” He shouted, “waste that motherfucker!”. Gunfire poured from the surrounding forest, so fierce it seemed it could cut the steeple down from the volume alone. The man inside attempted to leap from the tower, splatting gracelessly on the roof of the church, twisting his ankle as he landed. The ensuing volley reduced him to a porous corpse before he could react. 

The men continued to rush in all around Leif, war cries now radiating into the night. They moved as fluidly and with such anger as a tempest, truly a terrifying sight to behold. Leif stumbled to his feet, feeling rattled by Bjorn’s sudden death and weighed down by his plate carrier, magazines, and ax. He slammed the ax down into the head of the writhing man before yanking it out and pressing on, drizzling bits of skull in an arc as he tore it loose. Several other bodies littered the outskirts of the village. 

Leif darted towards the first cabin he saw. A berserker lay dead outside, Leif didn’t see or care how. Instead, he plunged straight inside only to discover a woman with her children, shakily waving an innkeeper’s double-barreled shotgun. It was clear she expended both barrels already.  Reflexively, he hurled the ax at her skull. It connected with a meaty thwap as her children shrieked in disbelief. His eyes lept around the room, past the little bodies now covering the remains of their mother. He shoved them aside to retrieve his ax. As he reached down, he caught the glint of a gold ring sparkling in the night. He twisted it, even as the children pathetically pounded his chest with their small, snot drenched fists. It didn’t budge. Without a thought, he hacked the entire finger off with the blade of his ax, and disappeared into the night. In a moment, the children were alone with the still, ever colder corpse of their young mother.

Gunfire still chattered amidst the chaos. Pockets of resistance were forming around the gym, clearly the designated fallback point. A trail of bodies leading to it indicated the majority of the fighting men were now inside. Leif wasn’t sure whether to be concerned they had organized with a plan since his last visit, or laugh because it was so pathetic. Either way, they knew the offer on the table. It was the standing offer for everyone Leif raided: surrender and most of you will live. It sprouted from his mind organically, the product of a little confusion during his first ever raid on the Miller Grove neighborhood. Masses of people replicated what they saw in the movies, walking out with their hands up and waving pieces of cloth in the air. After all, what other options did they have? Leif caught himself inhaling to tell his men to hose them down. Instead, he ordered them rounded up and brought before him in the park at sunrise. Some were designated slaves and moved to the rear to be sold out West, most of the fighting age men had their choice of death, conscription, or blinding of one eye and the loss of one hand. The colored and anyone that appeared weak, effeminate or otherwise undesirable were executed. The same fate awaited these villagers. 

Leif roared with hearty, bellowing laughter that echoed and made itself heard amidst the concussive drumming of gunfire. A centralized fallback point was almost always a horrible idea, especially when it was made of modernity’s pitiful plywood and drywall. He grabbed the shoulder of Tostig, a member of his entourage. “Go find Lars and Igor. Tell them to offer mercy to anyone who surrenders. Kill anyone who hesitates. Then tell Jorvik to burn the gym down.” The man nodded and disappeared in a blur, already concealed by the inky darkness. It was the same plan as the other tough nuts to crack, hole them up then burn them down. The raiders were really just there to grind off any especially sharp edges of resistance, and to start mopping up the loot early. It also doesn’t hurt to have them in the village in case of any funny business too, thought Leif. 

He followed a stream of men stacking up behind the church, preparing to breach. “What’s going on here?” He asked one of them. “Some of them got cut off from the rest making it inside the gym. Should we just burn it down too?” replied Thorkell, a section leader. Leif stared with furious scowl, “No, you idiot! Don’t you know these buildings are sacred to them? All of their valuables are likely inside, why would we burn it down?” The man muttered an apology as the stack began to pour in past the heavy double doors. Rifle fire erupted from behind overturned pews as several of the Berserkers crumpled under the blistering fire. Leif sprayed back, clipping one of the defenders and prompting him to shriek out in morbid agony. “You lot stay here, put the squeeze on them. Thorkell, with me!” One of the men nodded and peeled off from the door as the others, now visibly shaken, continued to fire in an attempt to suppress. A bullet ripped through the summoned man, causing a wail of pain to erupt from him as he pathetically collapsed onto the ground. He crawled towards Leif past the other bodies, flashes of regret and disbelief on his face. The blood trailed and smeared underneath him along the coarse Welcome Home mat, pooling from his midsection and mouth. “Gah, Fuck!” yelled Leif, as he shot Torvald through the forehead. “Do not. Fucking. move!” He demanded of the others with an accusatory point, before hurdling himself outside into the night. 

The church boasted massive, beautiful stained glass windows. Despite their beauty to some, they would also allow the men to be easily flanked. Why did these guys pick the main fucking entrance? He thought to himself. He brought the butt of his rifle down on the glass, directly on the face of baby Christ, and shattered the Nativity scene with a terrible thunder. Some nominal barricades were established in advance to prevent such a flanking maneuver, but it amounted to merely a token meant to steel the nerves of the defenders inside. His ax worked through the desks and doors and pews stacked in front of him, anger delivering more strength with every hit. Woodchips sprayed and arced into the air as he swung harder, faster, and more deliberately. Leif was getting worked into a blind rage. We’ve lost too many already! He thought. This was supposed to be a quick score. Soon my men will be screeching for ammo. I’ll have the throat and eyes of the man who led this defense. He hacked through the last bit of a wooden door, allowing a loophole for him to fire through. Only four men were crouched behind the pews, along with the one he clipped earlier, now gurgling and kicking gently in a pool of his own. Four fucking men! I probably lost four taking this godsforsaken building! He stuck the barrel of his rifle into the loophole and worked his way down the line, rhythmically splattering the chest cavities of the men behind the barriers. None of them had even seen him in time, the din of battle covering his flank. “Harold, search this den of rats for loot. Kill anyone hiding within it. No quarter!” He shrieked through the wreckage, the veins in his neck bulging. 

The men poured through the doors, cheering in relief that their assailants lay dead and dying. Several of the Berserker’s own joined them. The men oozed into the rear halls of the church, crying out in delight to report that there was indeed a stash of fish, ammunition, weapons, and other trinkets. Along with a stack of gold communion chalices was a set of keys, dull and bronze but radiating with opportunity. “Harold, get someone to start opening doors with that!” Leif shouted, before sliding into a chair and removing his helmet, revealing long, dirty blonde hair underneath. The strength was beginning to leave his body. He hacked through substantial amounts of debris earlier, and the adrenaline from the beginning of the raid was beginning to melt away. It had already been several hours since the raid began, and his eyes stung and his ears throbbed. It was glorious. I’m so drained I could actually fall asleep here, amidst the death and adventure, he thought. In a way, it was peaceful. This was natural, this was the true state of man. This was how things had always been, how they always will be. Man is a violent animal, and war is but the white man’s game, He thought. It is fortunate that war is so terrible, lest we grow too unfond of it! He chuckled to himself. His eyes grew heavy as the men filtered out around him, searching for their next big score. As their eyes devoured their surroundings, eagerly darting to nooks and crannies, to the faces of the terrified villagers, Leif’s produced slow and heavy blinks. He even managed a yawn, amidst the bodies of friend and foe alike. Might makes right he chanted as his body began to lightly slump forward. It was the group’s motto and the most fundamental law of nature. Today’s slaughter proved it.