Abolition (Insurrection Book 3)
Page 17
By morning, silence had descended on the valley. The Honor Guard had been driven back and they retreated with resistance fighters biting at their heels. Old Man stood atop the wall and gazed out over the battlefield with his binoculars. Memories of another war and another battlefield hung like cobwebs, heavy on his heart. Below him, bodies lay strewn and he could almost see the reaper moving through them, snatching their souls to bring to whatever heaven or hell awaited them. Trees, once beautiful and cloaked in foliage stood out, stark against the bright blue sky; now burned and shattered husks, skeletal remains. Tendrils of smoke spiraled high into the air from burning vehicles and craters had been gouged into the green fields from the onslaught of explosions.
He saw groups of men moving amidst the bodies, checking for signs of life, and covering the dead. Another group transported the wounded to the medical tents. Behind the fortress wall in the village, men and women were building campfires, meals were being prepared and debris was hauled away. Old Man sighed deeply. The battle had been won, but this war would rage yet. With a tiredness he never knew possible, he descended the ladder and made his way to his tent. He knew the lists would start arriving. Lists of the dead, lists of the wounded. So many names that would forever be imprinted on his heart.
Baylin paced back and forth, her stomach churning with anxiety. Her apartment, now her prison, silent except for the sound of her feet on the carpet. She shook with rage, her whole body vibrating like a finely tuned piano wire. She pushed back her mop of messy hair and grabbed the bell to summon the servant, forgetting that the girl had left her in the dark hours of the night. Tears stood in her eyes and she brushed them away, her mind frantically racing like a rat trying to chew it’s way out. Throughout the past few days, she’d gotten reports from the front and each brought worse news than the one before. Thindrell was dead, the Honor Guard on the run. She jumped in fright when she heard a pounding on her front door. Cowering, she looked out through the peephole to see Asha standing in the hallway.
With a hiss, she flung the door open. “What do you want?” she asked, her voice dripping with sarcasm and disdain. She took a step backward as Asha pushed her way into the apartment.
“You lost! You lost, Baylin... and God have mercy on you,” Asha said sadly.
The resistance had made it to the outskirts of the city. The elites were fleeing like rats on a sinking ship, in fear of their lives. Parts of the city were already burning.
“No! We will hold the city! The Honor Guard will regroup and push those animals back and the arena will run red with their blood!” Baylin screamed.
Asha winced at the spittle flying from Baylin’s mouth, the insane glint in her eyes, and the wreck of the woman standing before her. Her heart was filled with pity. Lowering her gaze, she shook her head. “Leave Baylin, leave the city or you will die,” Asha warned.
From the expression on Baylin’s face, the twisted hatred that curled her lips, Asha knew her warning was falling on deaf ears. With a dejected sigh, she turned and stepped out the door. After Asha left, Baylin made her way into her bedroom and flung open the closet door. With trembling hands, she pulled out her finest dress. A long, flowing blue gown with matching shoes. She hummed a soft tune while donning the clothing. Moving over to the vanity, she washed her face, applied make-up, and pulled her hair up into a soft french braid. She gazed at herself in the mirror, her eyes critical of every creased line. Youth had departed her long ago. She stood tall, sighed, and prepared herself to meet the enemy. She would be damned if she would hide in her own apartment like a prisoner. Straightening her shoulders, she grabbed her purse and let herself out the front door.
Chapter Thirty
Old Man rode in the front seat of the Jeep. Kael drove while Creed and Zyla rode in the back. Hooked to the back of the Jeep on a long pole was the flag Aeryn had found, flapping in the breeze. The city rose up before them like a goliath. Behind them were hundreds of vehicles, hundreds of men and women on horseback, all forming a convoy heading toward the city. Zyla gripped Creed’s hand tightly, her heart swelling with tears. They were free. It was almost too good to be true and several times throughout the journey she had to pinch herself to make sure she wasn’t dreaming.
Citizens lined the road on both sides, cheering and weeping, some kneeling with their hands clasped in prayer. Expressions of shock, of joy, and broken hearts met Zyla’s gaze.
“Do you suppose they’ll ever recover?” she asked, looking at Creed.
He smiled sadly and nodded. “They will. It will be hard, but they... we all... will rebuild from the ashes, Zyla,” he murmured.
Kael stopped the Jeep and swore softly. Zyla lifted her eyes and was met with the sight of red and orange flames lifting high into the sky as the arena burned and the swell of the crowd as more and more citizens moved toward the massive structure to watch. A cry of haunted anguish lifted from the crowd as one wall fell and then another. How many had lost loved ones to the barbaric fighting behind those walls? Zyla didn’t know, but she was sure it ran into the thousands.
She tapped Kael on his shoulder. “Go please, move on and leave this to the people,” she pleaded.
The once beautiful city, the crowning gem of the nation, was burning. Kael turned his eyes to her and nodded. They arrived at the Capitol building’s steps and climbed wearily from the Jeep. Old Man led the way with Kael, Zyla, and Creed behind him. Reaching the top step, he gazed down on the rolling and endless sea of citizens. He sucked in a quick breath when he spied Asha and Baylin pushing their way through the throngs of people and then climbing the steps toward him. He reached out and pulled Asha into his arms, hugging her tightly. A soft light shown in her eyes as she gazed into his.
“Old Man, oh I have missed you,” she murmured. Then turning she looked at Kael and Zyla. Her eyes filled with fresh tears as she embraced them both.
“I’m Asha,” she murmured. Both Kael and Zyla looked at this beautiful woman. It was Asha who moved mountains to save Kael from the arena, and it was Asha who instructed Bevin to spirit Zyla away in order to keep her safe. They owed this woman their lives. Zyla stepped to her and pulled her tightly into her arms, openly weeping on her shoulder. She heard Asha chuckle softly.
“Be still child, it’s over,” she crooned. Old Man looked on with tears standing in his own eyes. They had come full circle.
Coughing, he turned and looked at Baylin, his hand still holding Asha’s. Sadness filled his heart. “Baylin,” he murmured. She glanced at his hand, a flash of anger rose in her eyes, and he smiled. Turning to Kael and Zyla, he glanced at Baylin. “Children, meet your great-grandmother,” he said softly.
Both turned to the woman whose expression filled them with cold dread. This woman, at the heart of it all, stared at them hatefully. Kael shook his head, not feeling anger but rather pity. He grabbed Zyla's hand and turned her away. Just then he heard a scream. He turned and saw Asha jump in front of Zyla’s body as Baylin’s arm swung downward with a knife in her hand. The blade sank deep into Asha’s chest, a blade that was meant for his sister.
Asha crumpled into Kael’s waiting arms, her face a rictus of pain and shock. She stared up at Baylin, her mouth struggling to form a sentence. “Oh Baylin, why?” she gasped.
Kael held her until death took her last breath. He turned his tortured eyes to Old Man. “She’s gone,” he murmured. A roar of pain rocked Old Man as he watched Asha die. Turning to Baylin, his face a mask of sorrow, he uttered the final words to her, dripping with disgust and disdain, “You could never be equal to her.” He turned to the men who’d grabbed her, “Take her to what’s left of the arena.”
Drawing a deep breath, he turned his back on her and pulled out a rolled-up paper from his backpack. He sent a silent thank-filled prayer to Aeryn and to all the men and women who had given their lives so that others would be free. Tears poured down his cheeks as he unrolled the parchment. Straightening his shoulders, his voice rang out loud and clear, strong, and confident.
“
We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness.”
A roar that shook the earth, swelled from a thousand voices as these words echoed across the square.
Old Man stood, letting his tears fall freely. Zyla, Kael, and Creed embraced him as his legs weakened with a mixture of overwhelming grief and joy.
The End
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thank you to all the Beta readers and editorial staff, your detailed feedback and critique are necessary for the production of the works.
Much gratitude goes out to our editorial staff, & Ali Maloney, for repeated passes on each round of developmental and line edits. All of you make our words sparkle and come to life.
To the fans on Facebook in the Written Apocalypse group, you keep us writing.
ABOUT
DJ Cooper
DJ Cooper spends her days writing these dystopian and post-apocalyptic novels. As the owner of Prepper Podcast Radio Network, her affinity to the preparedness community helps fuel stories that offer insights into ways they too can emerge from these kinds of moments.
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ABOUT
N.A. Broadley
N.A. Broadley spends her days writing magical stories and tending her critters on the homestead, hear about her adventures on her podcast Around the Homestead on Prepper Podcast.
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