Perhaps it was a form of penance, this labor; paying with his sweat a debt that could never be redeemed.
His meditation was interrupted by a call from the house. "C'mon in. Food's ready!"
One final swing and he flung the ax down and headed for the water barrel that stood gathering rainwater beneath the eaves. He drew a bucketful of water and poured it gently over his head, delighting in the cold shock as it washed away the sweat and ran down his back. He wiped his face, feeling as though he was emerging back into the reality that the mindless task of chopping wood had protected him from.
Devon wandered into the kitchen of the little house, one of a handful on this side of Springs that had survived the firestorm and the subsequent attentions of Warner's gang. Gil Summers sat at the table while a large woman with long gray hair fussed over a pot on the stove.
She turned to him as he came in. "You're dripping on my floor, and I only just washed it!"
"Sorry," Devon responded, distracted by the rich aroma of the stew she was stirring.
"Now, you go and get yourself changed. I've laid out some clothes I reckon will fit, though you're a bit larger than Ernie was."
"It's okay, I can take my food outside."
She waved her wooden spoon at him. "No you won't. Ernie ain't comin' back, so you might as well get use out of his clothes. Hurry, though, or Mr. Summers here might eat your portion as well. Tells me he's starving."
Gil looked up guiltily. He'd spent this brisk March afternoon helping Springs to form a new governing council. Devon couldn't see why that would justify him being particularly hungry. He turned and went into the room he'd been sleeping in these past couple of nights.
The little black terrier got off the bed and padded across to Devon, jumping up at his dirt-encrusted knees. "Hello, boy. How's she doing?"
He moved over to the crib beside the bed and peeked in at Dorothy who was fast asleep. Devon and Gil shared the room, much to their host's amusement, and Dorothy was on Gil's side. He'd taken responsibility for keeping the baby fed, but still he turned to Devon when it came to taking decisions. It seemed he was happy to help as long as he could hand the child back at some point.
Dorothy was making tiny popping noises as Devon looked down at her. She was, indeed, an absolute beauty. He'd never thought he had a paternal bone in his body, but this little one had put a spell on him.
He found the clothes and stepped out of his old ones. He went through the far door and found himself back at the water barrel, which he used to get himself as clean as he could. How many weeks had it been since he'd last had a hot shower? It was like another life.
He came back inside, locked the door and walked through to the kitchen as the dog made itself comfortable on the bed again. It seemed to consider itself Dorothy's protector and would only eat if food was brought into the bedroom.
"That's better! Now, sit yourself down."
He did as he was told and she placed a large bowl full of stew in front of him, along with a big chunk of homemade bread. "Thank you, Mrs. Dabkowski."
"I told you already, you call me Teresa. You are a guest in my home, and we are friends, no?"
Devon swallowed the first mouthful of stew and nodded. "We sure are."
For the first time in months, Devon enjoyed a deep, dreamless sleep, and woke to a bright day that might, in another lifetime, have been full of promise. But, for him at least, it was time to return to Hope.
He'd stayed up talking with Gil the previous night until he couldn't keep his eyes open any longer, and he had to admire the man's political skill. A council of the survivors had been put together and a makeshift jail created in the basement of the brothel for the survivors of Warner's gang who'd been captured. Gil suspected that most of them would be freed pretty soon given that the real hard cases had either fought to the death or escaped. Those languishing in the velvet underground of Wendy's were the weak-willed and cowardly, but in a town that had been small enough before the firestorm, they needed people to dig the fields, man the barricades and, yes, swing an ax.
Gert Bekmann had been leading the hunt for the escaped members of Eddy's gang and Devon had never seen him so full of life. He was not a man to have on your trail. For a laugh, he'd asked Bekmann to say "I'll be back", and the puzzled Dutchman had pulled off the Arnie impression with ignorant aplomb. He might have been from a country that was a thousand miles from Austria, but to American ears, the similarity in accent was close enough to be hilarious. And, after all, they'd had little enough to laugh about lately.
Bekmann had taken to shaving the beards off those he found and killed. Devon privately doubted that every one of the fugitives had refused to surrender, but he found it impossible to care, and a row of wiry whiskers now adorned the town sign as a warning to others.
Gil's pitch to the townsfolk who'd agreed to form the new council had been threefold. Firstly, they owed the people of Hope for freeing them from Warner's tyranny. Three of the CDF soldiers had, after all, been wounded in the attack. Mara's arm had been sliced and was being cared for in the home of the local pharmacist.
The second prong of Gil's pitchfork was the prospect of trade with Hope. Though the whole point of the expedition had been to find supplies, Hope had a town full of working vehicles and they’d be invaluable as Springs tried to rebuild itself. Springs, by sheer luck and the raiding carried out by Warner's gang, had plenty of supplies to trade given its small population. It was a good match.
Finally, Gil played the joker. He'd done a private deal with Bekmann to leave half of the CDF here to help keep Springs safe while it reestablished itself. Their weapons would go back on the trucks along with the supplies Springs was offering in trade, but Warner's gang had been well armed and so they would work with the new council to set up a permanent militia before returning home. Finding volunteers to stay had been simple enough—Springs was, after all, a lovely place and the prospect of not having to live off rations was enough for many.
So, they were due to return home today, and Devon was heading into the kitchen for a bowl of oatmeal while making a mental list of the things he needed to do before he could leave when there was a knock on the door.
He heard Mrs. Dabkowski's voice raised in what sounded like friendly greeting and then footsteps along the corridor. "Gil! A visitor for you."
Devon settled down at the table. He was hungry and had a full day ahead of him, so he had no intention of allowing Gil to interrupt his bowl of hot porridge.
Summers appeared from the living room, nodded to Devon and then opened the kitchen door.
Devon heard an unmistakable groan, and looked up to see Anne-Marie Dayton dropping into the chair opposite. His stomach tightened and he went to get up.
"No, it's okay. Stay where you are, I am the visitor here and I suspect you will have a say in this."
Devon shrugged as if he didn't care either way, though he wasn't certain how convincing he was.
He focused on his bowl, pouring in an extra blob of honey as if to sweeten the atmosphere as Gil settled noisily into the chair next to him.
"How are you, Anne-Marie?"
He imagined her shrugging. "How do you think, Mr. Summers? My brother was tortured and killed two nights ago."
"My dear, I am so sorry. "
"It wasn't your fault."
Devon could tell that she was looking at him, even as he concentrated on the last of his breakfast.
"I think, perhaps, that this isn't the time or place for debating blame," Gil said. "We are where we are, however sad that is. None of us can take back the mistakes of the past."
Ain't that the truth, Devon thought. He'd come back to America burdened by his failure to stop a terrorist attack in London. Ever since the firestorm, he'd labored to pay back some of his debt by doing right by people and then every scrap of redemption had been flushed down the can by his decision to help this grieving woman's brother. If he hadn't stuck his nose in it, he'd be back in Hope by now. The brother would still be dead,
but it wouldn't be weighing on Devon's conscience. Mind, if he had gone back, it would have been empty-handed and the people of Hope needed these supplies. A no-win scenario if ever there was one.
"I want to come back with you," she said, shocking Devon back into the present. "Me and Niall. Springs has nothing for me now other than reminders of what happened here. Someone else can have my house and work my land. They'll do a better job of it than me."
Gil Summers took her hand in his across the table. "Are you sure, my dear? What will you do in Hope?"
She wiped her eyes and sniffed in her snot. "You're asking what use am I? No, it's a fair enough question. Well, I can turn my hand to most things. I'm a farmer's daughter, so I can at least work the land. I'll earn my keep, Mr. Summers, I promise."
"I'm sure you will. What do you think, Devon? Might we find room in the trucks for Anne-Marie and her son?"
Devon, surprised at being asked, finally looked up to see her gazing steadily at him. "Of course. If that's what she wants."
They sat in a silence that was finally broken by Mrs. Dabkowski bustling in with a kettle full of water. As she put it on the stovetop, Anne-Marie got up, thanked Gil and left to prepare for the journey.
"Now don't you go blamin' yourself," the old woman said without turning around. "She'll learn one day that you weren't to blame for what happened."
Devon looked across at her. He would miss her good-natured wisdom when they returned to Hope. He wished she was coming rather than Anne-Marie. "The problem is, she's right to blame me. Maybe I had no real choice, but it was me that made the decision."
A mug of hot tea appeared on the table and he felt her warm hand on his shoulder.
Devon handed up a box to a CDF soldier standing inside the third truck. They were in the parking lot of Bob's Market, the only grocery store in Springs that had survived the firestorm. The place wasn't open any more, but it had been used as somewhere to hoard supplies by Warner's gang. The new council, headed by a stocky man called Otis Weppler, had begun the job of fairly redistributing what had been stolen while stockpiling enough essentials to see the community through to the first harvests in a few months.
When it came to it, Weppler hadn't exactly been happy about handing over a third of their stock to the Hopers, but the prospect of having a fleet of vehicles of his own that they could use both for security and to gather supplies was too enticing to let go. And he knew well enough that the heavily armed CDF could take what they wanted when it came down to it. So, he watched with barely concealed ill will as the final boxes were squeezed into the truck.
"Six beards, Devon, my friend," Gert said as he wandered over from the direction of the brothel. "There may be a couple more out there, but I don't reckon they'll trouble this place for a while. Besides, once Mara's up on her feet again, she'll enjoy a little hunting party."
Devon chuckled. "I see you've turned up now the heavy lifting is done. Have you said goodbye to the girls at Wendy's?"
Bekmann's mouth curled into a rueful smile. "I did. If I were that fella," he said, jerking a thumb at Weppler, "I'd watch out. They'll be running this city before long. Maria's quite the businesswoman, and she tends to get her own way."
"I bet she does. But how's Mara doing?"
"Not well enough to travel, but I don't think she minds too much. I'm sending her over to convalesce with Mrs. Dabkowski now that she has a vacancy. To be honest, it's good to leave someone like her in charge of our people."
They walked along the third truck toward where Devon's waited. "I don't know anything about her. Did she come in with the Ezrans?"
"She volunteered to go with the sick on the convoys. She's a good woman."
"Does she know you spent the night in the brothel?" Devon said as they reached his cab.
Bekmann flushed. "It shows, does it?"
"If you like her so much, why not wait a day or two and bring her back with us?"
His face tightened. "Because I don't think we have a day or two, my friend."
Chapter 10: Coup
Sam Hickman didn't like the man with the beard who sat glowering at Ward McAndrew in the living room of his home. The feeling was clearly mutual as his gaze continually flicked in her direction. But McAndrew had insisted that she be present while they talked—it had been the single inch of backbone he'd so far shown.
The man's name was John Crawford, and he'd appeared at McAndrew’s door after dark while Sam and the pastor were talking. She'd seen the terror on his face when he'd gone to the door, and Crawford certainly carried a hidden threat if her instincts were anything to go by. She'd been surprised when McAndrew had refused to send her away, and a little disappointed to begin with. The man creeped her out and she would have welcomed the safety of her father's home.
But now she realized that she had to be here as a witness as the future of their town was discussed.
"You are telling me that the leader of the town and many of its security personnel are absent and you haven't yet taken advantage? You told me you'd organized the people."
"I have!"
Crawford stabbed a finger at McAndrew. He was a fairly good-looking man of early middle years with a hooked nose jutting out of a weathered face. The two of them together looked like a pair of old vultures squabbling over a carcass. "How many? When are you going to act?"
"I have three cells of twelve each."
"You did read the manual, then? Very good."
McAndrew scowled at this as anger overcame fear for a moment. "They are ready to act at a moment's notice."
"They are armed?"
"Of course. All hid their weapons during the searches by the sheriff's department."
"Then why not tonight?"
McAndrew shook his head. "You say that the council leader is out of town, and that's true, but the head of security is an ally of ours and he is away also. Our agreement was to strike together."
"Who is this security head, that his presence is so critical?"
"He's from Ezra. When he arrived, he told me he'd been sent to help me take control of the city."
"On whose authority?"
McAndrew swallowed nervously. "The … the mayor of Ezra."
A reptilian grin spread from cheek to cheek. It did nothing to humanize him. "Mayor Hawkins? She is no longer an active player. Ezra is ours and, tonight, Hope will follow. And if you wish to protect your flock, Reverend, you will aid me now."
"But … but … tonight?"
"It seems the ideal opportunity."
McAndrew was sweating as he climbed out of his easy chair and headed over to the corner where he stored his drinks. "But don't they say the hasty stroke often goes astray?"
"Enough!" Crawford slammed his fist on the arm of the couch.
The glass dropped from the pastor's hand as he stood, petrified.
"We will act now because they are coming back! I have told you, McAndrew, that there are two ways for this to play out. Either we take control peacefully, using your people, or we do so by force. We are spreading from east, west, north and south—at present we are stretched thin, but soon enough we will be able to mount an attack with enough force to crush resistance. But for every Son who dies, ten of your people will be put to the sword. Is that what you wish for your flock, Reverend?"
McAndrew shook his head, but said nothing.
"Then we must strike tonight, because they will return tomorrow."
He turned to Sam, who'd sat silently watching the fate of her town being decided by these carrion fowl. "And you will wait in the basement."
"What? No!"
He was on his feet, handgun pointed at her. "Unlike this fool," he said, gesturing at the trembling McAndrew, "I do not trust easily, and I will not risk the success of this mission on your account. You will be released when we have taken control."
He waved her along the corridor and down the basement stairs, pushing her inside then slamming the door shut behind her. She sat on the cold floor where she'd fallen and listened to the foo
tsteps retreating. She'd fled from the tyranny of the Sons of Solomon only to be trapped by them again.
Either McAndrew or his master had turned off the generator when they'd left, so Sam had spent the night in the shivering dark with only the faint light coming through a small window where the ceiling met the top of the wall to prove she hadn't gone blind.
She'd eventually gone to sleep, but had woken to the sound of gunshots in the distance. They hadn't been repeated so, again, exhaustion had gotten the better of her until daylight began to seep in through the small, grimy window.
Footsteps on the stairs again heralded the sound of the key in the lock, and she crawled into a corner until she saw, framed against the light coming down the stairs, the lean shape of the pastor.
"Sam? Are you okay, my dear?"
She got to her feet. "Yeah, though I need the bathroom."
"Of course. I'm sorry. It wasn't my idea to lock you down here."
But you didn't stop him, did you? she thought as she passed him and climbed the steps.
As she sat on the can, she called through the closed door, "What happened last night?"
"It went well. We have control of the police station and armory, as well as the supplies warehouse."
"Was anyone hurt?" she said, taking the pitcher and pouring it down the toilet.
He stepped back as she opened the door. "A few scrapes, but nothing serious."
"Where is your friend, Crawford?"
McAndrew’s face tightened. "He is no friend of mine."
"But you knew him before tonight, didn't you?" It was hardly a question at all—she knew the answer.
He nodded.
"What's your connection with the Sons of Solomon?"
"I don't have time to go into all that. I wanted to free you and ask you to come to the public meeting. You and I spoke long yesterday, and I hope you know I have the interests of the people at heart."
"By conspiring with the Sons?"
He shrugged. "You heard what Crawford said. He wasn't lying about the choices that face us. Join with them voluntarily or be forced into submission at great cost. Now, I am holding a public meeting at the intersection. Do you want to come with me?"
The Last City (Book 3): Last Stand Page 8