The Slave Warrior

by Marilyn Donnellan

  “Sir, there is a large barn over there to the west. How about we use it to set up a triage for the injured?”

  “Will do corpsman. I’ll send you more help as soon as I can.”

  It seemed time stood still while those who could walk methodically moved across the battlefield, looking for survivors. Makeshift stretchers to carry the injured were cobbled together from pieces of tent canvas. As daylight turned to twilight and finally to a moonless night, the only light they had to hunt for survivors was from still burning tanks and motor vehicles. They began the grim task of collecting the dead and pieces of the dead. There was no time to bury them. T-chip readers recorded the names of the dead.

  When the rebel army first came together, Max insisted the engineers develop unique T-chips for rebels so there was some type of identification on each soldier. Now the decision proved to be an invaluable tool for recording the names of those who died. Notifying families would need to wait. General Veracruz ordered all bodies and body parts collected and burned. There was no time to bury them. The emperor’s jets might return at any time.

  The final count indicated out of 50,000 rebel soldiers who left Mexico City, only a little over 10,000 survived the bombing, and half were wounded. The battle for Chicago was delayed indefinitely. The bone-weary General Veracruz finally took a break as dawn began to break.

  He stood at the entrance to the old barn, looking over the battlefield. What would they do now? Was this the end of the Book Liberators rebellion? How could they continue? Somehow their intelligence network missed Priest’s build-up of a jet brigade. Now they would be forced to go back to their original guerilla warfare.

  Wearily he sat down, his back against the barn wall, the constant groaning of the wounded and dying providing a macabre background symphony of agony to his twirling thoughts. He looked up as a few exhausted officers silently joined him. What can I say? General Veracruz struggled to find encouraging words and finally gave up; he was too tired, too shocked and too discouraged. From the expressions on the faces of those around him, they felt the same way. It was enough for now to just be together. Suddenly a familiar voice awakened him from his revere.

  “General, what can we do to help?”

  Allison and Marco looked down at him. What a sight for sore eyes. Two gleaming motorcycles stood locked on their pedestals behind them. He was so focused on his own agonies he hadn’t heard them arrive.

  “When did you get here? And how did you avoid the bombs and strafing?”

  “We’ve been traveling your direction for the past several days,” Marco replied. “As soon as we saw the jets screaming overhead we had a pretty good idea what happened. We’re just sorry we arrived too late to help.”

  “Oh, no. You are not too late. Allison, we really need your help. Most of our medical corpsman died during the bombing raid, and only about a half dozen of the auto-docs work. We transferred hundreds of seriously wounded rebels to that building behind me, with the less serious out behind the barn. Marco, can you give her a hand?”

  “Absolutely,” the couple replied in unison.

  Allison ran back to her cycle and grabbed her medical bag. The couple entered the old barn and saw through the shafts of morning light breaking through the cracks in the walls, lines of injured and dying rebels. They were crowded so close together it was difficult to walk between them.

  Immediately Allison switched to her doctor persona, reached into her bag for sterile gloves, and got to work. She directed Marco and the few remaining corpsmen as she rapidly dealt with the most urgent medical needs. Her years working in the emergency room in Canada provided her with invaluable experience to triage patients with the most urgent wounds first. She ordered surgery tables set up in the cleanest corner. The auto-docs were sitting idle because no one knew how to use them. Now she ordered them to stand by the half-dozen, make-shift surgery tables.

  “Marco, see if you can find something to use for walls around these tables. The other patients don’t need to see what I’m doing. What’s your name?” she asked a young corpsman who seemed to be the most knowledgeable.

  “I’m Paul Yusuf, Doc. It sure is good to finally see a real doctor. We’ve been doing the best we can, but it has been really difficult.”

  For a minute, Allison was afraid he was going to start crying, he was so stressed. She gently laid her hand on his shoulder.

  “Corpsman, you have done a phenomenal job, considering what you are dealing with. Now, let’s get to work and save some more lives.” She saw Paul mentally pull himself together.

  “Yes, doc. What do you want me to do?”

  “Bring all the sterile dressings and instruments you can find into the operating theatre and I’ll set up to operate on the most critical cases. I’ll need an assistant and an anesthesiologist. Are there any here?”

  “I’m sorry I’m about all you’ve got. There are probably only five other medical personnel left and they are somewhere bandaging, suturing and doing what they can to help.”

  “When’s the last time you slept?”

  “I’m okay, doc. Just let me see if I can find someone else to help in the operating area.”

  Paul left her side and began carefully working his way through the rows of patients to the door. Once outside she saw him sprint around the building. She turned her attention back to the soldier she was working on and realized she was too late. He was dead. She gently closed the soldier’s eyes and moved on to the next patient.

  Using bales of hay, Marco set up an operating theatre, draped with sterile sheets from a crashed medical truck he found. One of the engineers rigged large solar lights from the ceiling. Another engineer made makeshift operating tables out of the barn’s doors and boxes of supplies. Water from a nearby stream was boiled over a fire to sterilize instruments. Surgeries to save lives began.

  Fortunately, the old-fashioned large cylinders of oxygen and anesthesia survived the bombing and proved invaluable. Day passed into night. Auto-docs provided body scans and used their delicate instruments to remove shrapnel, while Allison did amputations and repaired internal organs. Hours later, Allison straightened up from another leg amputation and wearily looked around. She lost track of how many surgeries she did.

  “Hey, Doc,” Paul said quietly, “You need a break. That was the last one for now.”

  Allison looked at her team of four, besides the six auto-docs: Paul (who served as her surgical assistant), Marco (who deftly handled oxygen and anesthesia after a short instruction), and another medical corpsman by the name of Sally (who kept supplies coming).

  “Good job, everyone,” she said wearily. “Let’s all take a break. But stay close by in case of an emergency.”

  Her legs were so shaky Marco had to help her to a convenient pile of hay covered with a thermal blanket where she collapsed. She was asleep by the time her head hit the blanket. Marco looked down at his exhausted partner. He was so proud of her. What a trooper. She kept going when most people would give up. They saved a lot of lives in the last 24 hours, thanks to her expertise. He laid down beside her and fell into a dreamless sleep.

  General Veracruz looked in on the medical team and was pleased to see they could finally rest for a while. He turned and looked at the morning sun breaking in the eastern sky across the torn and devastated farmland where thousands gave their lives for their country. What to do now? He could not ask the few remaining rebels to head toward Chicago. Not enough rebel soldiers survived to make a difference.

  He and his team of officers decided to turn the rebels around and return to Mexico City. They agreed they needed to develop new strategies. He was proud of his soldiers. Not a one of them even hinted at the possibility of giving up the fight. Now was the time to lick their wounds and figure out what to do next.

  The few moments of quiet in the morning sun soothed the General’s aching heart. He stepped away from the barn and strode toward whatever the day would bring. It was not the end of the war, just the end of a battle.

  C
hapter Twenty

  Captured

  Brogan had no idea how long she was asleep before the sudden stop of the train jerked her awake. She was thrown forward and almost landed on the floor before catching herself. She looked out the window. They were stopped in the middle of a farm. From the position of the sun it was the middle of the afternoon. She pulled out Scott’s old watch. It showed three o’clock in the afternoon, which meant they were probably somewhere in southern Ohio. Why had they stopped? She looked around at the few passengers in the car with her. They were as bewildered as she was. Slowly, she reached under her seat and picked up her back pack, just in case she needed to move quickly.

  An automated voice crackled over the speaker system. “Please remain seated. The tracks ahead are damaged so there will be a slight delay.”

  Brogan let out a breath she didn’t realize she held. Mac and Herbert settled into the car in front of hers. She was unable to check on them. They were just going to have to wait for repairs. The door to the car behind her swished open and a burly man, wearing a train workers uniform, stepped in.

  “Folks, we’ll be on the road a lot faster if some of you men will help us with the repairs to the tracks.” He looked around. Probably twenty-five men sat in the car and not one moved.

  “Oh, did you think I was asking? ‘Cuz I wasn’t. All you men. Up! You are going to help. Now! And that includes you, old man,” he said as he looked right at Brogan.

  Brogan forgot for a minute she was dressed as an old man. She fell back into character and gave the appearance of trying to struggle to her feet. Keeping herself bent over, as though from arthritis, she slowly shuffled after the train worker while the other men in the train impatiently pushed behind her. She held up the men even further as she struggled down the stairs and on to the platform under which the energy trains ran.

  The train man led them toward the front of the train. A very large hole was just feet in front of the train. A good thing the automatic sensors saw the hole in time or there would have been a terrible accident. Brogan saw Mac hard at work clearing debris; no sign of Herbert. Maybe because he appeared to be a cripple he was exempt from labor.

  “Help clear debris,” the train man shouted over the roar of the energy train below. “Toss the damaged pieces over the edge.” Apparently, the damage was only to the passenger train rails. “You eight in the back, take the stairs down to the ground and pick up some new rails you’ll find in a shed about 100 yards back the way we came. Three or four of you will be needed to carry each rail.”

  As they hesitated, he started yelling, “What’s the matter with you? Get the lead out! We aren’t going anywhere until these tracks are fixed.”

  Brogan became a part of the group designated to pick up rails. She lengthened her walk to appear manlier. She was supposed to be old, so tried not to walk too fast, shuffling a bit, so she was the last one down the steps. About to step off the steps to the ground, she heard the all-too-familiar sound of laser pistols. She quickly scurried back up the steps and into the car as she heard screams of those hit by laser fire. She crawled down the aisle to her seat and grabbed her backpack, making sure her rifle was at the ready in case she needed it. She slowly looked out her window and saw a group of probably twenty people in ragged clothes firing weapons at people trying to repair the rails. Since she had no way of knowing if they were BL rebels, hungry citizens, or criminals, she decided to not choose sides. Instead she continued to crawl toward the next car where Herbert was. She found him huddled under his seat, trembling in fear.

  “Hello, Herbert,” she whispered cheerfully. “How goes it?” The relief on Herbert’s face was palpable.

  “It is certainly good to see you, Brogan. What in heaven’s name is going on out here?”

  “Not sure. Might be rebels. Or criminals. Either way it is not our fight.” She looked around.

  “Where is Mac’s backpack?”

  “It’s over there, under his seat. Why? What are you going to do?”

  “He’s pinned down with the others outside. I’m going to get his backpack to him. What do you say we get out of here? You stay behind me. Okay?”

  “Yes, Ma’am.”

  She grabbed Mac’s backpack and the two of them crawled through two cars in front of them, exiting carefully through an emergency hatch in the floor. Mac and the rest of the men commandeered to work on the rails lay flat on the platform, trying to avoid getting shot.

  “Herbert, stay here. Hold on to both backpacks while I get Mac.” She crawled on her belly to where he huddled, tapping him on the shoulder. He looked around, startled.

  “Well, hello there!” he said with a big grin. “Are you always going to come to my rescue? I thought it was me who was supposed to rescue damsels in distress.”

  “Oh, shut up, Mac. Let’s get out of here. Follow me.” They crawled back to Herbert and slipped down the opposite side of the train, away from the protagonists. Once they scooted away from the train, Mac asked if she knew who attacked the train.

  “Nope,” Brogan replied. “And I didn’t want to be involved in a fire fight with them in case they are BL rebels. I guess we are going to have to look for another way to Laredo.”

  After a short walk they approached what Brogan guessed, from her review of the old Atlas, was the Ohio River. After several hours of walking next to the river they found a possible ride. They had just come around a bend in the river when up ahead they saw an old-fashioned paddlewheel boat tied up at a dock. It looked like it was in good shape. In fact, they saw people scurrying around, loading some type of cargo on board.

  “I have an idea,” Brogan said. “If we can catch passage on the boat, we would be headed south; maybe even down the Mississippi River to Texas. You two stay here and I’ll go see what I can find out. Stay out of sight, okay?”

  She decided to walk less arthritic to appear to be more physically capable in case they needed to pay for their passage by working on the boat. As she approached the men loading boxes, she kept one hand on a lethal knife hidden in one of her jumpsuit pockets.

  “Howdy, folks,” she called loudly in what she hoped was a good enough southern accent. “How ya’all doin today. Mighty fine day, ain’t it?”

  At the sound of her voice, everyone on the dock and boat stopped moving and looked up suspiciously. Oops. Maybe what they are doing isn’t legal. She slowly moved forward, keeping a smile on her face and both hands visible.

  “Just wonderin,” she called out, “if ya’all could use some deck hands. Me and my buddies are fixin to go south and would sure appreciate hitchin’ a ride.”

  She saw the tension somewhat relax in the postures, as the men all looked toward a very large black man standing at the top of the ramp.

  “So where are the rest of your buddies?” he said in a deep-throated growl.

  “Back there in them woods,” she gestured. “Just closin’ down our camp site.” She struggled to keep her voice deep. “They be along shortly. So, what you say? Need some deckhands?”

  “I’ll decide when your buddies show up,” he said with finality and turned back to the task at hand. “Keep those boxes comin.’ I wanta be outta here ‘fore dark.”

  Brogan walked back to where Mac and Herbert hid.

  “Well, it looks promising,” she told them. “But I have an uneasy feeling. I suspect they are transporting illegal produce. I saw a box on the deck broken open with lettuce in it. So, what do you think?”

  “I’m game. Probably beats walking,” Mac replied. “How about you, Herbert?”

  “Well, I’m not very strong so not sure how much help I might be. But I am good at card tricks, so how about some entertainment on board?”

  “Okay. But be on your guard.”

  The trio moved out of the woods and slowly walked forward. Eyes widened at the sight of Mac, his purple hair, tattoos and jewelry, but no one said anything.

  “Ya’all look like the circus has come to town,” the black man said with a big grin. “You, purple hair, wh
at’s your name?”

  “It’s Mac. What’s yours?”

  “I’m Jamil. I’m foreman here. Ever worked on a boat before?”

  “No, sir,” Mac replied. “But I’m not afraid of hard work, if that’s what you’re askin’.”

  “Okay, you’re hired. How about you, little man,” Jamil looked pointedly at Herbert, “What good are you?”

  “Well, sir, I may be old and not be very big, but I’d be a great entertainer on those long, slow nights down the river. I know a few card tricks and been known to gamble a bit.”

  “You like to gamble, do you? Good, because no one on this bucket of bolts has ever beat me, so it will be interesting to have someone new give it a try. How about you earn your keep through your gambling winnings. If you don’t win enough to pay your way I throw you overboard. How’s that?” He asked with a wide, toothy grin.

  Brogan was proud of Herbert. He didn’t flinch. He looked Jamil right in the eye and agreed.

  Jamil turned and looked at her. “I think there is more to you than meets the eye. What are you good at?”

  Brogan cocked her head and thought for a minute. Then, without a word, and faster than the eye could follow, she launched five, very lethal knives directly at Jamil, just missing him by inches on either side of his very large body; the knives sticking into the side of the boat. He never flinched.

  “Pretty neat trick. Any other tricks up your sleeve?”

  Brogan whipped out her laser rifle and without hesitating shot the hat off one of the stevedores carrying boxes up the ramp. The startled man dropped the box and fell into the river to the accompaniment of gales of laughter from the other men.

  “I’m impressed. Your hired as security.”

  The three of them gained passage on the old paddleboat, The Riverboat Queen, down the Ohio and Mississippi rivers toward New Orleans. The lazy trip was uneventful. The old paddleboat traveled at night to avoid detection by local law enforcement and pulled into bayous to hide during the day. Jamil was delighted to have a challenging card player like Herbert, who won easily much of the time, but didn’t push his luck by winning all the time. What Jamil did not know was Herbert mentally counted the cards to know exactly what hand Jamil.