by Lopez, Rob
“I’m sorry?” said Doug. “Is there more from us that you want before you help?”
“No. I don’t do defense. The only way to beat the raiders is by taking the fight to them. How many of your people do you think will volunteer to form a strike force?”
Doug was taken aback. “Uhm, jeez, I don’t know. Are you serious?”
“Very. And I need to know now if you are too. That way, neither of us will waste our time. Sitting here and trying to defend this place against superior numbers won’t work. The raiders already think they have an advantage. They won’t see any point in negotiating.”
“So you want to hurt them a little until they come to the table?”
“No. I want to wipe them out.”
The conversation clearly wasn’t going the way Doug anticipated. He scratched his head while he thought about it. “We’re not fighters. They already killed our best people. You can’t just take these guys on like that. I mean, hell, you just got driven away from your own position. What makes you think you can, uh, start a war? And win?”
“It’s my job,” said Rick, “and your people just haven’t been trained yet. You’ve got one rifle. We can supply eight more. That’s enough to start a guerrilla campaign.”
“A guerrilla campaign,” uttered Doug in disbelief.
“That’s right.”
“You’re crazy.”
Rick didn’t deny it. “It’s either that, or you let those people dictate how you live, where you go and what you do.”
“You’re asking a lot.”
“A hell of a lot, but that’s the way it is. I’m not forcing it on you. If you’re not happy with it, we’ll be on our way.”
Doug gave him a hard look. “They’re going to know it’s us. They’re going to retaliate.”
“That’s the risk, but when you asked me to help you, did you really think we’d be able to scare them off just by being here? They would have retaliated anyway. As punishment. Warlords and gangs don’t let people break the rules within their territory. You’re not the only group they’re extracting tribute from. They can’t afford to let one group defy them. The word might spread to the others, and then what? No, you’ve got a stark choice. If you want to speak to your people, that’s fine. You let me know how it turns out. If the answer’s no, we’ll leave tomorrow.”
Doug pondered this a moment. “We’ve talked about it plenty. If we carry on like this, we won’t make it to next winter. There’s a few who want to fight. Maybe not eight. But a few.”
“That’s all I need.”
“After the show you put on today, they might come see us anyway, wanting to know if we had anything to do with it. Do we resist?”
“No. We’re not ready. Just deny everything and give them whatever they want. When the time’s right, I’ll show you how to resist.”
*
They carried Chuck up the mountain on an improvised stretcher. His torso was wound tightly with bandages, but he still found it awkward to move. Sally wasn’t impressed with the huts that awaited them.
“These need wooden floors,” she said. “Hygiene’s going to be a problem.”
“It’s only temporary,” said Rick. “They’ll do for now.”
“It doesn’t take long to catch disease,” said Sally. “This site needs a lot of improvement.”
“Fine. I’ll leave you in charge of that. I’ve got other work to do.”
“So, about our little war,” said Scott. “Did Doug buy your idea?”
“Pretty much.”
“How many people can we expect to help?”
“I don’t know. You might get seven gunslingers after all.”
“From what I’ve seen so far, that’s probably optimistic. How many have got military experience?”
“None. You’re going to have to train them.”
“Me?”
“Can’t think of anyone better. Use the air rifles to make sure their accuracy’s up to scratch, and teach them some basic maneuvers.”
Scott shook his head. “We should have gone when we still had the vehicles.”
“There’s nothing I can do about that. Is the Blazer well hidden?”
“Unless they accidentally walk into it, yeah.”
“Packy, I’m going to need you to get us some supplies. We need ammunition. Trade whatever you can for it. We also need sulfur and fertilizer. And bleach, or anything with chlorine in it.”
“Explosives?” said Scott.
“That’s right. This is going to be a very short and dirty campaign.”
“Dirty with bleach?” mused Packy. “You guys are strange.”
“Lauren, I want you in charge of site security. We need trenches and OP sites, routes out of here and suitable rendezvous points with backup supplies and defenses.”
Chuck groaned from his cot. “You guys wouldn’t need to do this if it wasn’t for me. It was my fault and I’m real sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it,” said Rick. “It’s not you that’s going to be sorry. I can guarantee that.”
17
Dee’s dream was always the same. In it, she stood in front of a burning farmhouse. A farmer is on his knees, begging her to spare his family. She stabs him with an impossibly long knife. A woman cries, and Dee stabs her as well. A little girl wails as her parents die, and Dee steps forward, the knife raised like a sword …
That’s the point at which Dee always woke, her heart pounding. Jacob, asleep on her chest, stirred, sensing her anxiety. Bodies pressed against her in the little hut, and for a moment she feared she was back with the prisoners of Boss’s gang. She would be summoned once more to betray another homestead.
Dee stifled a sob, the anguished faces of her dream still hovering. Then she realized it was all over, and she was safe now.
But it wasn’t over. Every night, the past returned to her, taunting her. And safety was an illusion that never seemed to come. Seeing the tied women in the back of the pickup drove that point home. What happened before could happen again.
Dee left the hut and stood outside. Rain had come and gone in the night. The air was filled with the odor of damp wood, and the sound of water dripping from branches. The cloud shredded overhead, revealing bright stars and the crimson gases of the Milky Way. Dee tipped her head back, wishing she could fly. Anything was better than being trapped here on the ground, the gravity sucking her down and dragging at her heart.
Jacob, fully awake, squirmed and began to cry. Dee fed him, rocking back and forth to calm him. Swaying her hips, she remembered the times she used to dance with the microphone on stage. Releasing herself to the music, she would sing and lose herself in the song. On really good nights, when the band connected with the audience and everyone kind of morphed into one loving entity, she would soar through the emotions of the song, dipping low with the verse and then shooting upward for the chorus, singing her lungs out. It was a glorious feeling.
And it felt now like she was remembering someone else. It didn’t seem possible that it had once been her. Staring at the shadows and listening to the rain dripping from the trees, the gap between the past and the present was too large to bridge.
For all the good it did, the past might as well have not happened.
“Are you okay, Dee?” came Lauren’s voice in the night.
She was on guard duty and she must have heard Jacob’s crying.
“Yes,” said Dee sullenly, dragged deeper into the present than she wanted.
There was a hesitant moment when it appeared that Lauren would reply, but then her footsteps moved away, rustling the wet undergrowth.
Dee knew Lauren didn’t like her. She felt the older woman’s resentment at her pitiable weakness, and of the fact she didn’t pull her weight within the group. She sensed that, one way or another, everyone felt that way toward her. Even April’s overtures were suspect, her charity wrapped in the notion that Dee was some sort of child. Dee didn’t trust any of them.
Because trust meant opening herself up.
It meant becoming sensitive again – to the feelings of others, and to her own. And that brought the pain back.
And the guilt.
People died because of her. When Jacob was born, she’d brought life into the world. In Boss’s gang, she’d brought death. That hurt, and she raised her walls and deadened her feelings, because the pain was too much to bear otherwise. But her nightmares wouldn’t let her go. They wanted to punish her, to remind her that she could be a killer too.
Softness was a trap, and she fought it every waking moment.
But she needed these people, because she couldn’t survive on her own. That was a reality she hated, and she resisted it with a bitter passion that broke through the depression sometimes, causing her to run.
But the passion betrayed her just like the dreams did, and when she was away from everyone, a bleak world laughed at her futile efforts, and she had to stop.
There was simply no place to run to.
*
Camp Grier nestled in the cove between Bergen Mountain and Jerdon Mountain. It used to be a summer camp and retreat, and it boasted beautiful log cabins and a lake. It would have made a good home for Old Fort’s survivors if it wasn’t so accessible. That accessibility was a problem now as Rick watched the solitary vehicle moving below along the Camp Grier road. The day before, he’d watched as the raiders combed Old Fort, looking to extract some vengeance for their losses. Finding nothing, he predicted they’d come here. The vehicle stopped, and four raiders got out. It would take them a while to make their way up the winding mountain-bike trail that led from the summer camp.
Rick hiked up the hill until he got to what Doug called the “reception camp” - the same camp Doug had brought Rick to when they first met. It was a Potemkin village of huts that looked even more ragged than those higher up the mountain – a fake settlement that had just enough life in it to convince the raiders they didn’t need to look farther. Squirrel meat cooked over a smoky fire, and a shirt hung out to dry. Six guys occupied the camp in shifts. The many empty huts, with a few personal effects left in place, were explained away as belonging to others who were perennially out hunting or scavenging. Offerings to placate the raiders’ demands were stored here.
Doug tended nervously to the fire.
“They’re coming,” said Rick. “You know what to do?”
Doug nodded grimly. The five other guys looked on with varying degrees of apprehension.
Rick took Doug to one side. “Are you sure you want to do this? I mean, does it have to be you?”
Doug gazed down at his feet. “Better me than one of the younger ones. I’m more expendable.”
Rick wasn’t sure he agreed, but he honored Doug’s decision. “We’ll be watching, okay?”
Doug nodded and sucked in his breath. “If anything happens to me …”
“It won’t come to that,” said Rick quickly.
“But it might.”
“Just remember what I told you about your positioning.”
Fifty yards away, Rick found Scott and Red lying ready, guns aimed through the foliage at the fake camp. Red was the guy who’d lost his finger to the raiders, and the one most eager to trade with Packy for the rifle. He held it awkwardly, so he could use his middle finger on the trigger, but he was determined to play his part. He’d daubed his face with mud and wore a black bandana to hide his auburn hair. Rick thought he looked like an extra from The Deer Hunter. He’d assured Rick he could shoot, but Rick didn’t entirely trust that claim.
Rick settled down next to them and checked his sightlines. He’d coached Doug on where he should stand in order to remain in sight and not block his shot. “I don’t want you to even think of shooting before I do,” he told Red.
“Fine with me, unless I get a tempting target, you know?”
“No. You play ball or you can get the hell out now.”
“Just joking, man.”
“I’m not.”
“How many of them are coming?” said Scott.
“Just four.”
“Setup?”
“Three rifles and a shotgun. One looks like it might be an AR-15.”
“I’ll focus on him, then.”
“I’ll take the guy with the shotgun,” said Red, not wanting to be left out.
“Only when I say so,” reiterated Rick.
The raiders took their time coming up the trail. Rick placed his sights on the lead raider and began taking mental notes. They were all well armed, with holstered pistols as well as their main weapons. One of them wore a police armored vest, and they all walked casually, expecting little resistance. The leader was the one with the semi-automatic AR-15, which Rick could tell was different from his own M4 because of the longer barrel. Rather than spreading out tactically upon approaching the huts and keeping watch on the flanks as the leader spoke with Doug, they stayed together, backing up their guy by looking intimidating. They seemed pretty angry and Rick decided it wasn’t an act. It wasn’t clear whether they’d been sent with specific orders from the main camp, or whether they’d just dropped by for personal reasons.
Doug greeted them in a suitably submissive manner. The leader immediately launched questions at him, which Doug responded to with shrugs. The leader turned to his accomplices, as if seeking their opinion, then punched Doug in the face.
Rick took up the slack in his trigger.
Doug held his bloodied nose as the leader lashed him with a verbal tirade, accusing Doug of aiding Rick’s group, and of even orchestrating the action of the day before. Doug denied everything, and the leader punched him again and beat him to the ground. Once Doug was on the floor, the leader kicked him, screaming obscenities.
Red angrily sighted his rifle, but Scott pushed his barrel down.
“Are you gonna let him get away with that?” hissed Red.
“Shut up,” murmured Rick.
Rick had sketched out a couple of scenarios in his mind, each of which was a red line which he wouldn’t permit the raiders to cross. He wouldn’t let them kill Doug, and he wouldn’t let them take him away. Beyond that, it got hazy. If Rick opened fire, the war would start in earnest, and he wasn’t ready for that. The only thing in his favor right now was the element of surprise. If Doug’s estimates of the raiders’ numbers were correct, playing that card prematurely would doom them all.
But as the leader kept kicking Doug, Rick thought that maybe he couldn’t wait much longer. Internal injuries would kill Doug as effectively as a gunshot.
Rick began a countdown, and Scott appeared to be on the same wavelength, removing his hand from Red’s gun barrel and taking careful aim.
The leader stepped back. In spite of his anger, he looked out of shape, exacerbated by the climb up the mountain. Panting heavily, he shouted, “You’d better not be lying!”
Doug, curled up, didn’t respond.
Having made their point, the raiders left.
“Shadow them,” Rick told Scott.
The others from the camp had gathered around Doug and were helping him up when Rick got to him.
One of the helpers directed a question to Rick. “Where were you guys? How could you let them do this?”
Rick didn’t answer. He examined Doug.
“How are you doing?” he asked him.
“I’m okay,” said Doug, spitting out blood.
Red came into the camp.
“Hey Red,” called the same helper. “Why didn’t you shoot the sons of bitches?”
“I tried,” said Red, “but these guys wouldn’t let me.”
The helper turned back to Rick. “What’s the goddamn point of you being here?”
“Easy, fellas,” said Doug. “I’m fine.”
“They damn near killed you, Doug.”
Doug straightened up with a grimace. “Takes more than that to kill a Cherokee.”
“Shit, you’re only an eighth Indian.”
“Well, that’s the part they were hitting. And I think you can get that squirrel meat off the fire now. It’
s gonna be as dry as hell.”
While they attended to that, Doug took Rick to one side. “Come with me. I need to show you something.”
“I think we need Sally to take a look at you.”
“That’d be nice, but maybe later. I want to take you up the mountain first.”
They hiked up the mountain trails, Doug stopping every now and again to catch his breath, rubbing at his ribs. He paused at a stream to splash water on his face to wash away the blood.
“Any hard feelings at what happened back there?” asked Rick.
“Nah. I understand.”
“We’ll get them back.”
Doug rubbed at the blood that still trickled from a nostril. “I’m counting on it. It’s gotta end some day, right?”
“One way or the other.”
They passed a small clearing where the wooden bee hives were gathered, the air filled with humming. “We got these from Camp Grier,” said Doug. “The little fellas needed a home.”
“Good call.”
“But there’s more. Come on.”
Doug led him up to a narrow fissure in a rock face. A stream flowed from the fissure. Doug stepped into the stream and squeezed through the fissure. Rick followed.
Inside, the cave roof sloped down until they were forced onto their hands and knees. It got more claustrophobic than Rick was comfortable with, but Doug kept going. Darker and darker it became, until Rick could no longer see anything, but he felt the tunnel roof scraping along his back. The sides closed in until there was no room to turn around. The only way out would have been to reverse. Ahead, he could still hear Doug’s exertions. It seemed crazy to continue, but Rick pushed on, putting his trust in the guy. He kept going until he bumped into Doug’s upright legs.
“You can stand up now,” said Doug.
The scraping of a match was followed by a flame as Doug lit an oil lamp, chasing the darkness out of a wide, shallow cave. The floor was dry, the stream issuing from somewhere else in the tunnel, and piled on it were stores of canned food, climbing equipment, ropes and sports recurve bows with clusters of carbon fiber arrows. Doug picked up the lamp to illuminate a series of scratches on the walls that vaguely resembled animals and trees.