"If you've got them, I’m going back to scanning my zones. I don't want us both to get so dialed in on those folks that we miss something else."
"Got it," Barb said.
Shannon got her eyes back on the high school. With no lights, her observations were limited to what she could see in the firelight or tracking the movements of men with lights. “You’re right about the rest of the army. No one seems to be getting ready for anything but bedtime.”
"Shannon, these guys on the move seem intent to get somewhere."
"How can you be sure of that?"
"I'm not, but they're not acting like scavengers. There’s no wandering around and searching. There’s no disappearing into houses. They're making a beeline for some place."
"Maybe they’re headed toward your dad's place. You think they got directions from someone? Maybe they kidnapped someone local and they’re forcing them to act as a guide."
"I don't think that’s it," Barb said. "I'm not sure where they're going, but it’s nowhere close to the direction of the compound."
"Then I guess the next question is how badly do we need to know where they're going," Shannon said. “Is that critical intelligence?”
" I don't particularly like the idea of them wandering around out there without eyes on them. Whatever they’re up to, I want to know about it."
“If we weren't in the early steps of launching an operation against them, it wouldn't matter,” Shannon said. “With circumstances being what they are, I agree with you. We need to know what they're up to. One of us needs to stay on them."
"Maybe the best plan is for me to tail them," Barb said. "I know the area well enough that I can reorient myself if I get turned around. You stay here and keep an eye on the larger force. Listen for my dad on the radio. I'll take my radio and try to communicate my moves back to you. Don’t flip out if you lose me. Radio reception is pretty shitty around here."
"Sounds like a plan," Shannon said. She laid down her high-powered binoculars. In the dark, she could only see the vaguest outline of the other girl. "Barb, I know we've had our differences but be very, very careful out there."
Barb hesitated, wondering what she should say. She sensed the girl’s sincerity. "Those differences are personal, Shannon. This is work. You'll find that I'm much more careful and meticulous about my work."
Shannon could not help but notice that Barb said their differences are personal instead of were personal. It was acknowledgement that the differences still existed and were not yet relegated to the past. She didn’t know how to respond to that even though she felt she needed to.
Barb felt like she should say something else. That she should issue warnings to Shannon about the noises she could expect to hear in the night. About how she should be careful in which direction she went if she had to flee the observation post in a hurry. She found it hard to add any words to those she’d already sent out into the world. Her father talked a lot, joked a lot, and rambled on sometimes. She was not like that at all. Her words were sparse, stark in contrast to the silence and seriousness she carried with her. She was not good at idle conversation or heartfelt exchanges. For her, words were about communicating. Or cutting.
In the deep, cold silence, by feel alone, Barb packed her sleeping bag and her gear. When everything was in its proper place, she backed away from the edge of the cliff and located the trail that would take her down the mountain. With the mountain between her and the town, she felt comfortable turning on the red bulb of her headlamp. In the eerie glow, she double-timed it, jogging down the hill to her horse, anxious to pick up the trail of the breakaway team.
39
The sky was changing hue, the sun an hour from rising, when all of Conor’s troops gathered again at the community center. To a man, they looked like they’d fought a war already. They were tired, dirty, blistered, and hungry. The look in their eyes was the glazed exhaustion of troops returning to their camp after a particularly ugly battle. In this case, they hadn’t fought the battle yet, they’d only decorated for the party. Now it was time to wait on the guests.
“Eat up,” Conor said, “then grab a quick nap. I’ve got sentries posted along the road so we’ll have warning if anyone shows up. Sleep ready to jump up and fight if you have to. That means shoes on, weapons at hand, and gear beside you. In two hours, I’ll wake you, hand out assignments, and brief you on the battle plan. I want to thank you for everything you’ve done, for having the courage to show up to protect your community.”
The men voiced their assents, yet with considerably less enthusiasm that they had earlier. Conor understood, knowing these men were speaking from their weariness and not from their hearts. They were not men used to being pushed to this level. In Conor’s line of work, Ricardo had inserted him into different military schools or trainings. Conor would become just another nameless guy that everyone assumed was a spook, or something worse. No one talked to him, no one asked his name. Ricardo wanted him to learn some of the critical skills that the military and special units trained for.
Conor wasn’t up to the level of some of those men in strength and physical assets but he gave it his all. He learned how to think, fight, and function when totally exhausted. He learned how to do the same things when cold, hungry, or overheated. Like anything else, there were tricks to it and that was part of what training taught you. The other thing it taught you was about your limits.
Everybody thought they knew their limits, but they didn’t. That limit was usually just an arbitrary line placed where they imagined it should be. The actual limit wasn’t where you got tired, thirsty, or your body cramped. The limit wasn’t where your feet ached and turned into a solid blister. The limit wasn’t where your shoes turned pink from blood and darkness began creeping into the sides of your vision.
The real limit was where your mind ran out of tricks. Where it couldn’t fool your body into functioning any longer. Where your body wouldn’t respond to commands, pleas, pain, or desperation. Everyone needed to know that point. It was something they needed to understand about themselves.
What did it feel like before muscles failed? What were the warning signs you were going to pass out? How did you know if heat stroke or heat exhaustion was on your heels? How long could you personally go without eating or drinking and still make sound decisions?
Those limits were different for everyone and Conor knew his. Barb knew hers; he’d made certain it was part of her training. These men in front of him—this brave, determined community militia—were about to learn theirs.
40
The first attempt to wake Bryan Padowicz was made right as Conor’s own men were stretching out to catch some sleep.
“Sir,” Michael said, shaking him. “The sun will be up soon. Shouldn’t we be getting ready?”
Bryan had been sleeping well and was angry at being awakened. He frowned and mumbled.
“Sir?”
“Dammit, we’re gentlemen not guerillas!” he spat. “Don’t wake me up again. We’ll fight this battle in daylight, not skulk around the shadows like peasant soldiers.”
Michael retreated from the room and told the men assembled in the hall what Bryan said. While they were all disappointed, clearly not thinking this was the correct decision, they didn’t know what else to do. They knew how Bryan was. If he said to leave him alone, that was what he wanted.
Sometimes having his sleep disturbed made it difficult for Bryan to find slumber again but that wasn’t the case this time. He fell into a deep sleep again. He dreamed, perhaps because of memories stirred up by sleeping in a high school, that he’d never become a college professor. Instead, he taught high school history and was miserable. His students didn’t listen, he had no money, and his wife hated him.
He awoke around 10 AM. The room was cold but the sun was high in the sky. He looked around in confusion, uncertain as to why he was still in bed at this late hour. Then he recalled what had happened.
“Damnit!” he grumbled, unzipping and extricating him
self from his sleeping bag.
He pulled on his shoes and crammed any loose gear into his pack. He took a moment to get himself together, wanting to appear calm and collected before his troops. It was part of the persona of leadership, of command. When he felt ready, he opened the door to the principal’s office and stalked out into the hall. It was empty.
Having a vague recollection of how he got to the office last night, he wound his way to the back door, toward the athletic field where they’d corralled the horses. He walked fast, the sound of his steps echoing through empty tile hallways. When he shoved his way out the heavy steel doors and into the bright sunlight, he found his army waiting on him, all wearing sullen and disapproving expressions. Even minus the team Zach took with him, it was a formidable group and the focus of their stares was withering. He felt like an ant squirming beneath a magnifying glass on a sunny day.
“Mount up!” he commanded, anxious to divert their attention somewhere besides him. He owed them no explanation. He was in charge here. Had they not bigger concerns, he’d teach them some discipline for their insolent looks. “Where’s my fucking horse?”
One of the men, already mounted, rode forward with Bryan’s horse and handed the reins off to him. Bryan secured his own gear and checked his weapons before climbing onto the horse, making sure everything was ready for whatever lay ahead of them.
“Make ready your weapons, men! Make certain there’s a round in the chamber and that you have additional ammunition available to you. The rules of engagement are that you only shoot on my command. Are we clear?”
Bryan received a disjointed and staggered chorus of understanding. It was not the bold, enthusiastic response he’d hoped for, though perhaps his expectations were too high. While he may feel like Napoleon marching into battle, his troops were not a polished fighting machine. In the canon of edged weapons, they were rusty pocket knives, not swords. He had to hope that their numbers let them prevail. If it came to skill and determination, they would face an uphill battle.
Having stolen a local map from the school, Bryan took a moment to get his bearings and overlay the map upon the reality before him. He turned it a few times, took a reading from an antique brass military compass, and nodded. He folded the map and tucked it into his jacket.
“This way, men!” he called, turning his horse in the high school parking lot and heading toward Main Street.
Bryan was riding at the head of the pack when he heard the sound of hooves breaking pace and rushing to catch up with him. “What is it?” he asked when a man pulled alongside him.
The man extended a hand containing a clear plastic bag of jerky.
Bryan took it, realizing that he was hungry and probably needed his strength for the day ahead of him. “Get back in formation,” he told the man. This was not a theatre where gratitude was expressed or even expected any more.
It took the entourage nearly thirty minutes to make the ride across town and find the road that led in the direction of Jewell Ridge. Once they were on that road, the town and its concentration of people fell away quickly. Houses no longer sat side by side. With the exception of the occasional trailer park, there were few clusters of dwellings. No people were visible at all, having either abandoned this area or having the good sense to stay hidden.
The mountain grew steeper to either side. The valley narrowed until there was only space for the road and the creek that wove alongside it. Houses and mobile homes were stuck on ledges where the mountains allowed it. In other places, the hills to either side were so steep as to consist of only rocks, roots, and trees growing sideways. Dried kudzu vines overlaid it all, like a straw-colored net struggling to hold everything in its proper place. In the summer, the green vine looked like it was attempting to consume everything—houses, trees, power lines, cars.
The land was too inhospitable, Bryan thought. This was not the kind of place where he would want to reincarnate Douthat Farms. He would either have to return to Douthat or get outside these infernal peaks to someplace where the land opened up and let you breathe. Someplace normal and populated with normal people.
His reverie was interrupted at an abrupt twist in the road. He turned the corner to find a gigantic oak laying across the road. It must have been six feet in circumference at the base and was tall enough that it wholly blocked the road with its maze of thick, abundant branches.
“We’ll never move that,” said the man who’d brought him the jerky.
Bryan couldn’t remember his name— Greg or Craig—something like that.
“It was cut on purpose, too,” Jerky Man said, pointing up the hill to the white stump and the pile of fresh sawdust.
“Can we pull it out of the way with the horses?” Bryan asked.
“Pull it where?” Jerky Man asked. “It’s too big. Even if we could swing it around, it would still block the entire road.”
“Find a way around,” Bryan ordered.
“Sir,” another of the men spoke up, “a lot of these houses below the road have bridges over to them. If we go back to that last house we can cross the creek there. It looks like there’s a trail alongside the creek. It probably leads to a house beyond this tree. If those folks have a bridge, we can get back on the road there. Won’t have to fool with trying to move this tree at all.”
Bryan smiled. “Good thinking. You might be in line for a field promotion.”
“Should I go see if we can get through that way?”
“Go ahead,” Bryan said. “Take a couple of men with you. If you make it this far on the other side of the creek, I’ll bring the main body of the men.”
The man took off, recruiting riders to join him as he went.
“Take a break!” Bryan called to the rest of the men.
41
“I have men at Position One,” Conor said into his radio. They’d maintained radio silence up until this point. Although the men coming for them weren’t military, he wanted to discourage idle chatter that might be overheard or prevent the transmission of critical information among their own group.
From their vantage point on the hill above the road, Conor and Doc Marty watched the army ride by them. They wouldn’t get far because his men had sawn down that big oak. He hoped they were smart enough to back up and try another bridge. He’d counted on it.
“Conor?” came a voice on the radio. It was young and female.
Doc Marty raised his own radio. “Shannon?”
“It’s me, Dad.”
“Are you okay, baby?”
“I’m fine. When the army started moving I fell in behind them.”
“Keep a safe distance,” Conor warned. “Barb with you?”
“I am at a safe distance, not on the main road. Barb isn’t with me anymore. A team peeled off last night and separated from the main group. She’s following them.”
That concerned Conor. Barb was plenty capable but he didn’t like the idea of her being out there alone.
“No word from her?” Conor asked.
“She told me she would radio in when she could,” Shannon said. “I haven’t heard anything.”
“Any idea where that other party was headed?”
“We don’t think they were scavengers. They seemed to be headed somewhere and she wanted to find out where. She said it wasn’t toward your place.”
“We got movement,” Doc Marty said, pointing to the road below them. “They found the tree.”
“We’ve got to run, Shannon. Stay safe and stay out of sight. Don’t hesitate to request help if you need it.”
“Roger that.”
Doc Marty lay on his stomach staring through a spotting scope. “Seven men returning.”
Conor raised his binoculars. “Got them.”
“They’re pausing at the bridge.”
“Cross it,” Conor whispered, urging them on. “You know it’s the only way.”
The lead man, the one who’d so brilliantly offered up this solution, tried to follow the trail with his eyes, trying to figure out
if crossing this bridge would allow them to get past the tree. He paid little attention to the bridge itself, constructed of wooden beams, its disused surface strewn with leaves and debris.
“Let’s go!” he told the others. “I can’t see enough of the trail from here.”
He spurred his horse, anxious to perform this mission expeditiously and get in Bryan’s good graces. Another rider fell in alongside him and two behind them, the bridge only wide enough to cross in pairs.
High above the riders, Conor smiled. “Got you.”
With the purloined cross-cut saw, a team of men had cut the oak across the road in their overnight labors. That same team had then gone to the wooden bridge below them, cutting a large opening into the center of the bridge and covering it with thin metal roofing. After scattering some leaves, dirt, and gravels over the tin, it was indistinguishable from any other bridge on the road.
Except for the fact that this one would not bear weight.
The first two riders were nearly halfway across when the forelegs of their horses stepped on the roofing and it gave way. Both horses fell forward. It was not as elegant as dropping straight through a trap door in the movies. One horse fell forward and plunged through the opening to the creek. Due to the angle of its body, its rider struck his head on one of the bridge timbers as he fell. His forehead was crushed inward and he died instantly.
The horse to the right went down on its side, landing on an exposed timber. The rider’s leg was pinned between the bridge and the horse, snapping at thigh level. The man screamed, his agony further increased as the horse writhed and tried to regain its footing. It could not, only succeeding in shoving its injured rider off the side and then falling on top of him. The water was only a few inches deep but it lay nearly eight feet below the bridge. Fortunately for the horse, its life was spared when the body it landed on cushioned its fall.
Masters of Mayhem Page 27