by Lukens, Mark
As he walked toward the center of town—a roughly four-block area around a large field of grass that had served as part of the schoolyard and a place for town events—the Dragon’s thoughts turned to Jacob.
Jacob was a strange man, maybe the most dangerous man the Dragon had ever met, maybe one of the most dangerous men on the planet. He had a Special Forces background from long ago, but he had drifted over to the darker side when he’d gotten out of the military, after they had trained him to kill in limitless ways. Jacob had trained with the best, learning how to shoot every type of weapon there was and mastering many different hand-to-hand fighting styles. But he had nowhere to go once he was ejected back out into the “real” world, and he had gravitated toward crime, eventually working for a top crime family in northern Ohio. Jacob was a man to be feared, but he also seemed comfortable in his place here, not seeking to overthrow anyone and become the leader. It was rare to find that quality in a man, that level of loyalty, and the Dragon cherished it.
Early this morning the Dragon had received word that the troop of Dark Angels he’d sent to attack the store in North Carolina had returned to report their failure. He had listened to this report from one of his guards and told the guard to gather that troop in the town square at noon. Anger burned in the Dragon—everyone was going to have to see what happened when you failed.
It was a little warmer today than yesterday, but there was still a cold chill in the air. And colder weather would be coming. He wore a black trench coat over his black pants and shirt. He had on black boots and gloves, a black felt hat was pulled down low to his eyes. His guards were dressed somewhat similarly, not the mishmash of clothing the soldiers wore. Someday soon, maybe by the summer, they could come up with proper uniforms for his elite guard. But there were so many other things that needed to get done, so many plans he had, notebooks filled with his ideas for this new world.
But first the battle had to be won, the war for the resources, for control. Once he had total control things would begin to run smoothly. He could see it, and soon everyone would see his vision of the future.
He was sure his plans would work, that he would win this war, but there was a resistance out there. It was led by the blind woman and the group she traveled with. And another pocket of resistance was led by the manager of the store. As soon as he either defeated them or brought them into his fold, he could carry on with the rest of his plans.
First things first—he needed to hear the soldiers’ reports, the explanations for their failure.
The troop of soldiers had gathered in the town square. There was a school on the far side, and some businesses around the other sides of the square: a post office, an antique store, a restaurant, a café, a chiropractor’s office, a barber shop. Those businesses were now used as stores for the supplies his Dark Angels brought back to town. (But he also had utilized basements of a few of the houses for other stores of food and supplies, locked away and safe from theft or attacks from rippers.) Kitchens in those businesses were going to be reopened eventually, plumbing working again, electricity one day.
The troop of soldiers stood at attention a few feet away from the raised wooden platform that had been built right on the edge of the street where parking places used to be. They formed a line of men and a few women, all of them wearing the uniforms of mish-mashed clothing that looked more like rags these days: black clothing, leather, camouflage, red scarves, belts, boots, packs, knit caps.
A few dozen people from the town stood off to the right as witnesses. The Dragon wanted witnesses. He wanted people to see what happened, to see decisions made right in front of them in real time. He wanted transparency with his people, something they’d never gotten from governments in the past.
The Dragon and his two guards climbed the four wooden steps to the large platform that was about the square footage of a small apartment. Built right in the middle of the platform was a set of old-fashioned stocks, much like the stocks used for punishment and public humiliation in 1600s Salem.
Yes, someone had to be punished today.
And the soldiers knew it. Nervous faces stared back at him, bodies tense, legs jiggling, eyes wide and alert.
The Dragon walked across the platform—his stage—to the edge of it, closer to the line of soldiers. His guards moved to opposite corners of the large rectangle of wood planks, standing at attention and waiting. The townspeople crowded in a little closer; whispers floating through the group, but silence for the most part.
The Dragon loved this moment when all waited to hear what he had to say. He was used to a stage, used to being the center of attention—it had been part of his old life for a while, until everything had come crashing down in that small northern Florida town, that panhandle town of sin. But he had crawled away from that place and remade himself over time. He’d always known he’d been meant for greatness, that he would lead humanity out of the darkness one day, and now that day had come.
Yes, his life had been hard, and he had learned so many painful lessons. But everything had been a preparation for this. Now he was here on this stage, comfortable on this stage, confident as their leader, certain that his decisions and actions—no matter how painful or even cruel they might seem at the time—were for the best; his decisions and actions were going to help all humanity, they would bring everyone out of these dark days and into the light.
“My fellow citizens,” the Dragon said, addressing the crowd of townspeople first, his voice carrying easily. He had a strong voice, a voice trained over the years to carry through crowds. He turned to the line of soldiers. “Soldiers.”
The soldiers all gave a curt nod, their form of salute.
“Who led this attack?” the Dragon asked.
A man at the end of the line stepped forward. He tried to hide the fear on his face, but he wasn’t succeeding very well. He nodded once. “Officer Dawson reporting.”
“Dawson,” the Dragon said. “Would you please step up to the stage?”
Dawson swallowed hard, nodded again. He stepped up onto the large wood platform, facing the Dragon from the other side of the stocks.
“You have failed to overtake the store.”
“Regrettably, yes.”
“Explain.”
“We had a mole inside the store. He’d been in there for almost a week.”
The Dragon nodded impatiently and gestured for the officer to continue. He knew about the mole; he had seen the mole in his dreams, promising to reunite him with his family once his mission was accomplished. The mole couldn’t simply just open up one of the garage doors in the back of the store, he needed to destroy it so they had no way of closing it again, and then he was supposed to unhook the car batteries electrifying the fence so the soldiers could get over it while still leaving the fence intact. The fence was important.
Clearly, none of that had happened.
“We caught the people at the mole’s house looking for supplies. The mole told them he had supplies there, but . . .”
“One got away,” the Dragon finished for Dawson.
Dawson swallowed hard and gave a quick nod. “Yes. A woman.”
The Dragon already knew about the woman. He’d sent Jacob to retrieve her, but he didn’t need to let Dawson know about that.
“Three others were killed in the firefight at the mole’s house, and four of our Dark Angels. But we got three of them: a man named Lance, another man named Dale, and a woman named Crystal. We brought them back to the store to use as a ransom, and a distraction while the mole blew the doors open while our other team got into the back of the store.”
“So where did it all go wrong?”
“The doors were never blown. We heard the explosion, but the doors were still intact. We killed the hostages, and then the shooters on the roof killed our two men. By then hundreds of rippers were coming. Maybe thousands. We had no choice but to retreat.”
The Dragon nodded like he understood.
“The mole failed to blow the doors,” Da
wson went on quickly. “Maybe he . . . he changed his mind. Maybe they found out what he was trying to do and stopped him somehow.”
The Dragon knew someone had stopped the mole—one of them inside the store, one of the resistance.
“If the mole would have done what he was supposed to,” Dawson said, “we would have gotten inside. The store would be ours right now. And . . . and it will be. We’ll get it. I can promise you that. We just need another chance.”
“You were in charge of this mission, Dawson?”
“Yes, sir.”
A murmur of nervousness rippled through the crowd of townspeople. Or was it anticipation? They knew what was coming next.
CHAPTER 21
The Dragon
“Someone has to pay for this,” the Dragon told the crowd of townspeople near the platform.
Nods and murmurs of agreement from the people.
“Isn’t that correct, Dawson?” the Dragon asked, turning to Dawson. “Someone needs to pay for this.”
Dawson’s eyes welled up with tears, but he remained rigid, his body tense. He was noble to the end, ready to sacrifice himself for his troop of soldiers. “Yes, sir,” he answered.
The Dragon’s eyes shifted to the stocks between them, then back to Dawson. “Pick one of your men. Any of them.”
“Sir?”
The Dragon took a step closer to Dawson, towering over him by six inches. “Select one of your men.”
For a moment Dawson was frozen. The Dragon could see the temptation of Dawson to sacrifice himself for his men—he could practically feel it coming off of Dawson, the indecision. But then Dawson turned to the line of soldiers standing at attention. Their eyes stared back in fear.
Dawson walked to the edge of the platform and pointed at the last man in line to the left, the one he’d been standing next to. “Lanier.”
Lanier nearly collapsed, but the two guards were down off the platform in seconds, dragging him up the four wooden steps to the stocks.
“Strip him,” the Dragon ordered.
In less than a minute Lanier stood naked in the cold air, his penis and balls shriveled in fear. One of the guards led Lanier to the stocks while the other lifted up the top half of the stocks. Lanier’s wrists and neck were pushed down into the slots, then the stocks slammed down over him, locking him into place in a slightly bent-over position, most of his body exposed on one side, his hands and head exposed on the other side. He trembled, his knees so weak he looked ready to collapse at any moment. He tried not to shed tears, but his eyes welled up with them, his teeth chattering.
“We cannot accept failure,” the Dragon shouted at his townspeople. “It’s not for just me; it’s for all of you. All of us. The more we fail, the longer it takes for us to gain back our world, the more the world suffers, the more all of us suffer.” He turned back to Lanier in the stocks. “And for that, someone must pay.”
“Please . . .” Lanier said. “We’ll go back. We’ll take the store this time.”
The Dragon turned to Dawson. “Your knife.”
Dawson looked confused for a moment.
“Your knife,” the Dragon repeated. “Take it out.”
Dawson did as he was told, his hand trembling as he held the knife.
“Lanier is no longer a soldier. We will find another job for him to do, but he is no longer a Dark Angel and must not wear the brand anymore.”
“Please . . .” Lanier said, tears dripping from his eyes and dropping onto the wood planks, his breath fogging up in front of his face, his hands clenched into fists, anticipating the pain that was coming.
“Take his brand from him,” the Dragon told Dawson.
Dawson didn’t move for a moment.
Again, the Dragon sensed the hesitation in Dawson, the moment where he considered trading places with his soldier—he’d been the leader; he should be the one being punished, the one stripped of his rank. But as it was last time, and as the Dragon knew it would be, Dawson walked over to Lanier with the knife clenched in his hand.
Dawson grabbed Lanier’s hair in his hand, holding his head still. He brought the edge of his knife up to Lanier’s forehead as the man pleaded with his eyes closed. He cut a line along the edge of the brand, a circle around it as Lanier wailed in pain, then Dawson dug the knife blade underneath the patch of skin, digging and sawing the flap of skin loose with the brand on it, blood flowing down from the brand and into Lanier’s closed eyes, dripping down his chin onto the wood planks with his tears, bright red spots of blood on the gray, cold wood. Lanier let out one long continuous scream as Dawson got most of the flap of skin free and then ripped the rest of it away with his fingers.
Dawson held up the flap of skin at the soldiers and then at the crowd, his own eyes filling with tears, his mouth a grim line. The crowd erupted in half-hearted cheers.
The Dragon held his gloved hand out for the flap of skin.
Dawson handed it to him.
Lanier collapsed, choking on the wood slot around his neck as his body lost control, his head trapped inside the wood, his eyes bulging but not seeing anything anymore.
“Help him,” the Dragon called out to the crowd.
Two women rushed up onto the platform, one of them holding Lanier up, the other one freeing him from the stocks then grabbing his pile of clothes.
“We will find something for Lanier to do for us,” the Dragon told the crowd. He looked at Dawson. “You did well, Dawson. Return to your men.”
Dawson saluted the Dragon with a curt nod and then hurried back to his troop with his bloodstained knife still in his hand.
The Dragon looked at the crowd again as the two women escorted Lanier away, one of the women holding a cloth to his wounded forehead. “We will go back to that store soon, and this time we will take it. We need the food and supplies in there. We all need it.”
Cheers erupted from the crowd. The troops remained still, staring straight ahead.
“This mission is important,” the Dragon said. “The soldiers are important, but we are all important. All of our tasks have meaning. We will all find the salvation that is coming.”
More cheers.
“Back to your duties,” he told the crowd and the soldiers, and then he glanced at his two guards as he tucked away the bloodied flap of skin inside his coat pocket.
The guards walked with the Dragon as he left the town square, back to his house on Elm Street, the house where terrible things had been done in the past.
It was time to prepare for the special guest Jacob was bringing soon.
CHAPTER 22
Kate
Kate went back to the tent to check on Brooke. Jo was definitely angry with Max for going to get the M-16, and there weren’t even any bullets for it. Kate knew why Max had gone for the gun, and she figured Jo did too—Max wanted a weapon to take with him when he set out on his journey to find Petra.
Brooke was awake, eyes wide and sitting on her bedroll when Kate entered the tent.
“It’s okay,” Kate told her. “Max and Fernando had to get rid of the two bodies in the loading bay. The rippers chased them when they were outside, but they got back inside the fence.”
“You said the rippers were gone.”
“They were, but there were some across the street at the gas station we didn’t know about. They heard the truck out there and came running. But they won’t be out there long. They’ll move on eventually.”
Brooke didn’t look so sure about that.
Kate felt bad about lying. Now that they had dumped Neal and Jeff’s bodies out beyond the fence, she knew the rippers would probably be out there for days, which, as Jo had said, would help keep the Dark Angels away. But she didn’t feel the need to tell Brooke that.
“Did you sleep?” she asked, changing the subject.
Brooke shrugged.
“You need some sleep. I need some sleep too. You want me to lay down here with you?”
Brooke nodded.
“Okay.”
Kat
e let Tiger out to go to his litter box. He ate a few bites of the hard cat food in his bowl. Kate thought Tiger might wander off, but he pawed at the flap of the tent so Kate let him back inside.
Brooke snuggled up beside Kate and was asleep in minutes, Tiger curled up on the other side of Brooke, purring.
Kate lay awake, not sure if she would be able to fall asleep. She stared at the ceiling of the tent. It was dark inside the tent, but not pitch-black like at night. The skylights allowed a lot of the daylight in and it was easy enough to see inside the tent, but also dark enough to go to sleep.
Before Kate knew it, she was asleep.
In her dreams she saw the man and his son, the ones Brooke had drawn in her tablet. They ran through the snow, running from rippers. The other two men were with them. And the blind woman.
They were at some kind of gas station in the middle of a blizzard, running from the rippers. Then they were inside the store, then inside a place where mechanics once worked, where oil was changed and tires replaced. And the rippers were all around outside, trying to get in through rollup garage doors, like the one in the loading bay. They were banging on the metal doors, kicking at them, beating on them with pipes and sticks. The metal was tearing, the track breaking loose from the block wall, glass shattering.
The rippers were getting in, pushing the twisted metal door back, hands with weapons reaching in through the torn hole as they screamed and yelled . . .
Kate snapped awake.
She didn’t know how long she’d been asleep. It was still light inside the tent, but it felt like a few hours had gone by. Her body felt rested even though it seemed like she had dreamed the whole time she’d been asleep.
Brooke was still asleep, but Tiger was up. She didn’t want to wake Brooke up—she needed as much sleep as she could get.