Killswitch Chronicles- The Complete Anthology

by G. R. Carter

  Wasson was cold. Most men would have been unbearably miserable, but he was simply uncomfortable. Breathing techniques kept the Tracker perfectly still, watching the river bank ahead of him. Bright moonlight reflected off of tiny frozen waves. Too early for hard winter, he thought. Yet it comes.

  The target of Wasson’s observations crouched on the icy flats, staring out over the flat expanse. All of them were similarly dressed: brown-and-green mottled buckskins tied off with a belt. Their shoulders were covered with beaver fur capes, obscuring the tattoo patterns reaching up onto their exposed faces. Wasson was struck by how these men could have been mistaken for his own tribe of Trackers. Yet a vastly different story was told by the meaning of the two groups’ markings.

  Wasson knew what spider web tattoos suggested – death. His Tracker brethren told their story in ink with growing things and symbols of their religion. Life versus death, he assured himself.

  He’d been following the spider webs since they left Beardstown earlier in the afternoon. The way they slipped out told him his gut instinct was correct: the man they called Kal and his tattooed followers were up to no good.

  He was confident none knew them were being watched. He’d begrudgingly admitted the spider men were good – better than most, anyway, and much better than he thought any heathen tribe would be. They ran scouts ahead and behind, doubling back without any discernible pattern.

  The moonlight finally revealed what Kal had been waiting for. A group of men strained to pull a large sled across the river ice, silent except for a slight crunching sound as the wooden runners crushed the tiny ripples beneath. The spider men left their crouch and ran to grab hold and help pull the sled towards the bank. Reaching the concealment of the underbrush, they helped a black-clad figure with a long beard stepped out.

  Wasson fought a gasp as Kal knelt before the new arrival. The man held out his hand, which Kal took and kissed. A cold shiver ran through Wasson, caused by more than the wind. Duty fought with a twinge of self-preservation. He didn’t want to be here anymore. He wanted to be at his home, with the woman he had rescued from the Caliphate. He’d sent her to live in the safety of his family and Grand Shawnee. Now part of him wished she was here, or more like he wished he was home.

  Going soft, he chastised himself.

  Losing his edge out here meant failure of mission, a thought that unlike death terrified him. Discomfort inside gnawed at him, as though Evil itself were present. The Creator’s words stiffened his will, and that alone bolstered his spirit.

  Wasson remained still. The spider men finally arose, but even from this distance Wasson could see them avert their gaze from the bearded man. The varied group – various skin tones, heights, and sizes – suggested a diversity less common after the Reset. Most surviving groups now kept to themselves, reverting to literal tribalism. But this group appeared to be a cross-section of every ethnic group still common to the tribes of the wildlands.

  Kal’s men enveloped the new arrivals and escorted them further into the tree line. Wasson could see them timidly seek a glimpse at the man in the middle, walking closely with Kal. Wasson longed to be closer, to hear the words shared between them, but he couldn’t without the risk of being discovered.

  Wasson thought briefly about attacking the group. Killing the subject of Kal’s reverence, and Kal himself, made sense. His instincts said this was a group intending harm. He didn’t know if they were here to attack the town, necessarily; perhaps they were all clerics of the Caliphate trying to turn the tribes against Wasson’s people. If these men were allowed to operate unstopped inside the ditcher camps, they would be a problem for Lori Hamilton and Beardstown – his friends.

  He lived to fight evil, but he did not wish to face the essence of it by himself. Perhaps with a group of Trackers, or even side-by-side with some of the Founder’s own Silver Shields. He was not so vain to believe himself to be a super being, merely confident in his own abilities. He held no illusion he could fight the entire Caliphate himself. Any such action would likely result in his own death. While not a frightening prospect, failing to get his reconnaissance back to the Red Hawks troubled him.

  Decision made, he stayed in his hiding spot. I need to capture one of them, he thought. Mr. Culper needs one to interrogate.

  It would be a long walk back to the town with a captive, though. And he’d have to carefully pass through the camps outside of Beardstown.

  Running different scenarios through his head, he landed on taking his chance when they stopped to relieve themselves. He’d escorted groups like this in the wildlands. Experience told him there was typically one final break before the last leg of any journey. That’s when Wasson would make his move.

  *****

  “Why are you telling me this, Father?”

  “Because I didn’t want you to think we were going behind your back, King. After you made the leap to trust us and bring your people in, I thought it was the least I could do. Lettin’ you know what we were fearin’, that is.”

  Darwin King leaned back in an ancient recliner. His long legs hung off the end of the footrest, but he certainly looked comfortable enough in the tan cloth cushions. This was his personal quarters as well as a sort of Boar King headquarters. There were several wood-frame houses like this one inside the Beardstown city walls. Unlike many towns, here they tried to preserve structures not currently in use; optimism for brighter days ahead.

  This simple structure was like a mansion in the modern world, even featuring a central heating system served by a coal-fired furnace located in one of the outbuildings. The forced air was enough to take both chill and humidity out of the air, protecting the interior from decay. Anyone used to living on the ground felt like royalty in here.

  Both of his wives and their daughters were in the kitchen cleaning up the evening meal. Father Steve had joined them in King’s dining hall for roast pork and vegetables, served in what had once been a two-car attached garage.

  King’s five sons were seated all around, along with his most trusted lieutenants. Father Steve shifted under the weight of their stares. He’d spent countless months trying to build trust with this group. Now he was risking it all with a scheme he and Lori Hamilton had concocted.

  “Trust me, but not my people?” King challenged. “That’s a bit crazy, eh, mate? Why would you’ve let us all in here, bettin’ like you are on us betrayin’ you?”

  Father Steve did his best persuading when he spoke with his hands as well as his voice. He was using all his tools now. “Don’t misunderstand me, King. Please. I totally trust you, which is why I’m here. But you’ve said yourself, the different tribes all followed you because they thought it was the best play, eh? What if they all’a sudden figure they can get a better deal?”

  King lit his pipe with a long match he plucked from a box sitting near the fireplace. Of all the luxuries he enjoyed, smoking ranked first. The tobacco given to him by Beardstown residents was so much better than his usual bush leaf; Creek style, they called it for some reason. He took a deep drag.

  “You never lacked guts to speak your mind, holy man,” King said through the exhaled smoke. He reached over to hand the fragrant pipe to Father Steve.

  “Call it faith,” the Unified Church’s co-founder said calmly, taking his turn.

  King pondered for a moment. “That Indian-type fella of yours been followin’ Kal and his men about? And you’re sure Kal’s gonna kill me and take the town for his own?”

  Father Steve nodded amongst a cloud of smoke.

  “I figured Kal might pull something once he had the chance. Reckon without the horde bein’ an immediate threat he can get rid of me and the locals here in one swoop. Take the whole area for himself. Be a generation before your Founder tries to get it back.” King closed his eyes for a moment. “At least, that’s what I would do in his position.”

  Father Steve tried not to let on his discomfort at the Boar King’s nonchalant calculations for deception. “What will you do?” he asked.


  King said nothing, still leaning back as though napping. Father Steve looked around at the other men in the room, ranging from boys to elders, trying to gauge their reaction. Their faces remained impassive, staring at their leader. When the pipe had gone around the circle of men and back around to King, he finally stirred.

  “Let’s not kill him just yet,” King said with icy calm. “I need to know sure once he’s gone the rest of the tribes will stay with us. Can’t kill half our group.” He paused again, as if he was doing quick math in his head. He seemed to reach a conclusion and continued, “That’d be too difficult. Besides, mate, bad for morale.”

  The room nodded as one.

  There’s the understatement of a lifetime, Father Steve thought.

  For another moment, he wondered if the Boar King’s conversion to the Unified Faith was a true-life change. He feared it was merely calculated, designed to solidify power over a loose confederation of tribes.

  Then again, Father Steve was a student of history. Of course it’s calculated, but that doesn’t mean it won’t someday take root, he assured himself. He knew the faith he was originally ordained in once made many such calculations to bring the Word to the masses, and that didn’t stop it from being a lasting change.

  King’s stare fell upon Father Steve, joined by everyone else. “What do you suggest, holy man?”

  “My interest – well, our Founder’s interest – in Kal goes deeper than just here. If he’s taken up with the Caliphate, that might explain why the Horde still hasn’t attacked Beardstown. They’re really good at deception, the jijis, so figure this might be just such a move.

  “I think you’re givin’ ‘em all a bit more credit than they deserve,” King drawled. “That’s a lot of movin’ pieces to keep goin’ for a buncha savages. Kal included.”

  “Yeah, I know. It’s easy to start seeing conspiracies where simple selfishness can explain it. Occam’s Razor usually holds.”

  “I’m familiar with the concept,” King interrupted. The look on his face twisted. A detail of past conversations worked its way top of mind. “I did meet one fella a while back who mighta been just the sort to come up with a plan like that. A sorta religious type also. Preachin’ some kinda faith about living forever, like most’a ya do. Can’t remember now why we didn’t kill the bugger,” he said.

  “Caliphate missionary?” Father Steve asked. That type had made their way down the river over the years. To his knowledge there were few takers.

  “Naw, I’m sure I’da killed them straight away.” King was rubbing his chin, trying to put the memories together. Father Steve tried to stifle a chuckle when about half the room unconsciously mimicked their leader. Still, no one else offered their own memory. King picked up on the point. “Strange none of us seem to have clear memory of the fellow.’”

  One of the older men finally spoke up. “We had Kal see the guy off, I remember that much,” he said in a Midwestern accent. “Dressed in black, I recall. Yeah, it was summer but the fella was covered in black. Heavy beard.”

  “Still sounds like a Caliphate imam,” Father Steve said.

  King sat up straight and pointed. “I’m tellin’ ya, holy man, we killed anything even smelld’a Caliphate in my camps. Betcha bottom dollar!” He was as agitated as Father Steve had seen him. Suddenly the room felt very claustrophobic. He wrestled with telling King more about what the Trackers had witnessed when following Kal, about the men dressed in black. But King hadn’t asked for more details before believing Kal was out to betray him, and Father Steve didn’t care to share with such a volatile ally who might decide to switch allegiance at any moment.

  “I understand, King. One hundred percent,” Father Steve said with a small bow of his head. The deference seemed to calm the room a bit. “I’ll be available if you need me. I’d appreciate knowing what you plan to do in advance. Just so’s there’s no misunderstanding, eh?”

  King nodded. He rubbed his chin again in thought. “Been fightin’ your Founder on and off for years. Maybe not directly, but our interests’ve conflicted, and no doubt. That fella’s always got a plan. Several steps ahead of mine, more times than not,” he said with grudging respect.

  The all business King returned. “Tell me, holy man: what’s in it for us if we help this Founder of yours get what he wants?”

  “You mean our hospitality isn’t enough?” Father Steve asked, half joking.

  King’s cynical laugh gave him his answer. “No, Father, it sure ain’t. We’d just as likely head back across that bridge and into the bush. Reckon our folks are feelin’ a little cooped up here in these walls. I’m sure Founder Hamilton would be fine with that, eh?”

  Father Steve prepared his pitch. Not since he first had to convince the Boar King not to kill him had more ridden on him making a convincing argument. He’d spoke with Alex and Lori at length about what the Republic was willing to trade for the loyalty of King’s tribes.

  “He’s willing to offer you this. All the wildlands, from river to river. You’d be autonomous. Free to live how you choose. The Founder will help with food, fuel, even whatever technology you might wish to have for your tribes.”

  “So long as we ain’t bunked up with the Caliphate, right?” King said sarcastically.

  “I don’t think we have to worry about that, eh?”

  “Nah, that ya don’t, holy man,” he laughed.

  Father Steve nodded. “Your young people can come to our schools anytime you wish. And your folk are welcome to travel in our provinces for work, if you’ll say it’s okay.”

  Heads nodded in the room.

  Father Steve tried to read Darwin King’s thoughts as he continued. “All we ask is that we keep it cordial. We won’t raid you, you don’t raid us. We’ve got more land to work and settle then we can handle in five generations. We’ve got no cause or wish to fight ya in any way,” he said honestly.

  King folded his arms across his chest. He seemed genuinely troubled by something. “What about all your work turnin’ us to your Creator? Unified Church givin’ up on us, mate?” he asked.

  “All I do is plant the seeds of faith,” he said calmly. “Your folk have to decide if they’ll let ’em grow.”

  King chuckled again, this time absently. “Yeah, there’s plenty of weeds growin’ around here right now, holy man. Figure we ought to get to pullin’ em.”

  Once more he turned deadly serious. “Kal’s folk will never follow your faith, Father. Kal only joined us because his tribe was starving. They still think there’s spirits out there in them woods tellin’ him to do strange things.”

  “Right,” Father Steve said. “The spiders talk to them through the webs. Got to admit, I’ve studied a lot of religions in history, and that’s a new one.”

  King continued. “You might get his young’uns to come along with ya, after they realize how looney such things are. But I don’t reckon he’ll let that happen. He argued with me about killin’ ya several times. Don’t guess he’ll change his mind ‘bout that.”

  King waved his hand towards the door and some of the men in the circle rose. Just like that the meeting was over. Father Steve rose from his seat. King’s two eldest sons escorted him to the door.

  “Watch yourself, priest,” one of the young men said in a moderate Aussie twang. “You better not be trying to divide us. Just because we scare you, don’t give you cause to try and take us down a peg, right?”

  “Lighten up, Max,” the other one said. “We’ve known Father Steve a long time now. If he was going to try and hurt us, he would’ve never invited us to live here in Beardstown.”

  Max said nothing to his brother, just stared at Steve.

  Father Steve searched for common ground. Max had always been a tough sell for him. “Max, you’re a good son to your father. And every king needs those who’ll voice their concerns. I appreciate you doing that for him, and I promise I only mean the best for ya.”

  Then he turned to the other. “Trey, the same goes for you. I appreciate eve
rything you’ve done to build a bridge between me and your dad. You and Max make for perfect advisors. Just don’t let differences in opinions come between you.” Father Steve had watched these two interact since he had started living with the Boars. Both were in their early twenties, adopted as boys by the Boar King when their fathers had perished after the Reset. The two didn’t get along, and were united only by loyalty to their father.

  The one called Trey laughed warmly. “Father Steve, you need more faith! Those seeds you planted are really taking hold here. Even Max here will be a believer someday, just wait and see!”

  Max just looked at his brother with an icy glare. Trey waved him off with a laugh and shook the bishop’s hand earnestly. “Just wait and see,” he repeated. “Just wait and see.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Domicile

  Center of Worship for the Unified Church

  Downtown Shelbyville

  Okaw Province

  Alex’s muscles and joints ached. He’d been kneeling here for a while now. He wasn’t sure how long. The pain in his knees distracted him from his prayers. Often that happened when he tried to talk to his Maker – distraction. Physical pain or memories of the pre-Reset world haunted him as soon as he closed the good eye left to him by an adult life of conflict. Sometimes ghosts from past mistakes made their appearance. Every time he closed the eye into the darkness his mind swirled with a million scenes of his life.

  He prayed and prayed…feelings couldn’t penetrate the words. Like a callous built up around his soul, worn rough by decision after decision that impacted people’s life – and death. He persisted in his spiritual quest, using a ritual created for him by the Bishops of the Unified Church, longing to make connection with the Creator.

  O God, thou art my God; early will I seek thee: my soul thirsteth for thee, my flesh longeth for thee in a dry and thirsty land, where no water is.

  Alex finally reopened his eye to the candlelit Domicile sanctuary of the Unified Church. Stained glass windows stared back eerily, with just a hint of illumination from the dim street lamps shining through from the outside. Candlelight caused shadows from dancing flames to move with the draft passing through the former small-town Methodist church. Simple decorations announcing the Christmas season hung from light fixtures, everything matched the simple silver and green décor.