by M B Wood
#
Chris saw two Deacons run south, away from the battle. She recognized them--they were her father's killers. They were the scar-faced man and his gorilla-like companion.
"Jack, I just spotted the men who killed my father. I need a horse to go after them." Chris felt her heart pound.
"What're you going to do?"
"I've got a score to settle with those two." Chris raised her voice. "Jack, it's important." Unwanted, images of her father's death crept into her mind. Again, for a moment she saw her mother's and sister's desecration. I must avenge them, I must!
"Give me a minute.”
"Hurry.”
A messenger ran up to O'Connor, waving his arms. O'Connor hurried over to Chris. "Uh, that was bad news." He cleared his throat. "Real bad. Your mom’s dead and Taylor is wounded, bad, real bad. He may not live. Someone shot them.”
Chris went cold inside. She felt her jaw muscle work. Oh, God, not them too. Rage filled her.
"Chris?" O'Connor asked. "You still want to go?"
Chris clenched her jaw tightly before speaking. "Yes. Now more than ever. They killed my dad. Now my mom is dead. And Taylor may be dead. I've got to do it. I must."
"Okay, Chris. Here, take my horse. There's a rifle in the scabbard. There's ammo in the pouch on the opposite side."
As Chris climbed onto the horse, six horse-mounted militia joined her, insisting they go with her. She spurred her horse to a gentle trot and headed south. The horsemen followed.
As she left, the Clan demanded the army caught behind the outer perimeter and the electric fence surrender. They didn’t respond until several more volleys of arrows fell upon them. Over a thousand lay down their weapons and put their hands on their heads.
The battle was over.
#
"Uh, Skid, what do we do now?"
"Wait until it's dark, then we make a break for it," Skid said. They crouched behind boulders with a steep cliff behind them. They were in an abandoned sandstone quarry. In front was low scrub. He peered over the edge of a boulder.
A horse whinnied.
A shot rang out and a bullet whined off a boulder. "What the fuck? How did they find us?" Skid ducked low.
"I dunno." Knuckles put his gun above the boulder and snapped off a couple of shots. Nothing moved. Quiet returned.
"Take off anything that makes any kind of noise when you move, understand?" Skid said.
"Uh, Skid, what're they doin' out there?" Knuckles asked.
"I've got no fuckin' idea."
Why do I keep him around? Skid wondered. He heard a noise above. He looked up, just in time to see a man on the cliff heave a Molotov cocktail toward them.
Skid fired almost reflexively. The man toppled off the cliff. The Molotov cocktail arced down and struck the boulder in front of him. It exploded and a flash of flame washed away from him. Its heat made him jump behind another boulder.
Another Molotov cocktail landed. It was just behind Skid and showered both of them with flaming gasoline. Screaming, they both rolled about on the ground to extinguish the flames.
It took a few moments to extinguish the flames. He sat up.
"Hello, Mr. Vukovitch."
Skid looked up at the sound of a woman's voice. It was a tall, thin woman dressed in camo. Off to one side, three men in similar clothing pointed assault rifles at him.
Knuckles' hand inched toward the gun tucked in his belt.
"Don't, unless you want your hand shot off," a voice said. It was man behind them, who had a rifle aimed at Knuckles.
Shit, another asshole, Skid thought.
“D’you know who I am?” the woman asked. “I'm Chris Kucinski. That means anything to you?”
Skid said nothing, eyes moving, scoping out the scene.
"I thought not.” The woman’s mouth tightened and turned down at the corners. “You know, I've had fantasies about what I would do with you when I caught you. I've changed my mind," she said. "If I did anything except kill you, I'd sully myself with your dirt.”
Shithead, Skid thought. The bitch did look familiar.
"This is for my father, my mother and my sister." The woman raised the rifle and aimed it at him. As the muzzle flashed, the gun boomed.
For just an instant, as pain exploded in his thigh, Skid realized where he had seen the young woman before. Another slug slammed into him and tore a hole in his crotch. It was in the Nature Center where he got a blow...
Chapter 27
The Fruits of Victory
Around the Hill, the moans of the wounded mingled with the wails of the bereaved. Clouds of flies filled the air. The smell of blood mixed with the foulness of spilled guts. The sun rose higher and brought heat without mercy. Overhead, crows and buzzards circled endlessly.
Taylor regained consciousness. Even though the bullet had penetrated his bulletproof vest and cracked a rib, it had been slowed, thus sparing him. He moved like a zombie, numb and overwhelmed with grief, pain a constant companion. Burdened by his loss but driven by sense of duty, he made hard decisions as he allocated medical care. The Clan had won, but at what cost?
Chris Kucinski and the horse-mounted militia hounded the remnants of the army that had attacked the Clan. Remnants the gang fought fiercely, but by day's end, they were gone from the Rocky River Valley. The militia questioned the prisoners to identify the various gangs--their hangouts, weapons and manpower.
Chris’s militia hung those prisoners wearing colors or decorated with gang tattoos. Every day for a week, bodies swung from a large sycamore tree at the point above the two rivers on the edge of the cemetery.
The horse militia moved east and sought out the gangs exploiting the general populace in the shattered remains of Cleveland. They cornered a joint force of the Tombs' and Vipers' gang in a brick warehouse and set the building on fire with Molotov cocktails. As the gang fled, the militia pursued them and killed them, one by one, without mercy.
Those who opposed the Clan felt Chris's anger. Her militia scoured the land around Rocky River for the distance of a day's ride in all directions. She freed those held in servitude by the gangs and negotiated loose alliances with the groups and communities that respected freedom of the individual.
#
By fall, Chris's militia had freed northeast Ohio from the grip of gangs and petty warlords. Few people remained in the ruins of the former Cleveland metropolitan area; it had become the badlands for solitary bandits and crazed individuals. Broken by roads and shells of houses filled with bodies and bitter memories, it was poor land for farming.
#
The summer was warm and the harvest good. Stolz’s men raised the dams in the Rocky River and increased the water supply. At the same time, Taylor built a water mill at the base of the Hill.
The mill provided forced air to a cupola that melted steel to cast items no longer available. At the same time, the mill powered a drop hammer to forge items too large for a smith to shape with a hammer.
Scavenging parties found lathes, drill presses and other metal working equipment, which they brought back for the machine shop. The forge's furnace now heated the water for the community's expanded laundry and public baths.
During the night, the mill drove a piston pump that lifted a steady stream of water to the cisterns, which met the Hill's needs. On weekends, the mill processed grains and fruit throughout the harvest season. It even made small amounts of flour for a newly established bakery.
#
Over the summer, Taylor, consumed with grief, became thin and gaunt. Even his clothes grew shabby. He became withdrawn and didn’t participate in any social activities. He stopped shaving and didn't bathe often. Since the battle, he’d driven everyone hard, demanding more and more, working without a break. Many believed it was a means of distraction so he would have no time to think about Franny's death.
#
Fred built Taylor a new house in the upper Hill and worried about Taylor. His wife, Maria did too.
"Look," said Maria. "He needs help.
You've got do something for him. Franny would want you to."
"Well, yeah, but what am I supposed to do? Tell him to snap out of it?" Fred spread his hands. "That'd be like talking to a stone wall. You know how hard-headed he is.”
"Va bene." Maria's shrug reversed the meaning of the Neapolitan words for okay. "What would Franny tell you to do?"
"I dunno. What?"
"Persuade him to take another woman."
"C'mon, gimme a break."
"The quickest way to mend a broken heart is in the arms of another. He needs a woman."
"You think so?" Fred pulled at his lower lip.
"Think about it." She touched his arm and pulled him close. "Look, he ran away to the woods after his wife died in Washington. When he took up with Franny he became quite human, a nice guy. Since she was killed, well, he's not so nice."
"You're right. He's been a regular slave driver this summer. He pushes himself harder than anyone else."
"Think what it'll be like for him when winter sets in and there's less to do. You know how it depresses him. I wouldn't be surprised if he went off into the woods and never came back."
"Yeah, you're right and we still need him." Fred sighed and looked away. "Have you been in his new house lately?"
"No, what's it like?"
"It's kind of...” He struggled for words. "Well, a mess, not like a real home. When I go there, I never smell food. I know he's not eating right."
"What did I tell you?" Maria put her hands on her hips. "He needs a woman. He needs someone to look after him, his home, his heart and his body.”
"So, how do I go about that?"
"Get him a housekeeper." She smiled. "A good looking woman who'll take care of him. You know, in every way, as only a woman can do."
"Aw, Maria, y’know what they call guys who do that?"
"I didn't mean it that way. He needs someone to see he eats right, cleans his house, and washes his clothes." She looked up and smiled. "And takes care of him, like I take care of you.”
"Where do I find one of those?"
"Fred, you must be blind." She slapped his hand without anger. "There's dozens of widows who'd jump at the chance to take care of Taylor. They're desperate to get out of the workers’ barrackss. He's the most powerful man in the Clan, and probably the wealthiest. That makes him sexy, very sexy to a lot of women. Believe me."
"Look, you find the woman and I'll twist Taylor's arm about taking a housekeeper." Fred rolled his eyes heavenward. "Don't mention a word about these other things that we talked about."
"Fred, I'm not a stupidone." Maria slipped a hand around his waist. "I'm so glad I've got you."
#
"Noelle Smith?" Taylor ran his eye over Noelle like he was sizing up a spavined horse.
Noelle had cut her brown hair short, bathed and washed her only dress. Her child clung to her long dress, which was becoming threadbare. She was bone weary and her hands were cracked and raw from swinging a hoe in the fields.
"Is this your child?" His voice was softer.
"Yes, sir," Noelle said. "This is Martha, my baby." Life had not been kind. She remembered how angry her parents back in Iowa had been when she became pregnant, left college and moved in with Al, her boyfriend. It was after her second child, the Collapse came and her boyfriend disappeared.
Even though she had killed to get insulin for her eldest, little Howie, he’d died when it ran out and that still hurt. Her relationship with Mick O'Connor ended when she refused to bear his children. He lived only for he moment, which meant there was no security with him. Alone, far from her family, she had no one to whom she could turn. It seemed hopeless until Maria Del Corso had asked if she’d be interested in being Taylor MacPherson’s housekeeper. She remembered him as a hard man from the time of her run-in with Sally O’Connor.
Desperate, she agreed to an interview.
"Where d’you live?" Taylor’s face revealed nothing.
"In the Clan dormitory, in the workers’ barracks," Noelle said. "It's difficult to find someone to look after Martha while I'm working in the fields. I worry about her all the time."
"What can you do?" His voice was brusque, almost to point of being harsh. "I mean, what skills do you have?"
"I, er, I don't have any special skills." Noelle felt her face begin to burn. She desperately needed this job. By now, she'd do almost anything to find a home in which to raise Martha. "I think I know how to keep house.”
"Oh, you think so? Can you cook?"
"Yes, sir. I helped my mother in the kitchen from the time I was a small. Y’see, we lived on a farm. We butchered our own meat and during hunting season, I dressed game, too.” Questions about food were safe. "If there's anything special you like, ask and I'll tell you if I know how to make it."
"Hmm." Taylor sniffed. "So, you want to be a housekeeper?" He fixed a stare upon her. "What makes you think that you can do a good job of housekeeping? Can you clean?"
"Yes, I know how to keep house. I can clean, wash clothes and I know how to cook. My mother also taught me how to sew and mend. We were a very traditional family."
Noelle was afraid she wouldn't get the job and have to look elsewhere. Positions that offered accommodations for a woman with a child were hard to find. She’d found from experience most men looking for a mistress didn't want a child around; they had other things in mind.
His eyes ran over her again. "Well, there's only one room available for a housekeeper." He frowned. "There's only one sink in the house. There'll be a probationary period of one month to prove competence."
"Yes, sir." Compared to her current living conditions, his house seemed luxurious. "I understand. It would be fine." She breathed deeply.
Dear God, please let me get this job, please.
"It's one silver dollar per week plus food and lodgings," he said. "What d’you say to that?"
"Are you offering me the position?" She held her breath. He was offering a man's wage, and lodgings, too.
"Yes, subject to the probationary period."
"Yes, oh yes, Mr. MacPherson, I'll take it. Thank you so much." Noelle felt a tremendous sense of relief. "I'll do the best I can. I promise you won't be disappointed." She dropped to one knee, grasped his hand and kissed it.
He withdrew his hand quickly. "There’s no need for that. It's a job, not slavery.”
"Yes, sir." She lowered her eyes. "When do I start?"
"Today. D’you have things that need moving?" His voice had become softer. "Can I send a man with a cart to help you?"
"That would help." Noelle was surprised. It was a simple thing but it would ease the problem bringing her few possessions here, especially with Martha at hand. "Thank you, sir. As soon as I get back, I'll get right to work." Her heart soared. It was the first good thing that had happened in months and months.
#
At first, it was awkward to have someone around, for Taylor had become accustomed to living alone, doing things in his own minimalist fashion. His home was a mess, for he had neither the time nor the inclination to do housework.
Each night the first week, Taylor came home and found changes; clean linens brightening the dining table and freshly cut evergreen branches giving the air a pleasant fragrance.
He realized that Noelle was a good cook. Somehow, she prepared foods he liked and did it well. As his living conditions and diet improved, Taylor realized how much his appearance had deteriorated. On Saturday, he got a haircut, a shave and replaced most of his clothing.
"Hey," Fred said. "I almost didn't recognize you."
"Oh, really?" Taylor said. "How's it going?"
"Fine. How're you and the little lady doing?" Fred nudged him and grinned. "Is she taking good care of you?"
"She seems to know how to keep house." Taylor saw no reason to discuss his personal life when there wasn't much to discuss. "Say, how's the development of the lower Hill going?"
"I'm giving an update at the next Council meeting. It's on the agenda." Fred's eyes never
stopped moving. "New threads, too. Your social life must be looking up these days."
"If you'll excuse me," Taylor said. "I'll see you later."
#
"This Saturday will be one month since I stared working for him," Noelle said. "I should do something special.”
"Look," Maria said. "Taylor likes roast duck served with a fruit compote or a spicy cream sauce."
"That sounds good. Can I use your roaster? D’you know what sauces he particularly likes? My family used to make an orange sauce to go with duck." She laughed. "We used orange marmalade as its base. I don't have anything like that now."
"I've got recipes for sauces," Maria said. "Another thing, he's quite the wine connoisseur and likes Burgundy wine. Ask Minotti, the spirits' man, I believe he has a few bottles of good wine hidden away.”
"D’you think Taylor will notice?" Noelle sighed. "He hasn't said a word about my work." She twisted her handkerchief.
"Don't be silly. I know how Franny kept house. You're doing just fine." Maria smiled and patted her hand.
"That was different. They were, you know--"
"Yes, yes, I know. You just have to be patient. His wife died in Washington, DC, in the attack. It was sad, so sad. Then Franny was killed just six months ago, right next to him. He loved her, too. He’s had his heart broken twice. It’ll take time, but you can do it."
Maria wagged a finger at Noelle. "Look, take care of him and treat him well. It's up to you, as a woman, to heal his heart, only the way a woman can. D’you understand what I mean?"
"Oh." That took Noelle aback. "I think so." She smiled. Well, she thought. That would make it a permanent relationship, wouldn't it?
"So, start with the meal. So you don't have any distractions, I'll take care of little Martha for you.”
"Thanks," Noelle said. "That's really nice of you."
"If Minotti gives you any crap about the wine, tell him you know me and Fred. Tell him to charge it to me" She gave Noelle a hug. "I'll find those recipes and drop them off tomorrow."
"Thank you, Maria. I don't know what I'd do without you."
"Just take care of Taylor. Make him a happy man."
"Yes, I'll try. Bye, Maria."