by J. J. Holden
In only a few minutes, it was all but over. His troops strode through the carnage, finishing off the merely wounded—he hadn’t ordered that, but he would let it go. The scum down there deserved their brutal end. Taggart reminded himself that these were the people who had sided with invaders, kidnapped, raped, and even sold into slavery the civilians they so ruthlessly controlled. He turned away, determined to reconcile later the mixed feelings he had about his troops’ brutality.
When it was over, Taggart straightened his uniform and then walked downstairs and out the door, heading toward the scene of the massacre. When he got there, it looked as bad as anything he’d seen in the Sandbox, though minus the severed heads lying on the ground by the dead. Would his troops get to the point of committing atrocities themselves some day soon? He hoped not.
His thoughts were interrupted when he spotted four troops with their backs to him, rifles aimed at some survivors probably. He approached and barked, “Hooah, soldiers! What’s going on here?”
A trooper, who looked like he was barely old enough to shave, looked up but his rifle never wavered. “Sir! We have two survivors. These two, we figured you’d wanna see ’em, sir.”
Taggart drew even with the soldiers and froze. His eyes narrowed. It was Spyder and his top henchman there. Spyder lay on his back, hand over his liver in a failed attempt to stop the blood and black ooze leaking out of the wound. He was a dead man without high-tech emergency surgery, Taggart realized. And crouched beside him, between the soldiers and Spyder, was Sebastian. Spyder’s pitbull.
Spyder’s eyes were wide with pain and fear. “Please… You have to—”
“Shut your mouth, traitor,” shouted Taggart and the four soldiers tensed. They wanted nothing more than to blast that piece of garbage, and he’d let them do it.
When Spyder fell silent, Taggart straightened his posture. “You are Spyder and Sebastian. In addition to crimes against humanity, you’ve committed acts of murder, rape, and looting in a war zone while under Martial Law. And finally, you’re damn sure guilty of treason. Have you anything to say before I pass my judgment?”
Other soldiers, finished slaughtering Spyder’s goons, began to gather around the scene as well. Spyder, voice weak and shaking like the coward he was, cried out, “No, man, you got it wrong! I’m not Spyder. He’s dead, yo, and I was just following orders. You got to go along to get along, right? A guy’s gotta eat!”
Taggart looked down on Spyder and Sebastian, lips pursed, jaw clenched. “I need six volunteers,” he barked, and had more than enough troops step forward. He picked six at random. “You’re guilty, and you’re going to pay for it,” Taggart said. His voice was almost a whisper, and he hissed it out between clenched teeth. “Detail, take these traitors two blocks north. Put signs around their necks, Sharpie ‘traitor’ on them, and then hang them by the neck until dead. It’s fitting they should hang in the neighborhood they terrorized. Once they’re strung up, report back to me.”
Taggart turned to the rest of his troops. “Hooah. Listen up, soldiers. Get back to your posts. This fire may get some ’vader attention. Get your sorry asses back to your posts! This ain’t no vacation, Joes. And tomorrow… Tomorrow we’re going to begin ’vader hunting. We’re going to push those sorry sonsabitches back into the goddamn ocean.”
There was a resounding chorus of “Hooah,” and Taggart turned away from them to watch the work detail force-marching two traitors down the road. “See you in Hell,” he muttered, and then headed back toward their temporary base. He had a lot of planning to do, and there wasn’t really any way his small command could end the war. But for the first time in a month, he had a spring to his step. They could give the enemy serious hell. Payback was about to begin in earnest.
* * *
0630 HOURS - ZERO DAY +33
Cassy leaned against the pole, heedless of the urine and feces that practically covered her. The parts of her in pain seemed to outnumber the parts that weren’t. Worse, she felt chilly even at midday—she couldn’t look in a mirror to check, but she was pretty sure the cuts and scrapes on her face were infected. She had scabs on top of scabs, to the point where even the motion of eating made her face hurt all over.
If Jaz and her new friends didn’t make a move soon, she wouldn’t make it much longer. She might have given up already if she hadn’t heard through the Clanner grapevine that help was on the way, but once she’d heard that, she resolved herself to stay strong, not to give up… To survive, for her kids.
The smell of the meager breakfast meal cooking wafted to her, and her stomach rumbled. That was another issue altogether; she got to eat only rarely, when Mandy managed to collect enough bits and bites from the Clanners’ half-ration meals to smuggle some to her. Cassy’s strength was waning.
A shadow blocked the dawning sun, and she looked up only to see Peter and Jim standing nearby. She hadn’t heard them approach. Peter faced her, his stare unflinching, and he wore a smirk. Jim, ever the damn lapdog, appeared to be paying rapt attention to Peter.
“So, Jim. Any luck getting her to talk about their stockpile?” Peter asked, but his gaze never left Cassy.
“Nope, sorry boss. She’s been in questioning for part of every damn day, but she just won’t tell us.”
“Did you explain to her that if she tells us, the questioning will stop, and she’ll go back on normal rations? She might like some bacon.”
Cassy’s mouth watered at the thought, but she kept her face a stony mask. Screw those bastards.
“Yeah, boss. It’s like she doesn’t give one crap about her own people starving. Why don’t we just kill this waste of oxygen? It’s not like she’s useful anymore, if she won’t tell us.”
Peter shrugged. “Because, Jim, we need the knowledge in her head, too. The way she farms is weird, but actually grows more than our farms back at White Stag ever did.”
“Yeah, maybe…” Jim said. Then he cocked his head to the side. “On the other hand, Frank seems to have picked most of that permaculture crap. And, he isn’t exactly going to run away any time soon.” Jim grinned, and then laughed.
Cassy turned her head inch by inch until she was looking at Peter directly. She stared at him for a long while, face unreadable. Finally, she said, “I’ve been teaching several of my people the principles of how I farm. And there’s my farming journal—it has all the information on what grows on the farm, when to plant, how to harvest, how to seed… So yeah, you don’t really need my knowledge. Oh, sure, there is a lot they couldn’t have learned yet, or which isn’t written in the journal, but they got most of it.”
Peter smiled again, and the grin reached his eyes. “So, I reckon we can just kill her. She’s got nothing we need that she’ll ever give us. She’ll let her people starve come winter, rather than let us share in it. I figure she’s earned some sort of punishment. You reckon?”
Jim only nodded. Cassy eyed Jim warily. That little prick would do whatever he was told and never lose a night of sleep over it like a real human being would.
Peter clapped his hands together as if he’d just come to some brilliant idea in his stupid, empty head. He’d look better with it rammed up Jim’s ass, she decided. And the image made her laugh aloud for the first time in God knew how long.
“Alrighty, Jim. Let everyone know we’ll be having some entertainment tonight with our evening meal. Oh, and find me an axe. No need to sharpen it—it’ll cut through eventually.”
Cassy watched as Peter and Jim walked away laughing, and her hatred for those two monsters seethed. She closed her eyes and muttered, “Lord, if you really do exist, I don’t care if you let them kill me. I’ve served my purpose and saved a lot of good people. But Father-God, I’d sure appreciate it if you let me live long enough to see those two sonuvabitches dead, burned, and in the garbage heap.”
There was no response from the heavens, but then, she didn’t really expect one. If there was a god out there, they’d damn well better hurry with whatever their plan for them was. Sh
e knew she couldn’t last much longer.
- 21 -
1200 HOURS - ZERO DAY +34
JAZ CROUCHED IN Jungle overgrowth along with four of the dozen reserve Marines who had joined her—well, okay, she had joined them. She was going to get some of those White Stag bastards, and if they wanted to help, she’d use ’em like she’d had to use Big Strong Men her whole life. And that warrior woman they had with them—she liked seeing that. At least these Marines were brave, and they knew right from wrong. So okay, she’d use them or they’d use her, who cared? So long as those bastards down there died on the farm they stole.
Jaz knew the layout of the farm, but the Marines didn’t—or at least not all of them, and those who did, not so well—so she’d suggested a scouting mission first. Their officer dude totally thought it was a good idea, so there she was. Jaz was to explain the farm’s layout and point out supplies, foxholes, traps, and where the original Clanners stayed. All sorts of details. Whatever, it totally didn’t matter right now. Not anymore.
What did matter were the things going on at the farm. Peter had Cassy off her pole, standing in front of all the Clan with her hands tied behind her back. Jaz sighted in through the scope of the rifle the Marines had loaned her and saw that the White Stag dude standing next to Peter and Cassy had an axe slung over his shoulder. Meanwhile, Peter was totally grandstanding in front of the Clanners. She couldn’t hear what he said, but she could see that his mouth just kept on yammering. The prick loved speeches.
The Marine next to Jaz also looked through a rifle scope. “Bastard’s gonna chop her head off.” He paused. “Damn, I’m sorry. I didn’t think before I talked.”
Jaz’s jaw dropped and she reeled. Chop her head off? Who the hell did that sort of thing? But it took only a moment for her to decide that Peter Ixin was indeed that kind of monster. She couldn’t deny that’s what the scene looked like.
“Damn, he must have got tired of waiting for her to spill the beans.” She pleaded, “We can’t let this happen. We have to stop it!” She almost cried it out but held down the volume at the last moment, her voice cracking. She could feel tears coming on. Rage and helplessness. If the radios still worked, she’d have begged Ethan to just come out and give up the supplies, but they were still silent. This Marine was the only one now who could hear her. “Please…”
* * *
Peter Ixin showed the audience his carefully rehearsed Grief Face, but inside he felt… nothing. “My people, my Clan friends. I’d like to thank all of you for being so patient, despite the half-rations, the hunger, the nightly cold. I have tried so hard, for all you, to get Cassy to tell us where the food is stored, where the blankets are. All the things we need are here, but she will not share them with you. With us—all of us.”
Yeah, right. None of these Clanners seemed to embrace his vision. But so what? Someone had to be the slaves if his own people were to enjoy the fruits of his labor, the results of his God-given vision for the future. Two months ago, slaves were called “immigrants,” but now he didn’t need a nicer label. Sure, this would horrify his own people too, especially the ones with kids of their own, but hell. Terror trumped outrage every time, in his experience. Besides, if he had to kill one of his own people, that could be interesting. Less boring afterwards, at least.
Peter glanced at Cassy, but she just stood stiff and upright, annoyingly proud. Bitch. Well, he could afford to forgive her personally, since she was about to get her comeuppance, so her attitude just didn’t seem to matter anymore. He caught himself about to smile at the thought of her head flying from her shoulders, but forced Sad Face to stay etched on his face for his slaves’ viewing pleasure. The Peter Channel always delivered quality entertainment. Hah. The best was yet to come.
“Soldiers, please take your positions.” He watched as they obeyed and then readied their rifles. He turned back to Cassy. “You know, I was just going to have you hanged, but I don’t think that delivers the same… impact. You’re a traitor not only to America but to your own people, and they deserve to see justice done in spectacular technicolor three-dee. It’s my responsibility to be sure they get what they deserve.”
Peter shifted his patented Sad Face to his patented Iron Determination Face. He spoke loudly, “It pains me to say this, but I need every one of you Clanners to watch as we deliver Cassy to the justice she has earned. So, if anyone looks away—yes, even the children—I’ve instructed my people standing around you to simply shoot that person. No questions, no exceptions. You either watch and learn, or die. Burn it into your memories, my friends, because if the lesson doesn’t stick then you’ll be watching more of this down the road.”
* * *
Joe Ellings shifted his weight from foot to foot as Peter droned on. Joe’s anxiety level was just about through the roof, so it was hard to stand still. Damn it all if Peter hadn’t jumped the gun with this sideshow! A couple more days and Joe’s people would have been ready to do something more. Well, he reckoned that plan was deader ’n Jesse James now.
He exchanged a nervous glance with the man next to him, another of his “group of ten” trusted collaborators plotting against Peter. There were more sympathizers, Lord knew, but he figured ten was about the right count to keep the plan under wraps. Every person they let in on the plot risked revealing everyone. The other nine were all with him on the west side of a crescent of guards that half-surrounded the Clanners.
Shoot, doing anything for Cassy would blow the show early, too. Well, it sucked for Cassy, that was for sure. Nothing he could do to save her now, not without starting the Gunfight at the OK Corral—with all them Clanners smack dab in the middle of it.
Joe’s gaze slid to Frank, the other Clan leader. Great guy, but not much use anymore on account of his cut off foot, bless his soul. Another thing they could all thank Peter for. Joe cursed himself for a fool even thinking about Frank doing something to stop this madness. Nope, there wasn’t anyone who would stop this craziness. Nice knowin’ you, Cassy.
Something Peter said got his ear’s attention. “…yes, even the children…”
Joe’s head whipped back toward Peter. What in the hell did he just say? Shoot children for not looking? He reeled and almost stumbled as he realized that Peter had indeed said that. What kid could be made to watch this crap? Then an image crystallized in his mind: his own dearest child. In his mind’s eye, he saw his son’s small head shatter like glass into a thousand bloody pieces, Peter’s inhuman laughter in the background.
This was too much for Joe to swallow, and damn the plot to hell. He’d be going to hell himself if he sat by and just watched this, the way some of the others had during the last executions. He froze for two seconds as he steadied himself. His hands didn’t shake anymore. In one fluid movement, Joe raised his rifle to his shoulder and swung the barrel toward Peter. Fuck it.
Two shots rang out.
* * *
Grandma Mandy was kneeling next to Frank, trying to distract him from the pain these monsters had caused the man when they dragged him from the makeshift infirmary to watch her daughter’s death.
That thought brought up a surge of grief that threatened to overwhelm Mandy’s senses, and her heart began to race. In her pocket, she clenched the grip of a 9mm pistol that some of the White Stag people had smuggled in to her. They’d brought guns and knives to a lot of the Clan, in fact.
She recognized most of Joe Ellings’ co-conspirators in the circle of guards around them. The Lord would surely bless men like Mr. Ellings and the people who supported him, people who did all the good they could in this evil world.
Mandy whispered to Frank as Peter put on his show. “Tell me something, Frank. Do you feel in your heart that the Lord can forgive someone who kills another human being? I mean, if the reason is great enough? Can even Jesus wash that bloody stain of sin from a person’s soul?”
Frank looked pale and his breathing was shallow, but his low, deep voice was steady when he answered. “Mandy, you believe the Lord forgi
ves those who kill in cold blood, through Jesus, yes? How much more, then, will He forgive someone who kills to protect His flock? Do you love your neighbor more than yourself, like the Bible says, if you just let the ravagers have their way with the innocent? Yes, I think if there’s a God, then He will sure forgive whoever kills this bastard. I just hope someone has the guts to do it soon, or there won’t be any of us left come spring.”
Mandy was shocked by his words. Frank was no preacher, not much of a believer in fact, but what he said rang true in her heart. God would forgive her when she rose up to smite Satan with her pistol as her daughter died. It would be her only opportunity, more than likely, and there was no way she’d squander the chance. Even if it did cost her soul, it would be worth it to save the Clan and avenge her daughter.
And then she heard Peter say the Clan children would be shot if they didn’t watch. How could anyone… No. The Lord Himself had said that anyone who harmed a child had a special place in Hell waiting for them. Maybe this was why she hadn’t died from her diabetes yet. Maybe she’d been spared in His wisdom, so that she could be the one to sacrifice herself for all their lives. Their retribution could be spent on her and her alone, but it was no loss. She was half dead already.
“Lord, forgive me of my sins,” Mandy said with a trembling voice, “and spare the righteous here today.” Then she pulled the sleek blued pistol out of her pocket. It didn’t have a hammer like her .38 had, but Michael had told her this brand, a Glock, didn’t have a hammer you could pull back.
Why was she thinking about that right now? How odd. In fact, everything looked odd. The sky was blue as Heaven, and birds chirping nearby were a choir of Angels singing. She’d never felt this sort of serenity before. The Lord was with her—she had no doubt now. She would be forgiven, and the Lord would give her the strength to pull the heavy trigger despite her declining condition.