Emilio shook his head. “If we’d just hiked three miles through malpais anywhere near as rough as what we crossed just now, I don’t think we’d have gone much farther—not with the Murchinson kids. Along with our packs, we’d have had to carry Yolanda, Nancy, and our own Ignacio. Carl would be beat.”
“We’d all be beat,” Rosamaria said, wiping a hand across her forehead. “If I wasn’t so scared they’ll get here before we’re ready, I’d just flop down.”
Brett shrugged out of his pack. “I’m going to get a fire started. You folks set up tents. Do it just like you would have if you were really using this as a hideout.”
They did so, choosing an area that offered some concealment in a patch of cottonwood and scrub growth. From their packs they took props to give the impression that their entire group was present. Felicita strung a line between two saplings and pinned some diapers and pair of Oscar’s trousers on to it. Rosamaria carried a bucket over to the rain-fed streamlet and arranged it artistically.
Brett called, “Rosamaria, get me some wet grass—not soggy, but a bit more than damp. I’m going to need a fair amount.”
The girl complied, streaking her shirt with mud in the process. “Why wet grass?”
“I want them to see our smoke,” Brett explained. “Wet grass will create a darker smoke. The Indians used it when they sent smoke signals.”
“Won’t the posse be suspicious?” Emilio asked.
“Not after all the rain,” Brett said. “They’d figure someone threw a bundle of damp wood on the fire. We can hope they find the horses, but, even if they don’t, this should help them draw the ‘right’ conclusion.”
“I hope the smoke shows far enough,” Felicita said with soft intensity.
“If they don’t see it, they’re too dumb for the job,” Brett said. “Leo and I were into smoke signals in junior high. You can see smoke for quite a distance.”
After the dummy camp was set up and a few other arrangements made, they took turns keeping watch from a big piece of basalt that had calved off the lava wall a long time back. Brett was beginning to wonder if they might need to try fresh smoke in the morning when Rosamaria slid down and came running over, Brett’s binoculars bouncing around her neck.
“They’re coming! Eight men.”
“Eight men,” Brett repeated amused, “to go after four adults and a passel of children. They certainly think you jackalopes have horns.”
“Jackalopes?” Rosamaria asked, too startled to object at being lumped in with the children.
Brett strung his bow. “I had a dream. Now, get to your places, folks. Remember they’ve got to think there are a lot more of you.”
Reclaiming his binoculars from Rosamaria, Brett moved to a place he’d already marked as giving him a good vantage from which to cover the area with his bow. He wished he could have brought along Fida and Rover. A couple of guard dogs would have evened the odds a lot, but walking over the malpais would have ruined their paws. Even the wild creatures crossed the lava flow with care.
Careful to ensure that the westering sun didn’t reflect off the lenses, Brett periodically checked the trail, picking up details as the group came closer. Eight men trudged along—uniformed in worn blue jeans, Western shirts, and broad-brimmed hats. Several wore sunglasses. Of them, only three—a sandy-haired fellow wearing a big Stetson, who Brett recognized as Andy Andrews, and the two closest behind him—looked at all eager. The other five just looked beat. Two of these were limping, one badly enough that he was leaning on a stick. One had his right hand bound up in a bandanna.
Not dressed for the malpais, Brett thought scornfully. A couple are wearing riding boots, I bet, and not all of them are wearing gloves. They all have truncheons, though. I see at least three whips. Lassos. No bows or spears, but then they didn’t want to kill anybody, just haul them back. Probably planned to grab a kid or two, use them to make the adults cooperate. Good plan if you’re chasing rabbits, but these are jackalopes.
One of their preparations had been to tromp a path through the grass in the vicinity of the “camp.” The widest path led in from the trail, as if a whole group had trooped along it. Various narrower paths radiated out of the grove, presumably created when collecting firewood. Brett found himself impressed by the impression of activity created by these vegetative hieroglyphs. Within the shelter of the trees, Felicita was just visible, singing in Spanish to shadowy shapes that looked convincingly—at least from a distance—like a group of children. Out in the open, Rosamaria was tending the fire.
Brett held his breath, counting down. In a few steps, the first members of the posse would have a clear line of sight on the camp, then . . .
Andy strode down the trail as confidently as if he were on his own ranch. Maybe he fancied he was. Men often laid claim to lands they’d never seen. In addition to sandy hair and the oversize hat, Andy possessed an abundance of freckles. His build was lanky and his ears stuck out a little. He had strong shoulders, though, and the slightly bowlegged gait of a man who spent a lot of time in the saddle. Heir apparent to the Double A he might be, but he was no idler.
The two men backing him both looked like trouble. One was big and broad all over, with white-blond hair and a close-cut beard. From his time working at the Double A, Brett recognized him as a bull wrestler called the Finn. The other was darker, a young tough probably Brett’s own age. His nose had been broken and inexpertly set, giving him an unbalanced look. As they came forward, the Finn uncoiled a bullwhip with an easy grace that said he knew how to use it. The Tough only smiled, showing a broken front tooth in an unlovely grin.
Andy Andersen called out, “What’s for dinner, chiquita? Where’s your dad and Jerome Murchinson?”
Rosamaria froze. Brett didn’t think the fear on her face was all playacting, but her voice was only a little higher and tighter when she answered.
“They’re setting snares. Aunt Winna’s off with Carl, digging some sort of roots for tomorrow’s dinner. We had to leave some of our supplies, so I can’t offer you much for dinner.”
She rose. If a piece of the sapling she’d been feeding the fire remained in her hand, it looked like an oversight. Felicita had stopped singing and could be heard hushing frightened children. She did the voices for them, too. Brett was impressed.
“So you and your mama are all alone except for the bambinos, eh?” Andy’s use of Spanish was flawed, like something learned from a television Western. “And here we were all ready to escort you home. I guess while we wait, we should come in and get warm.”
Given that the temperature had gone back up into the eighties following the rain, it was very clear that Andy didn’t have the fire in mind for warming himself. When Rosamaria gave a nervous nod, Andy strode along the wide path that led into camp. The Tough fanned left, moving toward the tents under the trees, while the Finn fanned right, obviously moving to where he could strike with the whip. The other five men had slowed. One of the footsore ones sat on a rock and started working off a boot. The one with the hurt hand was eyeing the stream, clearly thinking about soaking his wound.
The two hale ones were scanning the area, looking for the absent members of the group. They didn’t look too worried, though. After all, they had women and children as hostages.
They’re overconfident. Maybe some aren’t crazy about Master Andy’s hunt. They’ve followed, but they’re not going to make it easy for him. The Finn, though. He’s dangerous. The other one . . . He’s just mean.
Brett fit an arrow to his bowstring. He kept his gaze on Andy, silently counting off each stride: “One step, two, three . . . Now!”
As Andy passed between two trees, a sharp snap broke the uneasy hush.
“God damn!” The young rancher struggled to keep his balance.
Brett knew that his legs were looped in wire snares hidden in the grass. Without waiting to see how tightly Andy had been caught, Brett drew back his bowst
ring and shot at the Finn. He didn’t want to kill the man, but that whip couldn’t be allowed to get into play. His first arrow passed through the man’s upper torso, his second caught him in the thigh.
The Tough, no idiot, rushed at Felicita, looking to secure hostages. Running at her, arms outstretched to grab a woman encumbered by a baby, he discovered just how much a length of wood, even when wrapped in a baby blanket, can hurt. He went down, his nose broken yet again. Felicita hit him a second blow, this time on the back of the head, and he stayed down.
Rosamaria, her length of firewood gripped firmly in both hands, darted over and walloped the struggling Andy. Brett had been worried the girl wouldn’t be strong enough to do any real damage, but figured he’d cut over to help her. He didn’t bother. Whether from fury at what Andy had planned to do to her or in memory of her dead friend, Rosamaria proved that a solid length of greenwood, when wielded by a furious fourteen-year-old, could be a punishing weapon.
Brett ran to assist Emilio, who had been hidden to one side of the trail, in securing the remaining five. Only two proved much of a problem and when Brett—a completely unknown quantity—came out from cover, swinging a stone-headed war club, a rage-filled scream on his lips, they surrendered at once. Brett was almost disappointed. He’d wanted to strike out for so long, but reason, speaking with Leo’s voice, said, “These men didn’t do it. They didn’t kill your family. They didn’t crash my plane. Let them pay for the crimes they’ve committed, no more.”
By the time he and Emilio had secured the five stragglers, Brett saw that Rosamaria and Felicita had gotten Andy tied. They’d left the young rancher where he was rather than risk letting him loose from the snares that fouled his ankles. With his hat knocked off and his shirt torn, bruises already purpling where Rosamaria had hit him, Andy Andersen looked young and frightened. Remembering rapes past and intended, dead girls and unacknowledged bastards, Brett felt no pity for him.
The Tough probably had a concussion, but they trussed him up anyhow. The Finn was the most seriously injured, but he’d had plenty of muscle and the arrows hadn’t gone deep. Brett patched him up and thought that if infection didn’t set in, he’d likely live. He looked like the type who was distilled from equal parts piss and vinegar.
“Now,” Brett said slowly, “I think it’s time we had a talk.”
* * *
Two weeks later, the first ever regional conference and inquiry met at Acoma, this being not only the closest to a midpoint between Grants and the ranches south of El Malpais, but also near where many of the witnesses lived. Representatives came from Grants, San Rafael, Zuni, Laguna, local ranches, and from various Navajo bands. Even a few rugged Apache warriors, their faces streaked red and yellow, showed up.
The issue at hand was forming local policy regarding various forms of human servitude, up to and including slavery. Accusations of attempted enslavement were made against Annabella Andersen and her eldest son, Andrew: to wit, that they had restricted the freedom of unindebted members of the Double A community and that when, having decided to try their lot elsewhere, some of these had intended to leave, the Andersens had sent a posse to retrieve them by force.
Brett testified, as did members of the Gallardo and Murchinson families, and elders of Acoma pueblo. These last testified to having been asked about the whereabouts of the missing parties in a fashion that might have been interpreted as threatening, if the elders had been inclined to take it so. (Which, of course, they had not been, something they managed to make clear, while at the same time also making clear they hadn’t much liked being threatened.)
In the course of the Gallardo and Murchinson testimony, Andy Andersen’s forcing of his dubious charms on the women of the Double A was mentioned as the impetus for their flight. This did not support the Andersens’ depiction of the Double A as a strong, vital, healthy community that no one would ever wish to leave.
The Andersens’ assertion that the riders had been sent out when the Gallardos and Murchinsons had failed to return from a picnic fell apart when several of the cowhands testified. These men told not only how they had been ordered to bring back the Murchinson and Gallardo families, but how subtle threats had been made regarding the continuation of their own livelihoods and the safety of their dear ones. This testimony in particular brought home how easy it was—especially in the absence of a larger community upholding agreed upon standards of behavior—for a few powerful people to ignore the rights of the individual.
When the inquiry had adjourned, having made clear that slavery would not be tolerated and that other forms of servitude needed to be monitored, the Gallardos and Murchinsons invited Brett Hawke and Nathan Tso to share a meal at the house in Lower Acoma where they were currently staying.
“San Rafael made clear we are welcome,” Winna said, passing around a platter of carne adovada burritos, “but Acoma has offered us a family compound in Acomita, along with a winter stipend, since it’s late for us to put in crops. I’m going to start a clinic. We’ve been promised help starting a forge as well.”
“It will be easier for us to visit the Double A from Acomita,” Emilio added as he poured everyone strong mint tea with honey. “We still have friends there, and La Padrona will be more careful knowing we’re looking in.”
“I think,” said Nathan Tso, “there will be much more ‘looking in’ between communities from here forward. Already there is discussion of seasonal festivals to make certain that we remember all we have in common. It has been too easy to believe that apart is safest. Recent events remind us that it is not.”
Brett knew Nathan’s words were intended for him. Leaning forward, elbows on knees, he forced himself to speak, although, since the immediate crisis had ended, the pull of silence and solitude was very strong.
“I’ve been thanked over and over for what I did,” he said slowly. “But I need to do some thanking myself.” He looked to where Felicita cradled Ignacio, finding speech easier if he focused on just one person. “When we talked that night, I began to realize that I wasn’t so much angry at God as at me. I blamed myself for everything that had happened. I blamed myself for not saving the animals at the pet store. I felt that what had happened to my family was somehow punishment for that failure. I even blamed myself for Leo’s death because, if he hadn’t been flying back to celebrate Saint Patrick’s Day with us at Cloverleaf, he would have been safely on the ground—and if anyone could have managed to make it back from Denver, it would have been Leo.”
Several voices started to offer reassurance, but Brett waved them down.
“I know. You don’t have to say it. So I hid myself away, trying to make amends by protecting what little I had left. If I hadn’t had to lay in supplies to keep my critters alive, I might never have come out of that kipuka.”
He managed a twisted smile. “But when I saw jackrabbits growing horns, fighting for the best lives for themselves and their children, willing to take risks to expose a danger they had escaped . . . When I saw Rosamaria stand out in the open as bait for a man who meant her harm—that’s when I realized there could be more. I had chosen not to die.
“Now I see that I need to learn how to live.”
The New Normal
by Jody Lynn Nye
Jody Lynn Nye
I write science fiction and fantasy, mostly of the humorous variety, although I explore many different settings and universes. Steve’s world touches upon a sneaking paranoia many of us have: Could we survive if the machinery that makes current civilization what it is suddenly stopped functioning? It’s not a new notion that those of us who are a part of back-to-Earth movements and the New Middle Ages would be better fit to cope than those who rely too heavily upon technology for survival, let alone entertainment. I also love the New Forest in Hampshire, U.K., both for its beauty and its history. I was inspired by a single mention in The Protector’s War of a small coven who had managed to survive there, and the rest is where
the thought took me.
“Brung y’ another one, doc,” Tim Brunton said, leaning in the kitchen door of the Alice Lisle pub. He was liberally smeared with blood, and there was a body draped over one huge shoulder. “Martin got bit by one of them Eaters.”
Dr. Rebecca Saltford looked up, from the Bunsen burner she was nursing, at the big man, his rusty hair disheveled over his broad forehead. He grinned. His yellow teeth, splayed in a dozen directions, whether by Mother Nature or the many football brawls he had participated in over the years in which there had been football, gleamed in his filthy face. He edged sideways into the flagstone-floored room and dumped his unconscious colleague on the scrubbed metal table in the center.
In better days, it had been used for food preparation. Since the Change, it had become Dr. Saltford’s surgery. Tim stripped the protective pads off his friend and removed the plastic and leather helmet to reveal a gash in his forehead and a deep bite mark in the patient’s right arm. One of Rebecca’s two teenage assistants, Nora Lytton, dipped a bucket of water from the barrel just inside the door and began to clean him up with a sponge. Water mixed with a few precious ounces of Dettol attacked the mucky mix. Blood and mud dribbled to the floor around their feet, which Stephen Dobbs mopped away. The dark-skinned man on the table moaned and stirred slightly.
From long experience, having delivered his burden, Tim retreated to the doorway, where he wouldn’t be in the way. Rebecca shot him a look of reproof.
“Really, Tim, you cannot keep baiting those cannibals! One of these days they will trail you back to this place, and then where will the rest of us be?”
“Sorry, doc,” Tim said sheepishly, his booted feet scuffing the floor.
He was twenty-five, but she could reduce him in a sentence to an eight-year-old.
“But we gotta clean them out, or it’s us for the stew pot. We took out seven of ’em. Last one tried to take a bite out o’ both of us.”
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