by James Hunt
“Uncle Dean?” The front door swung open, and Kit stepped out. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.” Dean offered a smile and gripped the young man’s shoulder. As a boy of seventeen, he was nearly as tall as Fred was, but thicker. The boy was stronger than most men Dean had fought with in battle, and far more intelligent. “Where’s your brother?”
“He went with Aunt Kemena to the hospital. He wanted to see some of the animals she had in her lab.” Kit stepped out onto the porch, gazing at the view of the town that Dean’s porch offered. The house was built on the high spot in the hopes of turning the town into the capital of a nation that would one day be united as it was so many years ago. “I want to go with you.”
It was a request Dean knew was coming. While the Russians that had slain both his mother and father had been killed, the larger host that those men worked for would soon come, and while Fred never had a taste for war, Kit’s father had a penchant for honor. And it was a trait his eldest son carried on. “Kit, there will be time for warring when you’re older.”
Kit shrugged Dean’s hand off his shoulder. “And how old were you when you fought the Chinese? How old was Uncle Jason when he helped fight the wasteland clans?” His words carried a weighted calm, giving them meaning and enough force to make Dean listen. Just like Fred.
“We were young, yes, but we had also been disciplined in the arts of war. And I know for a fact that you have not had any training with sword or pistol, and I will not send you out to be slaughtered.” Dean gripped Kit’s bulky arms. “And when I was sent to battle it wasn’t against an enemy who had just murdered my father. Rage is a tool of revenge, Kit, and it often gives us illusions and fantasies of salvation. But I tell you this, in war, and in rage, there is no peace of mind.”
Dean’s words seemed to penetrate the thick layer of defiance in Kit’s mind, and the boy lowered his head. “I’m sorry, Uncle Dean.”
Dean lifted Kit’s chin. “If you wish to test yourself, I will have General Monaghan start you in the next training class. Once it’s done, if he sees you fit, you’ll have your chance. Just like any other man.”
“Yes, sir.” Kit walked back around the house, easily leaping over the bannister and landing sure-footed on the ground. Dean knew the boy could be a fine soldier, but he wasn’t about to send a hotheaded, green-handed teenager with a chip on his shoulder into war.
***
The shelves in the storage room of the hospital were lined with jars stacked with different preserved specimens. The curve of the glass jars morphed each animal as Sam walked by with bulging eyes of curiosity. “Cooooool.”
Kemena smiled, watching the boy gawk down the rows of her inventory. She leaned against the doorway, her thin arms folded across her chest, her long, slender hands holding onto the fabric of her lab coat. “You want to take one out of the jars?”
Sam turned around quickly, his eyes even larger than before. “We can do that?”
After much deliberation, it was decided that the squirrel was of the most critical importance to examine. When he dipped his hand inside to pull the specimen out, he quickly removed his fingers and jumped back, stomping his feet back and forth and giggling. “It’s so slimy!”
Kemena laughed, dipping her hand inside the jar then laying the small, preserved animal onto the workstation she’d prepared. “It’s the formaldehyde that keeps it that way.” She picked up one of the tweezers and held up the animal’s tiny arm.
Sam made his way back over and poked the animal in the stomach. “Why do you have all of this stuff, Aunt Kemena? What does it do?”
“It’s important to understand the world around us,” Kemena answered. “The more we know, the more we can help people, and the more we can help people, the easier it will be for everything to return back to the golden days.”
“You mean before the Great War?” Sam asked, turning his attention from the squirrel back up to her. “What was it like back then?”
With the boy’s interest elsewhere, Kemena slid the animal back into the jar then sealed the lid tightly. “It’s hard to know for certain, but from what we’ve seen from records and the exploration of the ruins, it was an incredibly exciting time.” She rested the glass jar back on the shelf with its peers. “People lived in buildings that towered into the skies, and drove around in carriages that were faster than a hundred horses.”
Sam looked down, his feet stepping over one another awkwardly, and fiddled with his hands. “Would my dad still be alive if it was like it used to be?”
Kemena knelt down and took Sam’s small hands into her own, rubbing the boy’s skin gently with her thumbs. “It’s hard to say, Sam. We still don’t really understand everything our people were able to do back then, but we’re trying. You miss your dad?”
Sam nodded then wrapped his arms around Kemena’s neck, burying his face into her shoulder. Kemena lifted him off the ground and cradled the back of his head gently, rocking back and forth. “We all miss him, Sam.”
When Dean stepped inside, she set Sam down, and the boy ran to his uncle, who tousled his hair. “You training to be a doctor like your aunt?”
“No, just looking at cool stuff.” Sam smiled.
“Well, why don’t you go back to the house? I’m sure your brother can’t wait to hear all about it.” Dean gave Sam a playful shove as he ran past, and watched him disappear out of the building. When he saw Kemena’s concerned face, he spoke up. “I have men watching them. They’re fine.”
A tension Kemena didn’t even know she had was released, and she clutched her stomach nervously. “You’re leaving already?”
Dean walked to her, pulling her close. She savored the strong, warm embrace she knew she wouldn’t feel for god knows how long. “The provisions are almost loaded for the trip, and the clan chiefs have agreed to meet with me.”
A flash of surprise etched her face. “All of them?” The peace with the clans was barely a year old, and she knew that the tribes of the wastelands didn’t forget their enemies so quickly. Both Dean and his younger brother Jason, who was governor of the southeast, had been working tirelessly to establish communication and trust. Eventually it boiled down to the understanding that neither side could last alone forever. And the promise of taxes on the goods sent through their territory on the new rail they were constructing didn’t hurt either.
“I’ll find out when I get there, but I’m hoping most of them will show.” Dean pulled the tight bun of hair centered on the back of Kemena’s head loose and let her long, brown, curly hair fall to her shoulders then ran his fingers through.
Kemena took Dean’s hand and kissed his palm then pressed her face against the calloused skin. “You’ve already sent word to Lance?” With both Lance aiding the Australians and Jason being held by President Ruiz, she knew her husband was stretched thin. With all of his cunning, even he couldn’t command two armies from halfway around the world.
“Yes, it should reach him soon.”
Dean’s words were hopeful, but behind that she could sense the foreboding of skepticism. If what Lance had told him through his letter was true, then the Chinese would be a formidable opponent, even for the Australians. Kemena placed a sturdy hand on Dean’s face, pulling him close. “One thing at a time, Governor. Do not spread your mind thin with worries beyond your control.”
Dean leaned his head into her hand, and Kemena felt the weight of his thoughts. “If I did that, I wouldn’t be much of a governor, would I?” He flashed the smile that had always gotten him into as much trouble as out of it.
Kemena kissed him then pushed him away with a hard shove that sent him stumbling backward. “You come back in one piece, Governor. You hear me?” Once again her hands fell to her stomach. “For both of us.”
Dean walked back slowly, placing his hands over hers on the small bump, and the tiny life that grew inside. “This will not break us.”
When he kissed her, she felt the rush of their life together, all they had done, and all they h
oped to do. From her first memories of childhood she knew exactly what she wanted out of life, and she knew the type of people she wanted around her when she did it. The world begged for more than it had received, and they were finally the right people to do something about it. Dean was right. This would not break them.
“Governor, I—”
Kemena pulled back from Dean’s lips and saw the red face of Professor Hawthorne fumbling with the books and papers in his arms, stumbling backward. She offered a smile and a light chuckle at the embarrassed historian. “Hello, Professor.”
“Governor, Doctor, my apologies, I didn’t realize I was intruding on a… moment.” Hawthorne kept hunched over in a half bow with his eyes glued to the floor, almost as if he were afraid to look up.
Kemena walked over to him and lifted his chin, grabbing a few of the books to lighten his load. “It’s quite all right. To what do we owe the pleasure?”
“I was hoping to speak with the governor before he left. I saw Sam leave from down the street, and the guards outside said you were here, so I was hoping we could have that word now.”
Dean was more flustered that the professor had intruded than she was and appeased the old man with a nod and a grumbled yes.
The professor dumped the remaining books in his arm on the closest table and started scrambling through the pages at a hurried pace. “I apologize for the mess, Doctor Mars; I’ll only be a minute.”
“It’s fine, Professor.” Kemena sifted through some of the pages of the old history books she remembered reading as a child. The professor had taught her when she was a girl, and she was always amazed at how vivid his retelling of the past was. It was Hawthorne’s lessons that had propelled her to learn about medicine in the first place.
“Ah, here, this is what I wanted to show you, Governor.” The professor pointed frantically at the page then paired it with a few old sketches. “The message your brother Lance sent about the Chinese and the black-market weapons trading they were doing in Australia had me wondering where on earth they could have gotten those types of guns. While I know we have our own stockpile of the old moderns, to have that many and to sell them would be worth a fortune.”
“What does this have to do with the symbols?” Dean asked, looking over the sketches.
“The old Russian countryside was massive, larger than that of all of Asia and the Middle East. And from what I’ve read, the leaders at the time had begun construction of a number of manufacturing facilities, and the western opposition believed that the Russians had more structures than they let on. If that was the case, then it’s possible a few of them weren’t destroyed when the bombs fell.”
Kemena took one of the sketches from Dean’s hand. The faded drawing was of a weapon, a rifle, but far different than what most of their military used. It was modern, one of the old rifles that required no loading of powder or lead. An efficient killing machine. “You think the Russians have found them?”
“Between what your brother described about the guns and the alliance of the Chinese and the Russians, I think it’s a strong possibility, yes.” Hawthorne looked at the drawings and cringed.
Dean, however, didn’t share the professor’s fear. “Even if they did, the Russians wouldn’t have the materials, or the knowledge, to try and operate those facilities. Guns and bullets have one thing in common: iron. And that’s something the Russians do not have, nor do they have the money to buy such a commodity.”
“Governor, there are still other places—”
“I thank you for your counsel, Professor.” Dean spoke with the inclination that no further words were necessary, and Hawthorne gathered his books and papers and quickly disappeared.
While Kemena agreed the connection was a stretch, she knew the old professor wouldn’t have brought it up without weighing both sides. “He could be right, Dean.” Her words caught his attention, although he didn’t look pleased with which side she seemed to settle on. “There are ways other than the Brazilians to get the materials needed. Much of the old western countries of Europe haven’t been explored, and in Africa—”
“Africa is full of warlords and civil unrest, and no one explores Europe because there isn’t anything left of it.” Dean held her arms. “Is it possible the Russians have gotten their hands on some modern weapons? Of course, but to have reconstructed them? That’s impossible.”
“Isn’t that what we’re doing? Rebuilding? It’s not impossible for the idea that other people are doing the same. You said it best yourself during the negotiations with the clansmen.” She kept her head lifted as she walked toward him. “We cannot survive alone in this place. We already know the Russians and the Chinese are working together, and with Jason’s capture in Brazil, it’s no doubt which side Ruiz has chosen. We’re not the only ones trying to build something, Dean.”
Dean placed a protective hand over her stomach then kissed her. “I will send word before I leave the East Coast and then again once I have Jason with me. I love you.” He offered one more kiss, and then he was gone.
Kemena walked back over to the closet where the specimens were stored and closed the door, locking them back into darkness. Much like the professor, she understood that knowledge was only as useful as the men who learned it. She just hoped that Dean hadn’t put all of his knowledge into just his war council.
Chapter 3
The hull of the first boat crunched against the pebbled beach of the Alaskan north, a far easier location for his men to land than the rocky coast of the northwest where his enemy waited. While the ships Delun offered to ferry Rodion’s men across the Pacific had some armament, they did not have the numbers to engage the strong western fleet of the North Americans. No, Rodion would crush them with his army.
Boots splashed into the frigid waters, and stiff hands pulled the boat up the shoreline, oars sticking out of the top. The men puffed frost with each breath. Sweat and water froze in their thick beards.
General Rodion was the first on shore and made his way up the burned and pillaged fishing village the Americans had set up on the Alaskan coast. He loosened the collar of his jacket, letting the cold air chill his hot body. For Rodion, it was never cold enough.
Dozens of other boats pulled ashore, bringing with them more men and provisions. Rodion looked back out to the bay, where over one hundred ships carried his army, nearly two hundred thousand strong. With the might of his army behind him, and the Americans’ leaders split in two, he’d take these lands with ease. “Commander!” Rodion’s words bellowed loud over the heads of his men until a squat, rough-looking soldier barreled his way up the beach.
“Yes, General?” The man’s words were thick and slurred, as though he’d just polished off a bottle of vodka.
“Our scouts should have met us out here by now; send a party into the woods to see where their bodies have been slain.” It was of no use mincing words; the scout team here had been fairly small, enough to dispatch what settlers lived here, but if the Mars governor sent his army north, then they could have been overwhelmed. The commander grunted in affirmation and went to seeing the general’s request completed without any dissent. Not that Rodion would have allowed such an insubordination.
A gunshot shattered the quiet air like ice and ricocheted off the rocky beach next to Rodion, sending the men landing on the beach into a frenzy, some ducking, a few reaching for their rifles and firing blindly into the tree line.
“Cease fire!” Rodion’s orders silenced his men but not their attacker. Rodion pressed forward, keeping a steady pace as another bullet sent a spray of sand a foot from his left, yet Rodion neither ran nor ducked. He simply squinted his eyes, scanning the horizon for the shooter’s position.
A quick blur flashed to his right in the cluster of trees, and Rodion grabbed the pistol from his side and fired but hit only tree bark. “Horses!” Rodion mounted the first stallion that was brought his way and took chase, the steady beat of the animal’s hooves thundering against the frozen earth.
Rodion
followed the trail where he saw the shooter flee, keeping both his eyes and his ears open for any sign of where the assassin could be hidden. With the number of shots that were fired and the length of time that passed between them, it had to be a powder gun.
The horse whinnied and reared when Rodion pulled back on the reins harshly, jerking the animal to a stop. The stallion stomped the ground defiantly, and Rodion turned the animal left then right. The trees had thickened, but the footprints ended behind one of the thicker clusters. Rodion leapt from the horse and pulled the revolver from the holster on his right hip.
Years of navigating the Russian tundra had left him sure of foot on even the slickest, iciest terrain. Hunting, he’d learned to keep quiet. When he pressed the sole of his boot down, you couldn’t even hear the faintest crunch of snow and earth. Soundless, he crept up behind the group of trees where the prints ended, and in the quiet of the forest, he heard panicked breath.
Rodion whipped around the tree, knocking the barrel of the rifle away from the shooter’s face just as she fired a shot into the sky. Rodion seized the rifle then flung the shooter up against the tree trunk, his thick hand around the assassin’s throat.
The assailant was a young girl, no older than fifteen, but with the shade of red and purple her cheeks turned from the lack of airflow, it was hard to say for sure. Rodion looked around, seeing if anyone came to the girl’s aid. When it became apparent she was alone, he released his grip, and she dropped to the snow, gagging for breath. Rodion aimed the revolver at the girl. “Who sent you?” His English was thick and sloppy, but the pistol was translation enough.
The girl was still on her hands and knees, sucking air. She coughed and hacked as spit dribbled down her chin and snot flung from her nose. When she finally looked up, it was to the sight of the revolver’s barrel, and she scurried backwards, only to run into the dead end of the tree trunks.
“Do you want to die, girl?”