by James Hunt
“When he sailed to Europe?”
“Yeah.”
Jason shrugged. “Not really. I was ten when he died in the Island Wars, and he wasn’t around much.”
“He mentioned heading down to the African continent to see if there were any trading posts he could find along the coast.” The thought connected to something else Hawthorne had tried to tell him.
“Did he?”
“No,” Dean said, disappointed in the memory. “But that was almost twenty years ago. Things may have changed since then. It certainly changed for us. If the Russians opened up a trading line with the Africans, then that could be where they were getting so much of their supplies. “
“Then where have the Africans been in this war? It’s just us, the Aussies, Chinese, Brazilians, and Russians. If they had an alliance with Rodion and Delun, you’d think they’d be inclined to offer soldiers or ships, neither of which we’ve seen.”
“We’ll have another chat with the professor when we go ashore.” But even as the words left Dean’s mouth, he couldn’t help but feel troubled by the churning pit in his stomach. If the losses were as great as Monaghan had written in his message, then they couldn’t help the Australians until they’d reclaimed the ground they’d lost. Rodion still didn’t have a navy, and as long as Delun stayed near the islands, they had time to regroup.
Dean and Jason both ascended to the deck, and Dean’s confidence was further solidified by the might of their fleet behind them. The farther north they sailed and the closer they moved to the coast, the faster Dean’s heart beat. He couldn’t explain his nervousness or the sense of foreboding that plagued his mind. It could be the unknown of just how vast Rodion’s army was or the fact that for the first time in half a century, there were weapons greater than what his soldiers possessed. At least for now.
The southern-coast clans had no real port to speak of, so when Dean’s fleet arrived, they were forced to anchor offshore and take the tenders onto the sandy beaches and hike their provisions up the cliffs. It was slow going, a few of the horses and men nearly losing their footing on the way up.
When Dean arrived at the camp, his heart sank at the sight of his people, huddled in tents and huts, taken from their homes and forced into exile. The melancholy was palpable, and more than once Dean caught the nasty snarl of rage cast his way. He was losing their trust. If the deterioration of their faith continued, Dean wouldn’t have just Rodion’s army to worry about.
“This can’t be real.” Jason snuck up behind Dean, his face and clothes already covered in a light layer of sand, kicked up from the coastal winds.
“Governors.” General Monaghan’s was the first friendly face they saw, and he walked over with haste, accompanied by a few of his officers, all of whom kept their hands on the hilts of their swords. Dean wondered if they were already having issues with keeping the peace. “It’s good to see you alive and whole.”
Dean clasped the old general’s shoulder. “And you as well.” He turned back to Jason and the rest of the captains he’d brought. “I want you to bring up the provisions from the fleet. Food and medicines first, then ammunition.” The people need to remember that we’re here to help.
Jason seemed to understand the tone and quickly echoed the orders to the others, while Dean followed the general to the tent. The walk allowed the people to see that their governor was still alive and was a chance for him to see how they felt about it.
The sentiment amongst Dean’s people was mixed. Half the faces he passed wore expressions of hope and gratitude. The others tossed their grunts and begrudged moans as the governor walked by. There hadn’t been this much dissent among his people since before the wasteland-clan wars.
But the moment Dean saw Kemena, every burden washed away. They clutched each other hungrily, their bodies pressed tight. Even through the thick wool of her dress and his clothes, he felt the heat from her body, a warmth that he’d longed for over the past weeks. When he pulled his face back, he watched her wipe a tear from the corner of her eye quickly.
“Governor.” The general waited at the entrance to his quarters, eager to debrief him on the climate of war but doing his best to keep a gentle hand in front of Kemena.
“It’s okay,” Kemena said, cupping the rough beard that had grown on his cheek. “I’ll be here when you get out.”
Dean kissed her then gently placed his hand over her stomach. At the entrance to Monaghan’s quarters, he turned back to see her still standing in the same spot, and again he saw it, the lighthouse on the coast, guiding him home, letting him know that no matter how bad things were or how bleak they would become, he could always find his way back.
General Monaghan immediately went to the map, the figures of their enemy swarming over the capital and much of the lands to the south. “Governor, the losses we suffered during Rodion’s first wave of attack were crippling. We held the capital for as long as we could, but his advanced weaponry was too much. He has armored vehicles, automatic weapons, and the radios to communicate his battle efforts in real time. With the casualties at the capital, our fighting force is down sixty percent.”
The number nearly collapsed Dean into his chair. “How many wounded?” He knew they couldn’t withstand another assault from Rodion’s men. Without more men and weapons, their next battle would be their last, even with the efforts of their fleet.
“Five percent,” Monaghan said, shrugging. “It was much higher, but the lack of medical supplies brought it down significantly. Sir”—Monahan moved closer—“we can’t keep control of our own lands.”
“And what of the clans?” Dean asked. “Did they suffer the same casualties as us?”
A few of the officers glowered angrily and others cast their gaze down, but only Monaghan looked him in the eye. “Sir, the clans never arrived. We haven’t heard a word from them since the fighting began.”
Dean smacked the figurines off the table, sending them flying into the cloth tent walls and then crashing to the dirt and sand. Half the map hung from the table, while the end with Rodion’s forces kept the parchment anchored. “Craven bastards.”
The clans had pledged their alliance, swore they would fight together. If they had shown, it could have been the difference between retreat and victory. It would have easily pushed the number of soldiers in battle back to their favor. They could have flanked Rodion, taken his weapons, turned the tide, they could have—
“Governor?” Monaghan asked.
Dean’s knuckles whitened from the hard grip on the table. His entire was body tense, his spine so stiff it could snap in half. “Has Rodion made any demands? Any attempts to send an emissary?”
“No, Governor.”
Dean didn’t expect Rodion to; the Russian was winning handily, and Dean had no idea when Rodion would order his soldiers to march. Time was of the essence. Dean regained his reserve and pulled the map back up to the table, the officers helping replace the fallen figurines. He tapped the Northwest port, clear of any of Rodion’s ships. “We’ll send the fleet north to the capital and bombard Rodion’s forces by sea. If we’re lucky, the Australians have given Delun enough trouble for him to call back the ships he leant Rodion to ferry his men across the Pacific. We’ll need to outfit each vessel with as many long-range guns as possible. There’s no way of telling what other technology Rodion may have at his disposal.”
“We think he’s already shown us his hand, Governor,” Monaghan said. “Rodion doesn’t strike me as a man to hold back.”
“Nor do I, but with the casualties at what they are, we can’t take any chances.” Dean moved his finger to Jason’s region in the east. “Have we received any word of attacks in the southeast?” God help them if Rodion had managed to already send forces. It was their last remaining stronghold.
“No, sir. The southeast has yet to be touched.”
“Let’s hope it stays that way. I want supply lines opened up immediately, whatever support can be lent will be had. If Rodion chooses to advance before or
even during our naval bombardment, then we won’t have the ability to protect our people from slaughter, and continuing south will only take us farther away from food and water. There isn’t anything in the deserts that can help us.”
“And the wasteland clans?” the general asked.
The fact that they had gone back on their word and left Dean’s people to fight alone was cause for concern. Rodion may have reached out to them, bribed them, but that didn’t fit the general’s profile. “I’ll ride out and meet them myself, try and discover what happened.” He hoped it was nothing more than a lack of communication, but the fact that they’d received no word at all didn’t give the belief much weight.
Jason entered, and the generals and officers gave a slight bow. He looked over the map then to Dean. “Gentlemen, I need the room.” The tent emptied, and Jason took a seat in the corner, his knees bouncing uncomfortably, but remained silent. Finally, just before Dean was about to speak up, Jason broke his silence. “I want to take a team into the camp and kill Rodion.”
“Jason, that’s folly. You’d be dead before you made it past the sentries.” Dean waved the idea off, but his brother kept pushing.
“We get some of our best men, ones that know the land better than we do.” Jason rose from the chair, inching forward, keeping his voice hushed. “We go at night. If we can get rid of Rodion, the rest will be too scatterbrained to mount any type of strategy, and we can pick them apart.”
Dean rounded on his younger brother, shoving him hard in the chest and pushing him back. “Lance isn’t even in the ground yet, and you’re looking to join him?”
Jason’s temper flared, and he flipped the table, the figurines crashing to the sand and earth. His face flushed red and the vein along his neck pulsated with rage. “Two of our brothers are dead! Killed by the order of the same man!”
“This isn’t just about our brothers anymore, Jason, it’s about our people, our land! We are holding on by a thread! You don’t think I want revenge? You don’t think I want to see Rodion’s head on a spike after I take it from his body with my own two hands? You’re being foolish, brother, and I won’t allow your own follies to kill what family we have left.”
Jason lunged at Dean, tackling him to the dirt. They toppled over one another, and the generals and officers rushed back inside and peeled them off one another. It took three soldiers apiece to keep them at bay. “No!” Dean shoved them back. “Let him go.”
“Governors, this is no time—”
“Let him go!” Dean’s orders rolled through the tent like thunder, and the officers complied. Jason lurched forward, his fists raised, his collar hanging loose from his neck. “If this is how you want it to be, brother, fine.” Dean charged, barreling into Jason, pummeling his ribcage with his fist, until Dean’s assault ended with a knee to his chin.
Dean’s head popped up, blood and spit flying overhead. Another blinding hit connected with Dean’s left cheek, spinning the room into a blur. He landed on all fours in the dirt, his ears ringing and a sharp pain in his jaw every time he swallowed. When he looked up, Jason was already on him, but he tripped his younger brother, pinning him to the earth in a headlock with his legs wrapped around Jason’s waist, immobilizing him. Jason gurgled, his skin purpling from the lack of oxygen. He smacked Dean’s arm, twisting, flailing his limbs to free himself. Finally, Dean felt Jason’s body relax, the fight slipping from him, and Dean released his grip, tossing Jason to the side.
Jason gasped for breath, his body shaking from the rush of adrenaline. Dean pushed himself off the ground. He was covered in dirt, his face a bright red where Jason had hit him, and blood dripped from a gash in his chin. “Send for the doctor. My brother seems to have lost his breath.”
Jason rubbed his throat, his face still flushed, and spit dripped from the corner of his mouth. “We can’t let Rodion win.” He rolled to his back in the dirt, the general and officers still in the room. “I can’t let him walk out of this alive. Even if it kills me.”
Dean shared the same rage that ran through Jason’s veins. War was in their blood, and vengeance was just one of the many symptoms the affliction caused. “He won’t win. Not if you go to the vault.”
While Jason clutched the pendulum at his neck, the generals and officers looked at each other questioningly. Monaghan was the first to speak. “Governor, what are you talking about?”
Dean walked over to his brother and extended a hand, pulling Jason out of the dirt. He removed both his and Fred’s necklaces, letting them dangle from his fingertips. “The old installation, General. It’s time.”
Monaghan shook his head. “Dean, whatever is inside that place no longer has any function. Your grandfather tried that years ago. The knowledge is lost.”
“The Brazilian engineers can help us,” Jason replied. “And for what they’ve built for the Chinese, we’ll need it.”
***
Once Dean departed to speak with the wasteland clans, Jason was left with the task of leading the engineers to the vault. In reality, it was a fortified room deep in the belly of the mountains just to the northeast. It had been built by the leaders before the Great War and for a brief time was a place for protection. But a lack of food had caused Jason’s grandfather to lead his family and what people survived the bombs of the Great War and travel to the west coast, where they eventually settled in the northwest where the capital of the region resides today.
Jason’s grandfather had kept the vault a secret. While much of the equipment there was no longer functional without a working power grid, he had the hope that one day they could restore some of their past. And if war started again as it had in the Great War, then the vault would be a valuable asset in that fight.
An armed escort followed Jason and the engineers, but he insisted that it be a small party. He knew the camp couldn’t afford to lose too many resources with the march east. However, he did appreciate the extra guns. The sect that guarded the vault did so at all costs, and he wasn’t sure what he would be walking into.
The engineers kept huddled together in the middle of the soldiers Jason brought. The trail to the vault was treacherous, the pathways narrow, and one peek over the side to the jagged rocks and cliffs thousands of feet below was enough to disorient any man.
The winds threatened their pace and their lives, trying to blow them back down the side of the mountain. The higher they rose, the colder it became. Jason’s fingers grew stiff around the rifle barrel he kept close. He maintained vigilance, constantly scanning the horizon for lookouts or any marauders that still lived in the mountains.
While most of the population was centered in the northwest and southeast regions and along the wastelands, there were still stories of those that lived in the mountains. The original sect that stayed behind to guard the vault had split in two a long time ago.
Half of the sect wished to remain loyal to their cause of guarding the vault Jason’s grandfather contracted them to keep safe; the other half wished to move on with their lives. Every few years his father would send a rider to check on the vault, and only half of those men ever returned. It was never truly clear who killed the messengers. Whether it was the half that had deserted their post or an overactive response from the vault’s sentries, they could never be sure.
Jason turned a corner, and in the distance he saw the path narrow to the point where only one man could cross. It was so tight he would have to hug the mountain, but once across, he would be rewarded with the vault that rested less than one hundred yards from where he stood.
Jason clutched the pendulums around his neck, all four of them clanking together. He tucked them into his shirt and looked back at the engineers, all three of them quivering. “I’ll go over first and secure a rope, but you’ll have to be careful when you cross.”
“And if you fall?” Alvy Hughes asked, knowing full well they wouldn’t be able to enter the vault without the pendulums he possessed.
“Then make sure you find my body quickly.” Jason scooted hi
s first foot onto the narrow ledge, the width of his boot too large for the small patch of rock. He shouldered the rifle, grasping the side of the mountain as he inched forward slowly. Each scoot sent another tumble of gravel down the mountain, and Jason’s fingers searched for grooves along the rocks, pulling himself forward.
Twice he slipped and nearly fell to his death, his fingertips flushed white as he clung to safety. Jason slid his foot forward, his legs trembling from the strained effort of balancing on the tight wire of rock. At points the ledge itself completely disappeared, and Jason stretched his foot across the empty void, his toe scraping the ledge of the next footing, then leapt over the stretch of space, nearly twisting his ankle on the landing.
Finally, the ledge widened, and Jason arrived on the other side. He untied the rope from his waist and anchored the end with a spike into the side of the mountain. He tied another spike to the opposite end then flung the cord across the ravine, one of the soldiers catching it before it fell. “Tie it off, and let me know when it’s sec—”
The bullet that whizzed by Jason’s left ear nearly deafened him, and the ricochet off the mountain nearly killed him. Jason slammed into the rocks for cover, but the protruding angles offered little protection.
Jason eyed the horizon, reaching for his rifle, searching for the shooter among the cliffs and jagged rocks, but saw nothing. He looked back behind him, the soldiers all aiming their rifles along the rocks, looking for the shooter as well. “See anything?”
“No, Governor!”
The air was dead quiet save for the wind that blew through the mountain passes. Jason listened for any slide of rock, any click of hammer, but heard nothing. He stepped out from his cover, and another bullet ricocheted next to his head. But this time he saw the shooter’s position and fired. “To the left of the vault!”