Behind the Ruins (Stories of the Fall)

by Michael Lane

“I need to see Creedy. It’s urgent.”

  Gregor knocked and ushered Hollis inside, then returned to his desk and resumed reading a book he’d found in one of the castle sub-basements. There were halls down there full of books and stored documents, many of them behind locked steel doors that only he held the keys for. Most of the locked doors had tiny grilled windows, and you could see the bookshelves beyond, looming in the dark. This particular book was on osteopathy. Gregor found it boring, but the anatomical information might be useful. He was a little worried that Harris had died too quickly, and hoped to do better next time.

  As soon as Gregor had shut the door, Creedy gestured to the chair facing his desk and raised an eyebrow.

  “Hollis, you look worried. What’s happened?”

  “The CDF is in Pullman,” Hollis said, mouth curving down in a bow of distaste. “I had two days to get myself and men I trusted out of there. I had to leave most of what I’d planned to bring north behind.”

  Creedy exhaled sharply through his nose, placed both palms on the scarred surface of his desk and drummed his fingers.

  “How many men did you bring?”

  “Twelve,” Hollis said. “There were fifteen more between two eastern posts that I wanted, but there were patrols in the area and I decided the risk wasn’t worth it.”

  Creedy stared at Hollis for a while, his eyes distant. “Fuck.”

  “We need to move,” Hollis said. “We need to move now.”

  “I need to decide exactly what we’re going to do, and we need to get word to Shafton and Straud. Hopefully we have at least a couple of weeks, but we’d better assume we don’t. If we don’t, we’ll go without them.” Creedy drummed his fingers again, faster this time. He stopped as Gregor knocked and thrust his head around the door.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt, Mister Creedy,” he said. “But there’s a rider here from Mattawa. He says someone attacked their post.”

  Chapter 16: Decisions

  Doc was pretending to argue over the proper way to cook ground squirrels with Georgia; Mal and Grey had finished untacking their horses. The camp was pitched in a gentle swale between a trio of low hills that screened it from the wind and kept the nightly campfire from being visible. Somewhere on the shadowed hilltops Sowter and Clay sat, blankets drawn around their shoulders, watching.

  The moon had just risen when the tethered horses whickered and called, greeting the shapes descending the slope.

  Ronald rode into camp, his left sleeve and side soaked with blood that looked black in the firelight. Blood spattered his left leg, and speckled the flank of his horse. Another riderless horse followed behind. Ronald looked about, his head moving like a sleeper’s, and reined up but did not try to dismount. Doc scrambled for his bags.

  Georgia moved to grasp the halter of the second horse. The bloodstained young man stared for a moment, then grunted and dropped the horse’s lead rope.

  Grey walked to the head of Ronald’s horse, capping its nose with a palm. “Harmon?”

  Ronald shook his head.

  “You followed?” Grey asked.

  “I don’t know,” Ronald said in a rusty voice. “I don’t think so. I’m thirsty.”

  Doc returned with a canvas bag and a faded tarp. He dropped the tarp near the fire, kicking it until it unrolled.

  “Get him over here where I can see,” he said, crouching and unlacing the satchel.

  Grey asked Ronald to dismount, but he stayed where he was and stared at the fire. Mal stepped closer and repeated the order, helping him when he finally kicked his foot free of the stirrup.

  “They shot him. He burnt up,” the boy muttered. “He was on fire, and he shot himself.”

  “Come on over here, let’s get your arm looked at,” Mal said. He looped an arm around Ronald’s waist and walked him to the tarp, supporting him when he staggered. Grey handed the reins of the boy’s horse to Georgia where she stood holding the reins of Harmon’s. She stared at Grey for a moment, studying his face before she led the pair off.

  Doc worked quickly, cutting away the clotted shirtsleeve, exposing the blackened, swollen upper arm with the crusted hole drilled through the bicep. Blood oozed sluggishly from the wound. He turned Ronald before making him sit down, bending to look at the back of his arm.

  “The bullet’s still in there,” he said. “I’ll give you something, and then we’ll get it out and bandage you up.” Mal supported Ronald as he sat, still staring at the fire.

  Grey squatted, facing him.

  “Can you tell me what happened?”

  “We couldn’t get in,” Ronald said. His face was pasty under the soot, dirt and blood that masked it. Doc snapped orders at Mal, who laid Ronald prone and propped his feet up on one of the saddles. The injured man blinked up at the stars, his eyes wandering lazily, like a dreamer’s.

  “The windows were sealed up. We tried to use the door but the three guards were there from before.”

  “Did they chase you?”

  “No, I shot two, and Harmon killed the other one.” Ronald’s eyes squeezed shut and he bared his teeth in a grimace. “They were on fire. They burnt. Both of them. Harmon looked at me and then he shot himself in the head.” He opened his eyes and stared at Grey, his gaze confused. “He was looking right at me.”

  Doc had powdered some big white pills in a steel mug and dissolved them with a splash of water. He elbowed Grey aside and made Ronald drink it.

  “Once that kicks in he’ll be out for an hour or two,” Doc said. “I’ll clean his arm up then.” He wrapped a cloth tightly around the wound. “Keep his feet up, and let him rest, Grey.”

  Ronald’s eyes stayed on Grey.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “It wasn’t your fault, Ronald.” he stood, feeling his knees pop. “We’ll talk later, after you’re all fixed up. You just rest and listen to Doc, right?”

  Ronald blinked and looked away, his eyes reflecting the moon but seeing something else.

  The old physician worked quickly once the drugs took effect, and he removed a flattened slug from where it nested deep against the bone, then stitched tissue as best he could while Mal and Georgia held candles and handed him whatever he asked for. Clay came down to check on his friend while Doc worked, cursing the light, then went wordlessly back to his post for the remainder of his watch.

  Eventually Doc rose, wiping his hands on a rag.

  “If shock doesn’t kill him in the next few hours - or infection in the next few days - he’ll be all right,” he said as he walked to where Grey stood at the edge of the firelight. “I think the slug fractured the humerus, but it’s a miracle it didn’t do a lot worse.”

  “That’s good,” Grey said. “We’ll have to move as soon as we can. They’ll be coming.”

  “He’ll be out another few hours,” Doc said. “He shouldn’t move for a day or two. You’ll tell me we can’t wait?”

  “No. I think they’ll come fast and hard on his trail. The fires would have puzzled them for a while, but they’ll react quick to a shooting. That’s something they know about.”

  Doc stood a moment, listening to the wind as it hissed across the grass. He held out his hands, looked at his stained fingers, then dropped them to his sides and returned his gaze to the bearded hunter.

  “Why are we doing this, Grey?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What’s in this for you? What’s the payoff for all the death? If we can somehow stop this Creedy from moving his guns to the Okanagan that’s all well and good - but why are you doing it, really?”

  Doc waited, listening to the wind. It was a long time Grey answered.

  “I don’t know why. I think it may be because I’m like him. We’re the same, or used to be. And it needs doing.”

  “And did it have to be you that did it?” Doc asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Will it make up for Harmon? Or Ronald?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Doc sighed. “You may want t
o figure that out. Soon.”

  They left as dawn broke. Ronald rode pale and silent, his left arm strapped across his chest. Sowter rode beside him, watchful. Neither the burly camp cook nor Clay had spoken with Grey after he had informed them of the impending arrival of the army - and Creedy’s likelihood of moving within the next few weeks. Georgia had been the only one who’d spoken.

  “So last night’s little disaster could have been avoided altogether?” She’d asked with a bitter little grin. Grey had simply nodded. Why bother with the excuse? ‘Who could have known?’ solved nothing and helped no one.

  They rode as hard as they could, but Ronald’s wound slowed them, and by noon he was hunched over in the saddle, lost in a world of his own hurt. A faint red stain bloomed on his bandaged arm as the wound seeped.

  The landscape changed as they travelled, with the last fields and outlying ranches giving way to sandy hills capped with dark rock and little steep-sided valleys choked with thorny brush. Early on, they saw a few people working in the fields, distant specks accompanied by small flocks of birds, and kept well away. For the last few hours they’d seen no one.

  Grey drew up and turned his horse to face the others.

  “We need to split up,” he said. “Someone needs to take Ronald back north, and word that Creedy is coming, no more than two or three weeks behind.”

  “I can do it,” Ronald said, weaving as he sat.

  “Maybe,” Grey said. “But if you get a fever or have some other problem, word has to get to Tom, and Tillingford, and the valley in general.”

  “So who goes?” Sowter asked.

  “Doc, Ronald and you,” Grey said. “Doc because we might need him, but we know Ronald does for sure. You because someone out there knows you’re Simmons from Potter’s Creek. Besides, you can make sure Doc and Ronald get there in one piece.”

  Doc glowered at Grey.

  “You think the four of you are going to manage to stop an army?” He spat. “Give it up, Grey. Come home with us. Make a stand with the Port.”

  Grey ignored him and stared hard at Sowter.

  “I’m depending on you. People have to be ready. Have Tom bring some folks to the old hotel south of Summerland, the one that overlooks the highway. They can force losses on anyone trying to get past, and that’ll mean fewer reach Tillingford’s and the Port.”

  Sowter blinked at Grey, leaned over and spat.

  “Do you think Tom will listen?”

  “Make him. Tell him the bridge is his fallback,” Grey said. “He can hold that bridge with six or eight riflemen as long as they have ammunition.”

  Clay had been silent most of the day and Grey swung round when he laughed.

  “You’re not expecting us to stop many of them, are you?” Clay asked, adjusting his hat. Grey couldn’t see his eyes under the brim.

  “I quit expecting anything some time back,” Grey said. “I made a mistake. I thought we had time, and we don’t. I thought we could control the where and when, and we can’t. So we just have to do the best we can. Anyone else wants to go back, this is the time.”

  Clay shook his head, eyes still hidden. When he spoke, his voice was calm.

  “You can’t ask people to go get killed, Grey. You can only tell them to.”

  “Fuck that,” Grey snapped. Clay raised his head. “It’s not true. I spent years doing just that and it’s bullshit. I want people with me that want to do the job.” He paused and drew a breath. “Harmon’s dead and I miss him. It’s hard. You want the truth?”

  Georgia snorted. “You’re finally waking up?”

  “Yes, I guess I am,” Grey said, swinging to eye her. He talked fast, hammering over interruptions. “I want Doc home because I think we have a better chance of surviving without him. We’re faster without the mules, and much as I love him, he’s getting old and slow. Ronald’s not going to be worth a shit with a broken arm, and I need to make sure they get home, so I want Sowter to go - because Clay and Mal are better with pistols and I want you and your goddamn German rifle here to kill a couple dozen assholes. Now, if that doesn’t work for you, fine, head home.”

  Georgia smiled sunnily. Grey squashed an urge to punch her.

  “It’s work getting you to lead, Grey,” she said. She cocked her head and gave him a look he couldn’t read. “We don’t care what sort of baggage you have, we just want to feel like you know what you’re doing.”

  Grey exhaled and straightened his toque.

  “Right. Then the next creek we cross, I want Sowter to take Doc and Ronald downstream, then cut north after a mile or so. The rest of us are going to leave a trail and head southeast for now. We’ll lead anyone who may follow away for a day, then try to lose them before we head toward the Castle proper to pick up Creedy when he moves out.”

  Clay shook himself like a big dog, removed his Stetson, dusted it off, and carefully settled it onto his head again.

  “Okay then,” he said.

  Doc argued when the group reached a shallow stream, green with cress and fringed with cattails as tall as the horses, but in the end he went with Ronald and Sowter. The remaining four watched them depart, trailing the pack mules in a staggered line that splashed through the brown water, kicking up cream-colored foam.

  “It’s been a game so far,” Grey said to himself as the three disappeared into the reeds.

  “Playtime’s over?” Mal asked.

  “Playtime’s over,” Grey agreed, cutting his horse around and kicking it into a canter.

  Chapter 17: Preparations

  The physical damage to Mattawa was minor, Creedy decided. Someone had burnt one strongpoint and tried for a second, killed three guards and lost one in the attempt. Nothing.

  The psychological effects were more serious. Outlying garrisons were late with reports, or not reporting at all. Troopers were milling about, commanders busy making plans. His controlled exit on his own schedule was looking less likely. While he might have bluffed through the approach of the CDF, having this partisan activity on top of it was fracturing his control. Fear only kept people in line until something else came along they feared more - or desired more. Now they were scrambling, trying to consolidate their positions. He knew it was just a matter of days before someone made a play for his position. It wouldn’t matter that he intended to leave. They wouldn’t believe him in any case.

  It was almost time to move, and worry about the details as they arose, but he had another job to do first; not vital but potentially amusing. He asked Gregor to meet him in the basement beneath the central wing.

  Gregor found his employer standing before one of the locked steel doors, peering at the darkness beyond. A small oil lamp sat at his feet. The concrete hallway here was lined with steel shelves painted gray. Boxes of printed material filled them, as in the rooms beyond the locked doors. Many of the boxes sat open, and papers and books lay in untidy piles. Troops had long ago given up on finding anything of value in the sub-basement, but new arrivals always rooted about before becoming bored.

  Gregor was the only person who spent any amount of time in the catacombs, picking through the old books for interesting things to read.

  The aide stopped, his bulk exaggerated by the narrow hallway, and linked hands behind the small of his back.

  “Gregor, these doors.” Creedy kicked the one before him, eliciting a dull thump. “I need you to get the keys.”

  “I have them here, Mister Creedy,” the big man rumbled.

  “Excellent. What would I do without you, Gregor?” The aide retrieved a key ring from his pocket and chose a key. The door opened smoothly and Gregor reached up, locking the hydraulic arm to keep it from closing again.

  Creedy grunted and eyed the hallway, the debris and the drifts of paper and drab rectangles of hardcovers, mostly green or brown, scattered haphazardly. He hadn’t spent much time down here in years, but he had never forgotten what he’d discovered, knowing its potential.

  “If we had more time, I’d see if there was anything else
of use to us.” He pinched the bridge of his nose with his forefinger and thumb, as if warding off a headache. “No matter. There’s a maze of halls down here and more than a dozen of these locked rooms, yes?”

  “Fourteen, Mister Creedy.”

  “How many access points are there to the levels above?”

  “Two stairwells, and three elevator shafts,” Gregor answered without having to think.

  Creedy nodded. The elevators were frozen in place on the ground floor and wouldn’t be a factor for what he had in mind.

  “I think this room will serve my needs.” Creedy mused. “Get some men, bring down one of the propane tanks - the big ones - and five or six cans of lamp oil. The kerosene, not the fish oil, please. I’ll need wire as well, and the red box from the armory.” A ghost of a smile touched his lips and he patted Gregor’s shoulder. “I’d like to leave a little parting gift for whoever moves in after us.”

  “Anything else, Mister Creedy?”

  “Yes. I need help moving a few cases from this particular room after you bring the items. Then I’ll want two good lengths of heavy chain and a pair of padlocks.”

  Gregor nodded, turning on his heel, and moved away into the dark. Creedy listened to his footsteps as he began to climb the nearby stairwell and then began to clear away the trash stacked before the door.

  He hummed as he worked.

  To reach the ground floor from the subbasement under the Castle’s central block, one first climbed a double flight of concrete steps edged in rusted steel. That brought you to the basement level, with its armory, parking garages littered with vandalized sedans and a few bulky six-wheeled armored vehicles long since stripped of weapons. This area was now given over to the Castle horses, with storerooms holding fodder and a penal brigade that shoveled the stables daily. There were also dark, silent mechanical rooms filled with dusty ranks of heat exchangers, junction boxes, gas lines, jumbles of shining HVAC ducting and pumps, none of which had worked since the first impacts had melted the computers that ran the systems. Time had welded many of the components into immobility, and Creedy had never seen the need to try to restore any of the systems. He had people, and people can fetch water, dig latrines and tend fires. There were always a handful of guards posted in the basement, watching the doors that closed off the ramps that led up to ground level. Another group was posted at the locked doors of the armory, to which only Creedy and Gregor had keys.