Introductions were made. By the time Debbie finished shaking all the hands, her arm was numb. Sam tried to lead her off several times to feed her, but each time a new wave of men and women descended on her. Word spread quickly about who was now in their midst. She was somewhat of a celebrity by association with her uncle. Everybody had to shake the hand of the niece of the “great” Levi Nirschell.
The handshakes finally tapered off, and hunky Sam Carson led Debbie and Jake to a large fire and got them some food. It smelled delicious: thick, juicy pieces of roast beef; sweet baked beans; and fresh, hot sourdough biscuits.
They ate like ravenous wolves, slurping and chewing, with giant smiles on their faces all the while. It was quite possibly the best meal Debbie had ever eaten.
Sam walked away, letting them eat in private. He returned a short time later with two bottles of ice-cold root beer.
“Root beer?” Debbie said. “Where did you get root beer?”
Debbie reached for the bottles. Her hand brushed against his.
“They’re cold,” she said.
“We got a truckload of the stuff last week. We intercepted a convoy headed for the Presidential Palace in Colorado. We have it stashed over in the creek.” He pointed toward a stream on the far side of the valley. “That’s why they’re so cold.”
“Presidential Palace? The president is alive and in a palace?”
Sam sat down beside Debbie and rubbed his scalp. “I think it’s time,” he said slowly, “I filled you in on everything.”
Two hours later, Sam finished his account of the current state of America. It was dark. Jake had fallen asleep. Debbie gently stroked Jake’s hair.
“Is there someplace I could lay him down for the night?” she said.
“Yes, we have a tent for you. Follow me.”
Debbie let Sam pick up her son. Muscles rippled in his forearms. Sam led them to a tent in the middle of the camp. Debbie felt like a princess. The tent was huge. Oil lamps hung from the tent poles. Two cots were set up in the corner with thick blankets on them, and actual pillows. They looked warm and wonderful.
Sam laid Jake on one of the cots and tucked him in. Debbie walked around the tent, touching everything, tears forming in her eyes. She paused at her cot and picked up a pillow, hugging it to her chest.
“I haven’t seen a pillow in months. I feel like royalty.”
“Well, if you like the pillow, you’ll love what I’m going to show you next. Follow me.”
Sam turned to leave the tent, obviously expecting Debbie to follow. She stopped him. “What about Jake? What if he wakes up? I should be here so he doesn’t get scared.”
Sam turned one of the lamps a little brighter and reached under Jake’s blankets. He pulled out Blazer the toy horse and placed it on the pillow by Jake’s head. He patted Jake on the head and smiled at Debbie. “I think he’ll be fine.”
Debbie’s heart pounded, threatening to explode. Her face flushed. She fantasized about running over to this man, throwing her arms around him, and kissing him with as much force as her lips would allow. She imagined him taking her in his arms and tenderly touching her face as he whispered to her …
“Debbie? Debbie!”
She snapped out of her daydream. Sam was shouting at her, trying to get her attention. Debbie’s face was hot with embarrassment.
“I have a surprise for you,” Sam said. “I think you’ll like it.”
He led her across the camp to a brightly lit tent on the edge. He lifted the flap, swung his arm in a flourish, and bowed low.
“My lady, your bath awaits.”
Debbie’s world began to spin. Her legs went limp. Sam caught her. She slowly regained her composure. In the middle of the tent was a metal cattle trough with steam pouring out of it. They had an actual bathtub.
“One of the girls laid out some clothes that should fit you,” he said. “There are clean towels in the corner and something one of the girls called a loofah.”
Before she knew what she was doing or could stop herself, Debbie threw her arms around Sam’s neck, kissed him on the cheek, and giggled with delight. She instantly regretted it as Sam’s face turned bright red. He backed out of the tent, looking terrified, and closed the tent flap.
“Just yell if you need more hot water, Debbie Nirschell.” With those words, Sam Carson was gone, leaving Debbie to experience the heaven on earth that was a hot bath.
“Debbie Nirschell,” she said out loud. That was her name. Debbie Nirschell. For the first time since her husband had died, the name felt right. She was finally ready to move on. She imagined him standing in heaven, talking with Jesus, and smiling down at her.
37
TWO MILES WEST OF CLARK, WYOMING
3:15 P.M. MDT, SATURDAY, JUNE 6
O N HORSEBACK, DMITRI URITSKI AND ADYA ALEKSEI HEADED for the Idaho border. They’d left Colorado a week earlier on orders from General Scheper, commander of U.C. Central Command. Their mission was simple: blend in, find out who was in charge of the rebel forces, and report back.
They had not learned anything yet. They had seen a few people at a distance, but everyone avoided them. If they did not talk to someone soon, they would have to change tactics and find someone to interrogate.
Dmitri was well versed in interrogation techniques. A veteran of the conflict in Afghanistan in the 1980s, he had learned many useful strategies for extracting information. He really did love his work. He found that when forcing people to give up hidden information, it gave him power. It was like a drug. He had been excited by the games he used to play with male prostitutes in the Russian bathhouses, but the first time he had killed someone by torturing him, it was much more pleasurable than the feeling he got from being with another man. He never even thought about men anymore, other than what power he could gain from his exploits in torment. He had started making a game out of torture. He was quite good at it. Each time the games ended, he walked away with more power flowing through him.
Dmitri had seen a man watching them from the shadows as they left Clark. He waited until they had ridden out of sight, then reached out and tapped his companion. With hand signals, he indicated they were being watched, and signaled Adya to pick up the pace. They spurred their horses forward and galloped a quarter mile, then slowed to a walk again. Without turning his head fully, Dmitri kept his eyes on their back trail. Just as they reached another curve in the road, two men came into view behind them and quickly ducked into the trees.
The Russians rounded the corner and split up, each riding into the trees on opposite sides of the dirt road. Dmitri tied his horse in the shadows, then crept up to the ditch beside the road and hunkered down to wait. If they did this right, they could get information from these men before they killed them.
Adya’s soft whistle floated across the road, indicating he was in position. Soon Dmitri heard running feet and readied himself to strike. When the sound of feet was nearly next to him, he jumped from the ditch, wielding a knife. Adya had done the same. One man stood frozen in the road between them, caught totally off guard. Adya pounced on the man and quickly had him immobilized, a knife blade against his throat.
Dmitri looked for the second man. He was nowhere in sight. He punched Adya’s prisoner, flattening his nose against his face. Blood poured from his nose and covered the front of his flannel shirt.
“Where is your partner?” Dmitri said in English. He hit him again, this time with a cupped hand over the left ear. The man let out a blood-curdling scream.
“Where is he? I’m not going to ask again!”
Dmitri heard hoof beats and looked over his shoulder in time to see another man bearing down on him, riding Adya’s horse. Dmitri dove free as the horse galloped by. The first man broke free from Adya’s grip and rolled into the ditch, coming to his feet. He ran for the safety of the trees and had just stepped into the shadows when Dmitri’s 9 mm slug tore through the flesh on his back. He crumpled to the ground in a heap.
The second man was gallopi
ng away through the trees. Dmitri ran for his horse, jumped into the saddle, and tore off after him. The man had a good head start, but Dmitri’s mount was a strong trail horse. The gap slowly dwindled. Soon Dmitri was only about ten lengths behind, and gaining.
They broke from the trees into a meadow. The man pushed his horse harder. Dmitri took out his pistol and fired twice, hitting the man in the shoulder. He had to be careful not to hit the horse. He needed to be closer. Dmitri spurred his horse again and tucked down in the saddle, lying across the back of his horse’s neck. The distance grew shorter.
Dmitri was only three lengths back when the man and his horse suddenly disappeared in front of him. Dmitri heard the man scream as he reined in. He jumped off his horse and ran forward. They were at the edge of a deep canyon. A hundred and fifty feet below him, Adya’s horse and the body of the thief were splattered on the rocks. Their blood had painted the rocks in a twenty-foot patch around their bodies. Dmitri stood on the edge of the canyon and sighed. “I guess we won’t learn anything from this one.”
He turned around. He and Adya would have to ride double until they could find another horse. This would definitely slow them down. They still had to find out who was leading this rebellion and where their weaknesses were. In two days they would have to radio in and give their report.
Dmitri mounted up and turned back toward the road. He froze as the realization hit him like a freight train—the radios were on Adya’s horse. He jumped off and ran back to the edge of the canyon. There was no easy way he could see to get down, but he had to find those radios. He noticed, about a half mile to the south, a side canyon leading off toward the bottom. He remounted his horse and made his way to the edge.
The ground was too rugged to ride, so he left his horse at the top. It took him an hour to walk into the main canyon. After another half hour, he reached the site of the carnage. He had a hard time walking, and slipped and fell on the oily blood twice. It was as if someone had dropped a giant water balloon filled with red paint. He dug through the hamburger, fur, and blood, searching for the saddlebags. By the time he pulled the pieces of broken radio from the saddlebags, he was covered from head to toe in human and horse blood.
The sun had set and it was almost completely dark when Dmitri returned to Adya and the man he’d shot. The man was barely alive.
“Your friend is dead,” Dmitri said, “and you will be as well unless you tell me what I want to know.”
Dmitri pulled out his knife and stabbed the man in the leg. Nothing happened. The man didn’t scream, didn’t beg for his life, and didn’t cry like most men. This puzzled and disappointed Dmitri. He became angry that this poor excuse of a man was not feeding his power.
He scratched his head and thought about his next move. Apparently, his bullet had hit the man’s spine, paralyzing him. Dmitri laughed and stabbed the man higher up the leg. Still no response. He worked his way up the man’s body, slicing as he went. The man screamed when Dmitri’s knife cut into the soft flesh of the man’s neck, just above the shoulders.
“I’ll tell you what you want,” the man said. “Anything, anything at all, just kill me now. I can’t live like this. Please just kill me!”
Interesting, Dmitri thought. He seems to have feeling just above his shoulders. Even if this man knew nothing, Dmitri was going to enjoy every minute of this. He pulled up on the man’s hair, placed the blade of the knife against his scalp, and cut to the skull. The man screamed in agony. This pleased Dmitri. He cut up farther under the hair line. The screams were like a drug to him. He whistled an old Russian folk song as he separated the man’s scalp from his head.
The man’s screams stopped as he fainted from the pain. Dmitri went to his horse, grabbed a bottle of water, and took a long drink. He would sleep well tonight. He built a fire, ate dinner with Adya, set up camp, and opened a bottle of vodka before the man woke up and groaned.
“I have a couple of questions for you,” Dmitri said. “I really hope you don’t want to answer them, because then my fun would be over.”
“What do you want to know? Please, I will tell you anything. Please!”
“I wish to know what you know about those who fight against the president and the U.C.”
He pulled up the flap of scalp, took a mouthful of vodka, and spit it out on the bloody skull. The man screamed as the vodka and salt from Dmitri’s saliva burned the nerves. This sent a wave of overwhelming pleasure through Dmitri. His eyes rolled back in his head. I am powerful!
“Nirschell,” the man said quickly. “His name is Nirschell, but I don’t have anything to do with the fighting. I’m Canadian! Please stop!”
Dmitri took a burning twig from the fire and thrust it into the man’s eye. The screams continued, echoing through the trees for several seconds even after the man had passed out again.
“Canadians are so soft and weak.” Dmitri said with a laugh.
Twenty minutes later, Dmitri stood on wobbly legs and stumbled over to the weak Canadian. The man had said one word, one name: “Nirschell.” It was time he found out who this Nirschell was. He bent over the man and cussed at the vacant eye staring back at him. This weak little man had died and taken that pleasure from him. He screamed in anger, kicked the man in the head, stumbled to his bed roll, and passed out, the vodka pickling his brain cells.
The sun was high in the sky and the air was warming when Dmitri Uritski rolled out of bed and rubbed his eyes. His head was pounding and his bladder felt like it was going to burst. He got up and stumbled into the trees to relieve himself. They had a name now. Dmitri didn’t know if it was a first or last name, but at least it was something. They would ride to Idaho and locate someone to fill in the blanks. He smiled at the thought of finding someone else to torture. He hoped it would be someone who was fighting for this Nirschell. There was now no way to report to General Scheper since the radios had been destroyed. They would have to make contact with any U.C. troops they came across and hope they could explain themselves before being shot.
He and Adya packed up camp and rode into the afternoon sun. They wouldn’t get far today after such a late start. They would have to cut back on the vodka if they wanted to complete their mission in a timely manner.
Dmitri and Adya rode hard for three days, not seeing anyone. They pulled up at a small meadow on the edge of a dense fir forest. The wind was blowing and the temperature had dropped at least twenty degrees since the afternoon. They built a good fire, ate dinner, and settled down for the night. A pack of coyotes howled in the distance as Dmitri opened his last bottle of vodka.
He offered Adya a drink, and they sat in silence as the liquor warmed their insides. Dmitri took a long pull from the bottle and twisted the lid back on. The binge a few days ago had made them miserable the next day. Since then, they’d done well at drinking only in moderation.
Dmitri stowed the bottle and started to lie down. A twig snapped. The feeling of tiredness instantly left him.
His eyes shifted back and forth. Someone or something was just inside the tree line, watching them. The hairs on the back of Dmitri’s neck stood on end. His muscles were tense, ready to spring into action.
“Hello?” he said in English. “Is someone there?”
A man answered from the safety of the trees.
“Hello, I saw your fire and hoped I might be able to share it with you. I haven’t had any matches for a week and my lighter is out of fluid.”
Dmitri was pleased at their good fortune. They were far enough into Idaho now that anyone they met would probably know this Nirschell. He decided he would play it cool and see what he could find out. He did enjoy the torture, but he might learn more if he just asked. What was it his linguist had said? “The Americans have a saying. You can catch more flies with honey than vinegar.” He would try the honey. That did not mean, when he was done finding out what he needed to know, he couldn’t still have a little fun with this man.
Dmitri pulled out his pistol, placed it under his leg, and spoke to th
e stranger. “Come on in, always willing to share my fire.”
Dmitri was excited when a tall, skinny man walked into camp leading a dapple about sixteen hands high. When he and Adya were finished with this man, they would have their second horse again. He smiled as the man sat next to the fire and held out his hand. “The name’s Carlson, Blake Carlson.”
Dmitri shook the man’s hand and summoned his best redneck impersonation. “Howdy, Blake. I’m Ned Baxter, and this here is Charlie Sanders. What brings you out and about tonight?”
“I’m heading to Oregon to volunteer with Levi Nirschell.”
Dmitri couldn’t believe their luck. This man was actually volunteering the information he was willing to torture him for. He was amazed at how stupid Americans could be. He didn’t even have to offer this fly honey. He came and landed without any bait.
Dmitri laughed and maintained his redneck persona. “That’s where me ’n Charlie’re headin’. Maybe we should ride together.”
The newcomer smiled and breathed a sigh of gratitude. “It sure would be nice to have some company.”
They sat in the firelight and talked for two hours. Dmitri learned that Levi Nirschell was leading the rebellion against President Hartley. He learned that the whole thing started with about eight hundred men in Boise. He laughed in his head when the man told him that eight hundred idiots on horseback armed with nothing but hunting rifles had defeated a few thousand well-trained and well-armed U.C. troops.
Satisfied that he had gotten all the information he was going to get from this man, Dmitri pulled out his pistol from under his leg, shot him in the face, and took another shot of vodka. He would have really liked to torture him, but it was late and he was growing tired of this man’s voice. He really did hate Americans. He hated President Hartley more than any other American, but he served his purpose. Dmitri would fight for him until this rebellion was crushed. Then Russian President Chekov would send in the rest of their troops and claim this land and its vast resources for Mother Russia.
Collective Retribution Page 25