Now weeks later, and a branch of Hightown’s armored wing remained in Alice. Their soldiers mixed in with Alice’s citizenry on the lawn of Nick Byrnes’ mansion, helping spread the wildflower seeds. Simon looked up to see Brian’s slow approach over the soft field. His knee appeared to be acting up, making him stop and lean into his cane every few minutes.
When Brian was close, Simon said, “Why don’t you go get some rest?” He reached into the burlap bag for more seeds. The tiny grains felt nice in his hand, a living thing not yet come to be.
“Nah,” Brian said. “I’ve spent enough time in bed or on the couch the last few weeks. I need some air. The ground here is bumpy is all. I’m a’right.”
Simon shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
Off in the distance, Winston left the worker and had his nose pressed deep in the soil. Simon looked up to see him digging. Dozens of bodies were underfoot, in no logical order, and the ground was soft, freshly turned over. It was impossible to decipher where a corpse may be.
“Winston!” Simon whistled loud and his dog’s ears perked up. He whistled again, and Winston came trotting over, his tongue bouncing out of the side of his mouth. “Come on, boy. No digging.” He scratched at the dark spot of fur on Winston’s head, and then said to Brian, “I should have left him at home with Bethany.”
“He needs fresh air too. And Beth’s working on the front line, helping raise a guard tower.”
Simon didn’t answer to that. He let the tiny seeds drift from between his fingers, scattering with the breeze. The radio attached to his belt made a muffled noise, and then a voice spoke. “Simon, come in. Over.”
Simon unclasped the radio. “This is Simon. Over.”
“You’re needed in North Ward Five. Over.”
Simon looked at Brian, and before he could say anything, Brian laughed and said, “I’ll look after Winston. Go on.”
“Thanks.” Simon scratched Winston’s head and reached down for his rifle, which was leaning beside a gardening rake. As he walked off the lawn, he turned to see Winston lapping at Brian’s hand as his head was ruffled, his tail in a frenzy.
He still has so much life in him.
Simon left the lawn quickly, then took up a jog down the street toward the northern section of town. The air expanding his lungs felt good. North Ward Five was a checkpoint close to the trade grounds, just slightly above it.
Two other Rangers were waiting along with the guards near the checkpoint. “Simon, sir!” one called out. No matter how many times Simon was called sir, he couldn’t get used to it. He was the logical next in command after so many of the other Rangers had died in combat. Especially with many of the residents looking at him as if he were supernatural after the battle on Nick’s front lawn. There was so much death that day … Simon had killed so many … and he barely remembered doing it. The night was like a dream. He fought in the trenches like an animal, his body moving and slicing the machete of its own accord. At night, when the nightmares came, it was like watching a horror movie.
“Jack,” Simon said, reaching the scouts. “What’s going on?”
Jack shook his head. “I don’t know, sir. I think it’s best you see for yourself. I’ll explain on the way.”
A jeep was waiting outside of the gates, and Simon sat in the passenger seat as Jack took the wheel and turned onto the pavement.
“There were three of them, sir. Just came wandering out of the brush. It’s—it’s a sight.”
“What is?”
“Our hunters were near Partridge Lake, and they saw the first of ’em. The guy came stumbling out of the brush, his wrists tied before him.”
“Who is he?” Jesus Christ, I hope it’s not one of my Rangers, sent on my orders …
Jack swallowed visibly. “A scout from Hightown. It’s his eyes, sir. He doesn’t have any. Eyes, ears, tongue, nose … they’ve been cut away. He’s near dead, starved and dehydrated.”
“Dear God … there are more?”
“Three, including the one scout. But he’s the only one still alive. The hunters called in a medic and reinforcements—”
“Why wasn’t I notified immediately?”
“I don’t know, sir. This all just happened. I don’t think the hunters knew what they were coming upon, or what was happening.”
“Okay, go on.”
“They found the second man dead in the woods about a half mile away, swarmed with flies. His face cut up the same. The third man was nearby, sitting against a tree. He was unconscious, but alive. When the medics came and started removing his binds, cutting away his clothing, there was a gash on his side, stitched up, and a bulge. Then all at once, the guy fucking blew up.”
“What?” Simon’s eyes shot large.
“Two medics died.”
“Holy shit. What about the other two?”
“The same. Both the one alive and the one dead, they got big bulges in their sides. The medics aren’t touching them until a bomb unit arrives. They’ve been called in, and should be there before us.”
“Does the general know?”
Yes, sir.”
Jack turned onto a gravel road, the bumps and potholes in bad shape.
“Any idea who the men are?”
Not the one who blew up, or the other who’s dead. It’s hard to tell … you know, with their faces how they are. But one of the hunters says he might recognize the one alive. A scout from Hightown, a mapmaker of some sort. Don’t know his name.”
Jack turned again down another gravel road, the woods growing thicker on either side. Three jeeps were parked ahead. Jack maneuvered behind them, and a soldier walked over.
“Simon,” the soldier said. “The bomb squad is there now.”
“Is he still alive?”
“Unconscious, I think.” The man pointed into the woods, where a dozen armed men stood about. “Just up there. Stay behind those trees.”
Simon stepped to the broad side of a maple, and the soldier passed him binoculars. Through the circular peripherals, a man sat with his back against a tree, his hands on his lap. Two men in full protective gear stood before him. The man’s face was red with blood, and black with grime. It was difficult to see the extent of his injuries from their distance, yet the dark voids where his eyes and nose should have been were unmistakable.
“One more thing, sir,” the soldier said. “His chest is all cut up. Looks like someone tried to write something on him with a knife.”
Simon looked away from the scene.
“Here.” The man passed Simon a slip of paper. “Whatever it means, it’s beyond me.”
Simon studied the words. Ante Bellum.
All at once, his radio, along with everyone else’s radio, issued a high-pitched alarm. Simon grabbed it from his belt. “All forces return to Alice. Hightown is reporting an attack. I repeat, all forces return to Alice.” The alarm repeated.
Simon turned to the car and ran to the passenger door. Jack started the ignition and turned in the road.
“Take us straight to the general,” Simon said.
The window was rolled down, and the warm breeze played over his skin.
Please, Simon thought, feeling as if he couldn’t breathe, let this be a false alarm …
He thought of Brian, injured from fighting. Of Bethany, whose nightmares rivaled his own, and of Carolanne, Brian’s wife, who had sewed and patched up hundreds of wounds. He thought of Winston, who now was so old that it took him a pause to sit and stand, yet still had so much youthful eagerness to smell and experience new things. He thought about Tom Byrnes, and the hundreds of people he called friends who were brutally slaughtered during the battle for Alice. All for nothing. He himself had killed dozens, and he would never be at peace with that. Then there was the monk boy, who was so broken by all he had witnessed that it took several hours for Simon to get him to tell them his real name, Connor.
We can’t take any more … No more fighting, please, for all that is holy …
But deep down, Simon kne
w that something terrible was on the horizon.
Chapter Six
Futile Gestures
A coughing fit woke lead engineer John Zur from unconsciousness. A foggy wave of uncertainty rolled over his mind as a thick blanket of dark smoke engulfed his body and shot upward. His eyes teared a steady stream, and he blinked over and over, trying to keep them open long enough to see where he was and what had happened.
He remembered an explosion from outside the mobile command truck. A terrible blast from the artillery yard, followed by others in fast succession. At first, he thought it was the cracking of the cannons unleashing at the approaching vessel in the bay, but Sergeant Turner, the battery commander, had not given the order to fire live rounds. Before John could radio a query, his world turned black. Like a train ramming into the side of the command center, the rectangular structure was ripped in half, and his little corner was sent twisting to its side.
He turned onto his stomach to shield his face from the overwhelming flood of smoke and crawled upward, toward the hazy rectangle of blue sky. Still unsure if he was injured, and on the verge of fainting from lack of oxygen, he clambered over broken computer monitors, shards of glass, and an unrecognizable plethora of burning debris. The heat inside that small piece of trailer was like a vortex oven. Something sharp dug into his chest and snagged his uniform. Still, he pulled himself forward.
He was close to the jagged, torn-open end, his eyes engulfing the outline of the outside world, when hands were on him. He was pulled outside fast, and he collapsed on his back, inhaling fresh air, wheezing and coughing. Each breath felt like daggers poking at his lungs. Hands dragged him farther from the wreckage, and then left him to lie on his back. Through the succession of coughing, he became aware that the soldier kneeling over him was speaking.
“John! John! Mister Zur, sir!” The soldier splashed water from a canteen over a cloth and wiped at John’s eyes and mouth, and put the nozzle up to his lips. John sipped and spat out the water, then drank a mouthful. “Are you okay, sir?”
His vision cleared to see the carnage around him. The artillery yard was on fire. Pockets of twisted metal burned in blackened craters. A swarm of soldiers and medics were tending to dozens of men on the ground. Somewhere in the distance, beyond the roaring clamber, was the undeniable popping of gunfire. John pushed himself up on his elbows. “What-what the fuck happened?”
“Sir, I don’t know,” the soldier said. “I was on my way to the bayfront when all of a sudden there were explosions in the artillery yard. I ran over and saw you coming out of what’s left of the command center.”
The soldier had unbuttoned John’s shirt, which was torn and red. Beside him, lying in the grass, was a portion of someone’s arm ending before the elbow, with three fingers intact. He lay back down and allowed the soldier to check his wounds as he attempted to rationalize his thoughts.
What was the last thing he’d heard over the radio? It was his job, along with two other men who’d been in the mobile command unit, to relay information from central command to various points along the line, as well as the artillery.
“We’re under attack,” he told the soldier.
The young man nodded. That much was apparent. “Who’s attacking us, sir?”
“I have no idea.” His chest stung as the soldier washed a fluid over it and wiped his skin with a cloth, again and again. John craned his neck to see his injury. “How bad is it?”
“You’ll be fine. Big scratches and bruises.”
It felt like he’d broken a rib. The radio on the soldier’s belt was abuzz with clatter. “What are they saying?”
The soldier placed a long bandage over John’s chest and began tearing strips of medical tape. He paused to pull the corded microphone to his ear. “All men to their posts,” he said, and then, “Units Charlie and Delta to the bayfront.”
John began buttoning what remained of his tattered shirt back up. “I have to get to command,” he said.
The soldier didn’t protest. He helped him to his feet, then said, “The boat … there’s more of them. Dozens of small craft reported. They’re landing.”
A dart of terror struck at his heart. “Who?”
The soldier held the radio to his ear, shook his head uncertainly.
“Give me your radio,” John said, and reached to grab it. He switched the channel. “Command, come in,” he said. “This is John Zur, post two. Over.”
Voices continued giving orders, then one said, “Zur, report to HQ, immediately. Over.”
John gave the radio back to the soldier and turned to leave without saying another word. He ran up and over craters where explosions had left deep scars in the field, and past injured men wailing as medics swarmed around.
He was just past the yard when pain in his legs became apparent, and his lungs felt like they were on fire. The wound on his chest pulled with each step, but still he continued. A platoon of near fifty soldiers came running from around a corner toward the bayfront, nudging John to the side of the road.
Jesus, he thought. What the hell is going on? A few years ago, in what might have been another lifetime, John worked in telecommunications. He was one of the few members of Hightown without a military past. He was a technician and engineer. He knew how to make electronics work. He knew how to make radios give and receive messages. How to make computers relay information. Using a gun was a skill he’d only recently become acquainted with.
A dozen armed men stood before the door to headquarters, in the center of town. John reached them, holding the bandage on his chest, barely able to speak with his lungs on fire. The soldiers recognized him, and two ran to meet him as he approached. “Sir,” one said. “Are you okay, sir?”
“Where’s the general?”
“Inside, sir.”
They held the door to the warehouse-turned-office open, and John entered into a sea of officials. Dozens of men before a row of computer monitors, shouting orders into microphones, hunched over tables, pointing at maps and charts.
He pushed around them, toward the executive offices.
“John!” a voice shouted.
He turned to see Lieutenant Turner walking hurriedly toward him, his usual grim demeanor darker.
“Lieutenant,” John said. “What’s going on? Where’s the general?”
“What happened to you?” Lieutenant Turner said, looking at John’s torn and soot-covered uniform. “What happened to command two?”
“It’s gone.” John shook his head. “The whole yard, all of the artillery. It all blew up.”
“Come with me,” he said, and turned toward the offices. He entered a door and John followed. Inside the quiet room, he said, “They’ve landed.” His composure wavered through a crack in his voice. “Hundreds, maybe thousands.”
“Jesus Christ—who?”
“We don’t know. We sent two detachments to the bay, but with our armored wing still in Alice, they’ve managed to climb the embankment. General Driscoll just ordered initiative Dire Straits.”
John felt his knees get weak. If this were true, then whoever was attacking was gaining ground, fast, and Hightown was in desperate trouble.
“You’re going, now, John.” Lieutenant Turner reached out and gripped John’s shoulder. “You’re carrying the torch. Report to the western gate.”
“Where am I going?”
“You’re on the Texas convoy.”
“The Lone Stars? We’ll never convince them. Albuquerque, maybe, but Texas—”
“Look, I know.” The middle-aged lieutenant squeezed John’s shoulder. There was empathy in his eyes, deep under his somber gaze. John knew the man had lost four children and his wife to the disease, and there was no coming back from a loss like that. “We don’t have the luxury of time to debate this,” he continued. “You’re going to have to try. Those good ole boys in Texas are clinging to their fierce individualism like it’s a birthright, but we’ve all signed a pact. Whether they want to acknowledge their responsibility to that ag
reement is yet to be seen.”
“The pact was all but voided when no one responded to Albuquerque’s call. Not even us.”
“That was different. We couldn’t help back then. Alice was still in its infancy, and it was difficult enough to keep them up and running, even with our support. John, this is an order from the general himself.”
John nodded. He was frightened. Terrified. He was leaving Hightown. He was leaving safety, security, to journey for days to some distant settlement of people he’d never seen. “I understand,” he said. “I’ll go now to the gate.”
“Godspeed,” the lieutenant said.
“And you, sir?”
“I’ll leave with the last of them.”
John shook the man’s hand, and turned to the door.
***
Hightown’s western gate opened, and a flood of vehicles and men on foot raced out. The caravans were preloaded and ready for the journey, each set to snake the land in opposite directions; south, north, and west. The bulk of the army was ordered to fall back to Alice, where they would regroup, man the line, and await further instructions for a counteroffensive.
General Driscoll remained behind along with five officers and what remained of company Charlie, Delta, and Omega. They would pull out once the invaders neared the headquarters and the rest of his men had run to the woods for safety.
John Zur sat in the back seat of a Hummer, a medic re-examining the wound on his chest. He found a change of uniform from one of the boxes of supplies in the rear of the truck and held the crisp, new shirt in his hand, waiting for the medic to finish. He looked out the rear window at the line of trucks following behind. In the southwest, he would face his greatest trial yet; convincing the people of Texas, the Lone Star colony, to journey to the East Coast in defense of the federation. He had many miles to cover, and more than enough time to contemplate just how futile the task would be.
Someday Soon Page 4