Wick - The Omnibus Edition

by Bunker, Michael

  But that is not all.

  One would also not have to be a lover of Shakespeare to notice that the houses of York and Lancaster were at it again. One wouldn’t have to be a historian of the Middle Ages and know about the War of the Roses to appreciate the rich irony, and to stop here and smell the roses.

  One might want to note that in that conflict, it did not come down to a question of whether human beings could be bought and sold. Rather, it came down to a question of whether one should wear a white rose or a red rose on one’s lapel. That conflict, the War of the Roses, was ancient even when the last Civil War pierced Pennsylvania. Sometimes, the root and fruit of conflict isn’t visible from ground level.

  ****

  Clive Darling, using contacts and means known only to himself, called in substantial ‘neutral’ forces to fight on behalf of the FMA in their battle to keep the MNG from moving south. He didn’t want to do that. He liked to remain aloof—above the conflict—but that was not possible in this situation.

  Clive had a vested interest in keeping the MNG away from the front door of Amish country, so he brought all of his power and resources to bear on the problem. It should be noted that he had substantial power and resources. It was also notable that he had a very close friend and business associate in Mount Joy. Saving his friend was the motivation that added further impetus for Clive to insert himself into the raging civil war.

  One can imagine a world in which Clive wouldn’t have cared at all about what happened in Mount Joy and therefore wouldn’t have taken an interest in its outcome—but that was not this world. In this world, he did care, and he was interested. The reason Clive was interested was that he was fighting a fight that was older than the War of the Roses. He was fighting to save a friend. In his mind, there was something even biblical about it all. This explains why the battle was so brutal and violent. The MNG didn’t know that Clive’s forces were coming, so they attacked what they thought was an inferior force, with the thought of rooting them out of the town.

  What the MNG did know, was as shocking as what they did not know, and contributed further to the ferocity of the battle.

  They absolutely did know that there was going to be an… overturning… of their own leadership. They did know that the man who was going to be their new commander wanted the way cleared so that the MNG could march south, and then west. For these reasons, the field leadership of the MNG used everything they had—every tool that they could muster—to try to dig the FMA out of Mount Joy. They would have accomplished the task, too, if thousands of well-armed militia, commanded, pre-positioned, and equipped by Clive Darling, hadn’t shown up to save the FMA.

  ****

  A young officer crouched down behind a burned out vehicle and wondered whether one of the bullets zippingbyhis head would end upinhis head in the next instant. Still, he had to work out the details of why he was here, and what he should do next. His new commander, the little bulldog of a man, had gotten right up in his face and made himself, and his demands, known. The new boss wanted the FMA pushed back. That wasn’t exactly how he’d said it. What he’d said—exactly—was,“I want this way cleared!”

  Cleared. The bulldog that now controlled the MNG had made a motion with his hand over the map to indicate that no obstacles were to stop the progress of his army. Then he showed how he would march his army—his “settlers” he called them—south along the line he’d drawn through the territory. In order for this to happen, he needed to control the area.

  Because the new commander had been so demonstrative in the way he’d swept his hand across the map, the field officers of the MNG used everything they had, every tool that they could muster. Nobody wanted to be the one who failed. The result was a battle of the ages, both symbolically and literally. The MNG was trying to dig the FMA out of Mount Joy, but the FMA, somehow, was holding their ground. The young officer heard the bullets zing by, and he experienced that singular thought that is so common to soldiers in war. The thought crystallized, and it terrified him more than the bullets did. He now doubted if the objective could be met. He wavered. The resistance, which was stronger than he’d anticipated, was starting to seem impregnable.

  ****

  The man who was the new commander seemed to have an echo about him. It was as though he’d studied the old commander and was now imitating him. He had a way of studying men and exploiting their weaknesses, and now he saw a seam on a map that he could exploit in order to obtain safe passage for his settlement. His plan was visionary. He would simply leave the camp at Carbondale to his enemies, and march his contingent south, protected en route by his friends.

  He sat on horseback upon the ridge, watched his army clearing the line in the distance, and enjoyed how beautiful his plan was. His enemy, hiding in the darkness, planning their assault, would come running into the Carbondale camp only to find it deserted, like Moscow left to Napoleon, or the Russian countryside left to the Nazis.

  He would have successfully accomplished the task, too, if thousands of well-armed militia, commanded, pre-positioned, and equipped by Clive Darling, hadn’t shown up to save the FMA.

  ****

  Clive Darling and Pat Maloney stood with Calvin Rhodes along another ridge, under a cover of trees, and bit into slices of apple. Clive cut the slices with his pocketknife and handed them to Calvin and Red Beard as they stood in the cold morning air. Not long before, Calvin had been walking along with the two men, asking questions about the operations that he could now see unfolding in front of him. Looking through Clive’s field glasses, Calvin could see that Clive’s army was moving methodically, street by street, commandeering the entire area with the use of a massive amount of force.

  “I think it’s just about over,” Calvin said.

  “Then we should head down there,” Clive replied.

  “It’s strange,” Calvin said, lowering the binoculars. “I always thought of a war as a meeting of two belligerent opponents. However, here, if you don’t mind me saying so, Clive, your forces were more like a kind of a third party. Almost a disinterested party. You imposed an end to the battle between two combatants using overwhelming force.”

  Clive and Red Beard and Calvin walked across the field toward Mount Joy, passing the time, eating apples.

  “I don’t know, Clive.” It was Red Beard. “I’m just uncomfortable with the sheer amount of force, especially when it isn’t in self-defense. I mean, nature has forces that could blow up the world and end time. Stuff in space can crash into earth, and put an end to it all in an instant. Then there is all this,” he waved his hand in the air, “but there should be a balance in there somewhere.” Red Beard was showing his discomfort by shaking his head, and grimacing as they walked.

  “Who gets to decide, Clive? Should money be able to impose its will, merely because it can afford to buy power? Isn’t that what all of the political parties were doing before the collapse? I mean, you can do this because you have money and you believe yourself to be good, right? Well, it seems to me that all power structures want to limit the power of others, and gather to themselves limitless power—and they think it is okay because they believe themselves to be benevolent. They think that they are good, and everyone else is evil. Democrats, Republicans, Libertarians, Greenies, whoever it is! They believe that their cause is right, so they should make rules for the rest of us. So, Clive, how are you different, if you think that money should be able to impose itself by purchasing force?”

  Calvin had been only half following the conversation. He’d been looking at the sky, mostly. He suddenly snapped to, though, when he heard Clive lean into the conversation with an edge in his voice. It was a harsher tone than he’d heard the two men use with each other before. Clive laughed, a bit derisively. “You see that RV, Pat? Do you see Bernice there? That beast cost me twenty million dollars! But that isn’t the crazy part. You want to know what is the crazy part? I’ll tell you, pardner. I have one hundred of these around the country, and all around the world. I can turn off the
power anywhere in the world, any time I want. So don't tell me that money can't buy power. It comes down to what you DO with that power.”

  “I didn’t say that money couldn’t buy power. It can. That much is obvious. I asked if it should be able to,” Red Beard snapped back.

  “I just used that power to stop a battle that would have raged for days or weeks and would have cost many more lives, Pat,” Clive said. “Personally, I don’t mind if these people fight. Really, I don’t. But I’m not going to let any of them, as they thrash out at one another, crush the only source of food and productive knowledge that any of us will have in the near future. I’m not imposing my will on people, except insofar as they are heedlessly endangering everyone else. Think of me as a referee.”

  “I just said I don’t feel comfortable with arbitrary power. That’s all,” Red Beard said.

  Clive didn’t respond.

  Calvin bit into his apple and looked out across the field. He saw the RV roll forward down the street. Clive’s army was now moving efficiently toward what had once been the brewery at the end of the block, picking off any remaining opposition with impressive efficiency. It really was a thing of beauty, Calvin thought. He considered Clive and Red Beard’s argument for a moment, and decided that it was the willingness to use force that made it priceless… and morally questionable.

  To Calvin, Clive and Red Beard’s whirlwind of activity over the last few weeks, started to make sense. For the first time he had an inkling as to what the cowboy and the leprechaun had been up to all this time. Even if now, with the fruit of their work made evident, they seemed to be disagreeing about the morality of it all.

  ****

  The group that had weathered the battle down in the cellar emerged from the rubble of Nick’s restaurant with smiles on their faces. Clive’s men immediately went to work helping Nick and Ace haul the valuables. They removed bags of gold and silver, crates of barter-able goods—a veritable treasury—from the catacomb shelter that had saved five lives.

  After the bounty from the basement was loaded into wagons, the group of five joined Clive, Red Beard, and Calvin as they exited the town of Mount Joy, walking the mile to the place where Clive’s heavily guarded RV was stationed.

  The unified group talked as they moved across the fields, trudging through the snow towards Clive’s motorcade, and, as they talked, they caught up on the stories of their lives like old friends or new acquaintances would, like survivors would, with war stories and harrowing tales of terror and survival.

  Peter and Red Beard talked as they walked. Calvin and Charlie paired off, with Elsie hovering just over their shoulders, having taken a motherly instinct toward both of the boys. Clive and Nick, old friends, carried on a conversation known only to themselves.

  It was only Ace, along with the ever-present armed contingent that served to protect Clive, who was still watching for trouble. That is a critical fact to note.

  No one among the group was ever in real danger. That should be noted too. Clive’s men were on the job, but they were just a tad slow in spotting two people who broke free from the tree lined rise just ahead, and began dashing towards the group.

  The two were running, screaming, and waving their arms. They were two-hundred yards away when they emerged from the trees and began their mad dash, and it seemed that they might be running at a man who had just brought an entire town of opposing armies to its knees as easily as if he gone out for milk.

  ****

  Ace moved automatically, and with no hesitation. In one smooth motion, he dropped his pack and the sniper rifle almost magically swung with his body, rising up into his ready hands. With clock-like precision, he popped up the scope covers, and brought the weapon up to the ready position. He dropped to one knee, and by this time, the whole militia contingent had seen the two strangers sprinting towards the group. They too began moving into position, raising their rifles and pistols towards the onrushing pair.

  Ace looked through the scope and raised it until a face filled the lens. His eyes narrowed and he made a few slight adjustments in order to bring the face into clearer focus. That was when he saw her….

  Natasha.

  He moved the scope over a hair and spotted the other runner. That must be Natasha’s brother. The likeness was uncanny.

  Cole.

  What were they yelling? He could just make out their lips.

  “Peter! Peter!”

  “Hold fire! Hold fire!” Ace shouted.

  The militia unit all reacted immediately, lowering their weapons and repeating the order to hold fire.

  Peter and Elsie looked quizzically over at Ace, the unspoken question plain on their faces.

  The sniper pointed at the two runners in the distance and smiled.

  “Some friends of yours, I believe.”

  CHAPTER 48

  He was no longer Mikail Mikailivitch Brekhunov. He was no longer even Mike Baker. He’d now become someone else altogether different. He was being remade, reborn, yet again. He was now on the verge of becoming what he was meant to be. Like, for instance, in the Bible, when men of renown were placed into high office, and God Himself would give such men a new name. Mikail demanded that everyone else treat the affair with that kind of dignity, at the utmost level of seriousness. He had, in the past, been known by several names, but now, with his new office, he was adopting the name and rank that would be his for the rest of his life. He was seizing his birthright.

  ****

  “Gentlemen! Welcome to the new world. That which has passed, is now behind us, and we are moving into the future together. I’ve spoken to each one of you, and you know what I have promised you. This force is about to rise up and we’re going to bring order to this chaos.”

  He paused for a moment, choosing his words wisely, watching to see how each man responded to the words he chose.

  “We have a lot of challenges ahead of us. We’re going to have hardships. But, this army is no longer going to be operating for the private benefit of one man!” He paused and looked at the crowd, “From now on, all of us are going to benefit! Everyone will share in everything!”

  Mike walked slowly down the line of soldiers, looking each one of them individually in the eye before moving on. He stared into their souls and made contact with the part of them that actually hungered for order, and for recognition, and for improvement.

  “A lot of things are going to change, gentlemen. We’re all going to change. In the midst of that change, though, there needs to be a continuation of sorts—a continuity with the authority that formed us and gave us being. Change. Continuity. Order.” He paused again for effect.

  “To signify this concept, I am taking upon myself the name, rank, and authority of my predecessor.” He motioned toward a solider nearby, indicating the soldier should step forward. The soldier did, nervously.

  “Soldier, do you know my name?”

  The soldier nervously nodded that he did, unsure if that was what he was expected to do.

  “I appreciate your honesty, soldier.”

  He looked at the soldier and the soldier looked at him. He pulled his pistol out of his holster and asked, “What is my name, then?”

  “General Amos Duplantis, sir!”

  “Yes,” he said. He looked at the crowd of soldiers and they looked at him.

  “My name is General Amos Duplantis. I will be known by no other name. To you, that is who I am.”

  He gave the group one more scan, and then began walking back towards the command tent. After about four steps, he stopped, and turned back to the men.

  “Does anyone have a problem with that?”

  Maybe, down deep inside, some of them did have a problem with it. But the world had indeed changed. Power was now more fluid. Old habits would have to die hard. Maybe they didn’t like a twenty-something year old man taking authority, a name, and an office that didn’t rightly belong to him. But they also recognized that the old world may have been something of a meritocracy, however corrupt, but
this new world? Not so much. If they wanted peace and an end to the war with the FMA and a portion of the spoils going forward, they were going to have to deal with the new situation as it was—not as they might have wished it to be.

  The men all looked at the usual pile of bodies waiting near the burn pit. No one indicated in any discernible way that they had a problem with the name change.

  “Dismissed!”

  ****

  Back in the command tent, an officer named Rankin approached General Duplantis and saluted. Duplantis returned the salute, and the officer began his report.

  “Okay, General, the team you wanted dispatched south from Mount Joy is on their way. I’m tasked with keeping you informed as information arrives about the mission. Their orders were to travel to the farm of one Clive Darling, a man who we are informed is giving aid and comfort, as well as material assistance, to the FMA. He was the one whose militia troops saved the day for the FMA at the Battle of Mount Joy. The team was ordered to dispatch Mr. Darling, gather intelligence, and then return to their unit which is currently just north of Mount Joy, regrouping after the… setback there.”