by J. Thorn
***
John waved Matthew closer as he ran through the snow, leaving black footprints of uncovered asphalt in his wake. He pushed through several of the pledges until he was standing next to his father. John’s eyes turned to the guardrail. The remnants of an old roadway sign stuck out of the frozen earth at an odd angle. But that wasn’t what stopped the group.
Matthew moved closer and saw what at first appeared to be a handful of rags clinging to the steel pole. It was one of the scouts he sent ahead days ago. The boy’s bare feet, blue and stiff, hung a few feet from the ground, his boots missing and certainly on someone else’s feet by now. His tattered clothing wavered in the wind. Matthew’s eyes moved upward. Sitting atop the boy’s shoulders was nothing but a frozen stump of bloody mess and the gray sky behind it.
“Fuck,” Matthew whispered as he turned away from the decapitated corpse. “The other?”
John pointed past the guardrail into an open field bordering the trees where, even from that distance, they could see that he was headless as well.
“That ain’t stopping us,” John said to Matthew.
“They kill enough of us, it will,” he said.
“Call my vice.”
“Fuck that,” Matthew said. “Let’s keep walking.”
“We will. But first I want to talk with him.”
Matthew put his hands on his hips and looked at the desolate countryside. He saw a house, the remnants of a barn and a corn silo in the distance. He could not be certain, but Matthew thought he saw wisps of smoke coming from the chimney.
“Fine,” Matthew said, turning to the members standing behind them, several weeping and whispering to each other. “Send for the vice. Tell the founders to cluster and have everyone else draw their weapons.”
He’s a natural, John thought. A leader.
“Road thieves or the Republic?” Matthew asked his father.
“This is a message from those trying to keep us from traveling further on the highway.”
“They stole his boots,” Matthew said. “Probably thieves like the other cowards we met.”
“Or meant to look that way to keep us from preparing for the real threat.”
Alex trotted to where Matthew and John stood. He hunched over, drawing massive gulps of air into his lungs.
“Care for a pipe, vice?”
Alex looked at Matthew but decided not to dignify his sarcastic question with a reply. “The kids we sent ahead to scout?” he asked.
“Yes,” John said.
“Fuck.”
“Yeah, fuck,” Matthew said. “Now what? Maybe we turn around and forget this stupid shit.”
John glared at his son and shook his head. He used one hand to stroke the end of his long beard. “We’re not turning back.”
“Why not?” Matthew asked.
“We’re not.”
Alex moved between the men. “Listen. Both of you. See that sign up there, quarter of a mile out?”
John and his son looked to the horizon and then back at Alex.
“I’m pretty sure that old piece of sheet metal is welcoming us to Ohio. That means that right now we’re in no-man’s-land. We’re halfway between Pittsburgh and Cleveland on an empty highway and vulnerable from all sides. If we turn back we got the same length of road to travel than if we don’t. And whoever did this to our boys ain’t gonna stop just because we turn around. I say we keep going.”
Matthew waved a hand at Alex and looked at John.
“I want the best knives up front and you and Matthew at the rear,” John said. “We’re starting into the Great Plains and it’s going to be really hard for anyone to ambush us now. We’ll see ’em coming. Keep the group tight and we’ll break near Lordstown.”
Alex chuckled and John laughed.
“Yeah, Lordstown. That’s pretty fucking funny, ain’t it?”
***
“I’m not leaving her side,” Ron said.
“You are, on order of the pres. Don’t give me no shit, Ron. We need your knife up front.”
Ron looked at Leena and then pushed his chest outward. “Guess I could better protect the chapter up front. I’m pretty good with the blade.”
“Thanks, Ron,” Matthew said.
Ron ran past Matthew, never looking back at Leena.
“That true?” she asked Matthew.
“What?”
“That part about his knife, the stroking of his male ego.”
“The president called for the best knives up front. At this point, that means anyone who carries one.”
“You?”
Matthew shook his head.
“No. Me and the vice stay back here.”
Leena tried to hide the smile creeping across her face.
***
James and Dino pulled the bodies down and removed their patches. They folded the vests and gently placed them inside one of the packs pulled on a sled by the pledges. The frozen ground held firm, so they used precious firewood to cremate the bodies of the two boys.
John stood back and watched the flames reflect off the snow in the coming dusk, the oily smoke turning his stomach. He wanted to give the members a proper burial. But he also wanted the enemy to know he would not give up. He was coming to Cleveland and the flames sent that message. The funeral pyre said he would not be stopped unless it was his body burning in the field. He started the Chapter of the Phoenix decades ago and if it ended, it would be on his terms.
Chapter 7
The chapter crossed the meaningless border between Pennsylvania and Ohio. The momentary sense of accomplishment slid away to reveal the greater feeling of anxiety. They buried two pledges and the chapter was not in a position to continue losing their men. The snow fell in light flakes now, no longer pummeling them with inches per hour, but still dropping enough to make the march miserable. Words were few and thoughts of sanctuary even less.
John decided to keep Matthew up front. He kept his vice at the back of the caravan while he vacillated back and forth in the middle of the group. He thought about what Alex said about their trip, and now that he was in Ohio, John knew nothing would stop him from reaching his destination. He hated to use the word instinct – it felt too close to destiny – but John felt the urge to go to Cleveland in order to save something bigger than his own life, bigger than the chapter. He believed the future of the Keepers hinged on his ability to move them to Cleveland and the fact that he didn’t know why pushed him toward insanity.
Shouts from the front of the caravan interrupted his thoughts. He squinted and held a hand over his forehead, trying to see the reason for the commotion. He knew what it meant. There was only one reason for such an outburst. An attack.
Several of the founders ran from the rear of the group while Alex remained to thwart a possible rear ambush. The old men surrounded John, most holding weapons painted with decades of dried blood.
“Up front, pres,” Dino said.
“Let’s go. Grab as many of the pledges as you can.”
John trotted forward and the founders ran alongside him. He looked left and right, remembering the various altercations over the years. He fought next to these men for most of his life and he was willing to give his for them.
“Road bandits.”
John looked at the young girl who identified the threat from near the front of the caravan. For a moment, he saw Leena’s face superimposed on hers.
“How many?”
“Maybe a dozen men,” she said.
He nodded and placed a hand on top of her head. “Head toward the back, near the vice. Got that?”
She nodded. Her stringy, greasy hair bounced as she ran through the snow. Some of the other children followed her in silence. John shook his head, disgusted with the lost innocence and yet powerless to do anything about it.
“Faster,” he said to his fellow Keepers. John knew they were already moving as quickly as they could.
***
Matthew pulled his dagger out of the chest of the man on the
ground. He waited until the thief spat his last breath, a mix of saliva and blood, before he stopped turning the blade. Then he spun to see another pledge wrestling with a bundle of ragged cloth. The two combatants stood in stark contrast to the world, covered in white by the fresh snow. Matthew wouldn’t use his bow in the fight. He preferred the intimate violence of hand-to-hand combat.
Matthew ran toward them, the entire scene playing out frame-by-frame. He found his gift early in life. Matthew could see a physical altercation at a speed that allowed him to anticipate the next move and react before he could be struck. He remembered the founders standing around, laughing, placing wagers on him. They would organize the wrestling matches and he always won. Occasionally, he would misjudge a punch and end up with a bloody nose but that was rare. The other boys in the chapter realized quickly to steer clear of Matthew unless you wanted to walk away with a broken face and a bruised ego.
He threw his weight into the air as the pledge turned, the attacker wrapping his arms around the boy’s neck. Matthew landed on the back of the attacker and knocked all three of them to the ground. He leapt on the thief’s chest and punched him twice in the face. The man’s eyes rolled up into his skull and Matthew’s second punch opened his bottom lip where blood began to flow over a wiry, filthy beard. Matthew reached to his side and realized he dropped his knife at some point in the fight. He drew his right hand back and brought the heel of his palm crashing into the man’s nose, driving it into his face.
“Are you injured?” Matthew asked a pledge. “Are you fucking hurt?” Matthew asked again.
The boy shook his head.
“Good. Then get up and get back in the fight.”
Matthew stood and scanned the highway. He saw three bodies lying motionless in the snow, two of which by his own hand. Three pockets of men continued to fight, most of them congregating near the eastbound side of the Ohio Turnpike. He saw two figures running from the battle, one with his arm around the other as they hobbled over the drainage gully and headed for the safety of the woods beyond.
He felt a burning pain on his right side as another attacker rushed him from behind. The man’s blade opened the thin skin on his hip, but didn’t pierce any vital organs. Matthew turned in the air, using the man’s momentum to carry them both to the ground. He landed on something round and hard, which knocked the breath from his lungs. Before Matthew could breathe, the man kicked him in the shoulder. A second kick connected with the side of Matthew’s face. He wanted to lie in the snow and surrender, but his survival instinct would not allow that.
Matthew rolled over three times until his shins smacked the side of the guardrail. He bought four seconds with the maneuver, enough for his lungs to grab air. The attacker lunged forward, intent on driving Matthew’s skull into the asphalt. But Matthew was quicker. He brought a knee up into the man’s groin. The man landed on top of Matthew, crying in pain. He smelled of onions and shit. Matthew pushed him to the side and brought his fist down on the man’s face, feeling his lips burst apart. He rolled on top of the thief, grabbed his ears and drove his head into the highway repeatedly until the man was dead.
The wound on his hip and the kick to the face left Matthew disoriented. He stood and leaned back, the guardrail keeping him from falling over backward. He saw several other fights, but his double-vision made it difficult for him to see exactly what was happening. Matthew turned back and saw John leading the founders past the discarded bags and carts left by the chapter. He saw John approach the melee with his arm up. Matthew stumbled forward until the concussion from the fight took hold and forced him back to the ground in an unconscious heap.
***
John watched Matthew collapse. He knew his son was alive, but he had no idea how he knew. He ran forward as several individual fights raged across the roadway of the eastbound side of the Ohio Turnpike. He raised an arm and led the way although some of the founders already passed him and entered the fray.
Years of road fights left John with a repertoire of fatal moves. He was not as strong or as quick as he once was but he fought for survival. He regretted each life he took in the same way a hunter reflects on the day’s kill. The world was a different place now and those who reared offspring in the violent woods of the outlying regions, far from the geopolitical reach of the Republic, were left to do so with their own laws and morals. The Keepers had theirs, but not all clans of the wild shared the scrap of humanity inside the founders. As John approached the nearest thief, he shook all pity from his mind and raised his club to an attack position.
The man snarled through broken teeth, hissing at John more than speaking. The president recognized the feral look in the man’s eyes.
“C’mon. One of us is gonna die. It’s the law of the warrior,” John said.
The man smiled at John and raised a hand, holding a curved dagger nine inches long. John glanced at the aluminum baseball bat he used as a club and chuckled.
“All right,” he said. “I’ll take these odds. Your move, cowboy.”
John felt fights breaking out all around but did not sense the third-party approaching to tip the scales against him. For now, it was only him and his immediate foe.
The man dropped to the ground in a move that made John hesitate. That hesitation cost him in blood. The man rolled to one side and drew the serrated edge of his blade across the back of John’s left calf. John screamed in pain and fell to one knee as the blade opened his skin. Using decades of experience to calm his racing mind, he stood on his right leg, towering over the man who had used that move before to end fights.
But he had not faced John before. John pushed the pain from his mind and brought the bat down on the man. The first swing glanced off the man’s skull and delivered most of the blow to the asphalt beneath. However, John quickly brought the bat back to his ear and the second strike connected with a dull thud on the crown of the man’s head. The skull opened wide, spewing gray matter out and down his face. The man’s eyes stared into the bleak sky as he died.
***
The vice was disobeying the president’s direct order. Something he’d done only twice in their time together, and each indiscretion was the right call. He left several pledges in charge of bringing the entire caravan into a tight configuration, back-to-back and facing outward in case the road thieves brought another wave. He doubted their intelligence and numbers would permit such a sophisticated plan, but underestimating the adversary in this world often had fatal consequences.
He ran as fast as he could, the years of creeping arthritis making it difficult to do more than jog. Life on the road aged the men beyond their years and the lack of proper medical care accelerated chronic conditions. Alex pulled his hat off and let the cold air chill his head. The founders kept fighting although he thought he saw the boots of one lying motionless on the ground. Several others appeared to be in control of their fights and John limped back toward him, using his baseball bat as a cane.
“I thought I fucking told you—”
“Where’s Matthew?” Alex asked, ignoring John’s reprimand.
The president scanned the highway littered with scraps of clothing, dirty footprints and bodies. He pointed to the guardrail where Matthew lay in the snow before John also collapsed and lost consciousness.
Chapter 8
“Damn, I think they took down a few of the thieves.”
The sergeant held his hand out waiting for the solider to drop the binoculars into his open palm.
“Yep. The leader crushed this fucker’s skull with a bat. Gramps can fight,” the soldier said before handing the binoculars over to his sergeant.
The grizzled warrior pushed his goggles up. He readjusted the lenses with a dial that felt like ice and then scanned the highway where the fight happened. The five-hundred yards was close enough to be viewed remotely, but not close enough to hear their conversation.
The members of the chapter broke their circle. About half walked to the guardrail where they pulled a man upright. He stumbled an
d his legs appeared slack but the sergeant saw his mouth move.
That kid is one tough son of a bitch, he thought, just like his old man.
The other half of the group crouched around another man. The sergeant could make out the back patches but could not differentiate between members. He thought he spied the clean-shaven vice. The sergeant scanned the ground and counted several bodies not moving in the snow.
“Body count?” he asked the young soldier.
“Which side?” the soldier asked in response.
“Either? Both? Quit making me ask for shit you know I need.” I’m out after this. I’m done with their fucking insubordination, the sergeant thought.
“Three of the ferals, at least. Not sure the animals took out any of the Keepers, but it looks like they got in a few good shots.”
The sergeant dropped the binoculars to his chest, where they hung from a worn, leather strap with the official Republic insignia. He sighed and looked skyward where dark clouds formed over the western horizon. “How far are we from Cleveland?” he asked.
“Forty, fifty miles from the old city. Maybe thirty from the outlying territories.”
“And which of those territories do we control?”
The young man paused to pull a crumpled cigarette from his vest. He struck a match and moved it to his mouth when the sergeant smacked it away, snuffing the flame in a pile of snow.
“What the f—?”
“Are you that fucking stupid? You can’t strike a flame out here. If they were looking anywhere near our camp, they would have seen that. Use some common sense, would ya?”
The young solider snarled, leaving the unlit cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. “I don’t see the point in all this clandestine bullshit. We can get rifles and enough shells to take them out at a thousand yards. We could drop them all before they knew what the hell was happening.”
“That’s not how it works,” the sergeant said. “We follow orders. We were told to make sure they don’t leave Pittsburgh, and if they do, they need to arrive in Cleveland. That’s what we’re going to do because that’s how we get paid. We don’t get shit if they die on the road. We’re mercenaries hired by the Republic. That’s the deal.”