Half Past Midnight

by Jeff Brackett

  Lister’s shoulders slumped, and she hastened to continue. “But I don’t think so. Your eyes are tearing so much because they’re fighting to flush out the sap you got in them. The fact that you can still see after this long, and that your tear ducts are still functioning, seems to indicate that you’re going to be just fine. I want you to keep a warm, wet compress on your eyes tonight and try to get some sleep. We’ll see how you feel in the morning.”

  I watched as Richard’s wife lead him away before I turned to Debra. “Is he really going to be all right?”

  She sighed. “I have no earthly idea. I’ve never dealt with this before. Mom would have known what to do.” She stopped before following too far down that line of thought. “Anyway, I think he’ll be okay.”

  She patted me on the back. “Go get some rest, Lee. I’ll tend your men.”

  I nodded and headed for our lean-to. I was almost there when I realized that one person from my squad was missing. Brad Stephenson, the man who had first recognized the plant, had disappeared.

  I thought back to the last time I remembered seeing him and realized that it hadn’t been since before our wild run back to camp. Brad was older, granted, but he had gone on raids in the past and never exhibited any tendency to lag behind. The more I thought about it, the more I feared he might have tasted the plant and not mentioned it. That would be just like him.

  Now what?

  For me, the answer was obvious. The squad leader was responsible for those under his command. I was squad leader and, though I felt I had already made a pretty big mess of things, it was up to me to see it through. If that meant carrying the body of a friend back by myself, then so be it. There was no need to risk anyone else.

  Without saying anything to anyone, I slipped back out of camp.

  Finding the right spot on the bank of the drainage ditch wasn’t difficult. We had left in a hurry and left plenty of signs that we had been there. But I still found no sign of Brad.

  In fact, it wasn’t until I crossed the ditch that I picked up his trail. Footprints led out of the ditch and into the town in a direction we hadn’t traveled. Into town? What the hell is he up to?

  I thought through all that had happened, searching my memories for clues. The clue was there, back at the ditch. It was a few moments before it hit me, but once I thought about it, I knew what he was doing.

  Breaking into a run, I raced to catch him.

  I was much too late. We had taken an hour to run through the woods to camp. It had taken forty-five minutes for me to get back to the ditch. That was nearly two hours for Stephenson to pull it off.

  That I hadn’t already run into him coming back meant it had either gone bad, or he had gone back some other way. As much as I hoped for the latter, I couldn’t think of any good reason for him to do so.

  As I reached the outskirts of USR amp;D territory, I slowed, taking more care to stick to the shadows. Something was going on, something that had stirred the enemy like a stick in a beehive. Everywhere I went, people were yelling. Some yelled orders, others cursed. Still others screamed in pain and misery. I peered out of the window of an old storefront and witnessed our greatest single victory over Larry’s troops.

  Dozens of men lay in the streets around their stewpots. Some were retching and moaning; others were silent and still. Those who had been late to the evening meal had been the lucky ones. The first of their companions had probably begun to react to the poison by then and, when enough of them died, it would have become obvious that the food was the culprit.

  I pulled back and whispered through the rest of the town. In all, it looked like Brad had gotten to five of the massive stew pots with an end result of well over three hundred dead. Apparently, the sixth pot was where someone had finally gotten suspicious of the old man bringing garlic to add to the meals. There were no dead there, only angry men ranting over having lost their quarry in the woods.

  Some of them were colorful in their descriptions of what they would do to Brad when they caught him, but each word sent my hopes higher. He’d escaped! And from what they were saying, he had been forced to take to the trees on the opposite side of town. That was the reason I hadn’t seen him on my way in.

  Brad Stephenson had managed what none of the rest of us would have dared. He had boldly strode into the enemy camp, sabotaged their cooking pots, disabled hundreds of the enemy, and still managed to escape.

  It would never have worked if there hadn’t been so many of the enemy, but with nearly three thousand of them in town, there was no way they could all know each other.

  “You son of a bitch, Brad.” I grinned. “How the hell can you walk with balls that big?”

  It was with considerably higher spirits that I headed back to camp. For two hours, I had slipped through town, barely avoiding the enemy on several occasions, yet never truly worried. I was too excited. Brad had done the impossible! Up to now, we had hardly done more than hold our own against Larry’s men. But tonight, Brad had finally done more than simply sting Larry’s troops. He had given us a major victory.

  My creeping through the town had shown me just how severe a blow had been delivered. It looked like just over three hundred fifty dead, and at least another hundred incapacitated. I could just imagine the celebration that must be going on back at camp, and I couldn’t wait to join in. Or perhaps Stephenson didn’t know just how successful he had been, having been forced to make a run for it. I couldn’t wait. I grinned at the thought of being able to tell him what he had done. I grinned until my jaws ached.

  I grinned until I found Brad with an arrow in his side.

  He leaned against a tree to the side of the path with his head back, eyes closed. The arrow moved slightly as the old man breathed.

  I knelt beside him and touched his shoulder. “Brad? Oh, my God.”

  His eyes opened, and his head turned toward me. In the darkness of the woods, it was difficult to make out details, but I could see his chin coated with blood and, when he tried a feeble smile, his teeth were dark as well. I was no doctor, but it looked like the arrow had pierced his lung and, in our present circumstances, that was as good as dead.

  “Leeland?” Frothy blood bubbled forth when he spoke. “Hey, boy. I got ’em.” The effort of speaking must have been exhausting because he dropped his head back against the tree and closed his eyes again. For a moment I feared I had arrived just in time to hear his last words, but then he spoke again. “I got ’em.”

  I nodded. “You got ‘em good, old man. I counted over three hundred dead. More of them sick.”

  His grin returned. “That many? Guess it was worth it, then. Least I’m not gonna die for nothing.”

  There was a lump in my throat, and for an instant I was back in the old machine shop in Houston talking to my father once more. “Hey! Who said anything about dying?”

  Brad locked his eyes to mine. Those eyes held so much, and even in the dim light I could see through them to the man’s soul. They were tired, and his pain shone through clearly, but mostly they were content. “Don’t kid a kidder, youngster. We both know I’ve had it.”

  I shook my head. “I could get you back to camp. We could patch you up.”

  He laid his head back once more. “Never give up, do you? Guess that’s why so many folks look up to you.” He took a deep, rattling breath. “But this isn’t the time for it. I need your help, Lee, if you think you can do it.”

  Tears ran down my cheeks, and I sniffed. “Anything you want. Name it.”

  Brad’s hand went to his belt, and he hissed with pain as the movement shifted the arrow. Then he relaxed and spoke softly. “There’s a knife on my belt. Take it off for me.”

  I could see that it was a long blade, and the way he sat had shoved the tip into the soft ground beside him, the handle digging into his side. I struggled with his belt buckle for a moment, taking care not to jostle him as I pulled the long sheath free. “Got it.”

  “Look at it. It’s my best one, and I’m real proud of it. Fini
shed it a few days before those bastards hit us.”

  I drew the blade free and held it out to examine by the light of the moon. It was a dagger, long and sleek. The blade was about a foot long, made of the fine Damascus steel with which Brad had become so proficient. The handle was a finely polished yellow with streaks of brown-Bois d’Arc, one of the hardest woods in North America, definitely the hardest that grew within several hundred miles. “It’s beautiful.”

  “Thanks. It’s yours. But I need another favor from you first.”

  I winced as I saw how much blood bubbled out of his mouth and chest. “Whatever you want, Brad.”

  “I love that knife, Lee. I was an accountant before D-day. I ever tell you that?” I nodded, wondering if his thoughts were beginning to wander.

  “All I ever did my whole life was punch keys on a computer. Try to make the right numbers show up for the right people. Not something to give a man much of a feeling of accomplishment.”

  He coughed, then spasmed as the arrow tore more tissue deep within. “God, that hurts,” he gasped. “I gotta finish this. Wasn’t until you showed me how to work the forge that I ever actually made anything. Later still before I made anything I actually took pride in. You taught me that, Lee. Pride.” He nodded toward the knife I held. “That knife’s the best I’m ever going to get to make, so I want you to keep it. Think of me every now and then when you use it.”

  I cleared my throat. “Sure, Brad. I’d be honored.” He peered at me strangely.

  “What?”

  The old man shook his head and laid it back against the tree again.

  “What?” I asked again.

  More blood bubbled from his lips as he gasped in pain. When the spasm passed, I could barely hear him. “It’s a lot to ask. More than anyone has a right to ask of another person, so I’ll understand if you can’t do it.” He paused. “I don’t want to die this way, bleedin’ inside, chokin’ on my own blood.”

  Helpless, I cried in earnest now. “I’m sorry, Brad. I wish I could stop it. I wish I could.”

  “You can.” His eyes were staring into me again. “This hurts like hell, Lee. I want to die clean. Help me. Please?”

  I was shocked. I knew what he was asking, but it took his hand on mine to make me accept that I’d understood correctly. I stared down at the knife still clenched in my fist. Brad pulled my unresisting hand to his throat and placed the needle sharp point of the blade beneath his chin. Then he let go. “Please.”

  I stared unbelievingly, but he turned away and closed his eyes. He began to talk. “I remember about thirty years ago, when Brenda and I went to the Grand Canyon. We drove from Houston through New Mexico, and on to Arizona. We must have stopped at every Indian reservation we came to. Brenda loved Indian jewelry.

  “I remember we got caught in a sandstorm in the Painted Desert one day, and I was scared that we’d get lost and drive off the road, so we stopped right where we were and watched the sand blow across the windshield. It would change colors as it went, and Brenda joked about how it looked like Walt Disney had thrown up on our car.

  “She died a few months before D-day, sort of a blessing in disguise, because she really wasn’t a strong woman. I don’t think she would have lasted long after it all fell apart.

  “I miss that woman.” He sighed, and a tear rolled down his cheek. “I miss you so much, Brenda.”

  Sobbing uncontrollably, I shoved upward with all my might, hoping I was swift enough that he didn’t feel anything.

  Hoping he was reunited with Brenda.

  I met Ken and several others on my way back to camp. Rene had finally realized that Brad was gone and had sent for me. When I turned up missing too, she told Ken. They had put two and two together and gathered another squad to come find us. I was drained by then, both emotionally and physically, and offered no resistance when they took Brad’s body from me.

  “Lee? What happened, Lee?”

  I turned to Ken, barely aware of what was going on at that point. “What happened?” The words rolled about in my mind for a few seconds, looking for some kind of purchase on reality. They finally registered, and I buried my face in Ken’s shirt and cried like a baby.

  I eventually managed to tell them what had happened, and Ken sent spotters out to confirm my story. Word spread through the camps like wildfire.

  Over three hundred dead! Just by one old man!

  Ken and Jim must have immediately seen the effect of the story as they milked it for all it was worth. The people of Rejas acted like they had found a shiny new stone, a gem of determination they had forgotten even existed.

  If that wasn’t enough, they reminded one another of some of the struggles through which they had all come, the fights that had made them strong.

  We went against them to break our people out of the stadium. A hundred men against three thousand! Thirty to one! And they had tanks! Not as many when we got finished with them, of course.

  And what happened at the fertilizer plant? Sure, we had to leave, but not until after we kicked their butts again!

  Ironically, it was Billy who dragged me back into it, reminding everyone of the day that three of us went up against twenty looters in the early days after D-day, and further reminding them that he was the only living survivor of those looters.

  Through it all, Rejas citizens wove their speculative thread into the tales. If so few of us could do this against so many, what would happen if we all quit our whining about how tough things were, and put our minds to beating Larry?

  Larry didn’t know it yet, but the tide had turned against him. The number of night raids tripled and were no longer simple gathering missions. Status quo wasn’t enough. The townspeople had found their courage once more and, though I never mentioned it to anyone, I knew that the Damascus blade I carried at my side was not Brad’s finest work. His example had taken the hidden steel of his neighbors’ backbones, tempered it with determination, and forged a weapon against which our enemies had no defense.

  Brad had given us back our hope.

  Chapter 19

  November 15

  Le gros mastin de cite dechasse,

  Sera fasche de l’estrange alliance,

  Apres aux champs auoir le cerf chasse

  Le loups amp; l’Ours se donront defiance.

  The large mastiff expelled from the city

  Will be vexed by the strange alliance,

  After having chased the stag to the fields

  The wolf and the Bear will defy each other.

  Nostradamus — Century 5, Quatrain 4

  A week after Brad’s death, we managed to deal the coup de grace. A combination of homemade naphtha, thermite, and a carelessly opened tank hatch had left Larry’s biggest remaining advantage a smoldering ruin. It was a fierce skirmish, and we lost five more of our own, as well as the majority of our remaining ammunition, but we managed to hold the enemy at bay while the mortar brigade lobbed dozens of incendiaries into and around the final functioning Abrams.

  Two days later, we had a new problem. Larry’s men began to desert, and we had to make a quick decision: let them go, kill them as they left, or capture them and add to our slave population?

  “If we kill ’em, the rest will have more reason to stay an’ fight,” Jim pointed out. “Let ‘em go and, at the rate they’re leaving, Larry’s forces’ll be down to where we can oust him in a week, at most.”

  That wasn’t good enough for me. “But what happens then? We let them leave, take back the town, and a week later they decide that they had it better inside after all? Then, instead of us surrounding them, they’re surrounding us!” I shook my head. “Doesn’t sound like much of a solution to me.”

  Several others argued as well, until a single voice shouted, “Hold it! Hold on a sec! Hey, listen up!”

  The arguments faded as we all saw who spoke. Billy stood with his hands raised for silence, looking as nervous as I’d ever seen him. “There’s more than just the three options.” He pointed to the circled numb
ers on his forehead. “There’s a bunch of us that you folks gave a tattoo. You call us slaves, but most of us figure we got off easy. You could have just as easily killed us, times being what they are. Instead, you gave us a second chance.”

  “We can’t keep that many slaves, Billy. We don’t have the food or the means to keep control over that many of them. We just can’t do it!”

  Billy turned to face me. “Remember what the judge said would happen to me if I didn’t pass muster when my sentence was up? The date gets covered over, and I get a solid circle-life sentence. Why not use a different kind of tattoo for these folks?”

  Banishment became the sentence. Over the next three days, some seven hundred deserters were marked with a black X and instructed in what would happen if they were ever seen in the area again. Those who balked at the idea of the tattoo were given the choice of death or returning to Larry’s tender mercies. One tried to escape, and we were forced to shoot him. Some refused the mark and were escorted back to Larry’s territory. We figured they would spread the word about what we were doing. By the end of the week, it looked like the enemy had lost about half their number.

  It was time to take back our homes.

  Thanksgiving morning was blackened by a ferocious Texas thunderstorm-deafening thunder, blinding lightning, howling wind and pounding rain. It was all we could have hoped for and more. We waited through the night as it built, praying that its fury wouldn’t fizzle. We needn’t have worried.

  Under cover of the raging storm, our first group hit from the northeast. Larry’s men again exhibited the irresponsible lack of discipline that we were counting on to get us close. They appeared to be more interested in keeping out of the rain than in keeping watch. Still, there was simply no way to completely hide five hundred soaking wet attackers when lightning kept illuminating them like a giant strobe light. They got within fifty yards of the enemy barricade before they were spotted.