Chapter Eight
AT FOURTH MOONRISE THREE DAYS AFTER MITFORD had sent out five teams to search and disable, the Sergeant was reviewing plans: renovations made by the three architects among them for the abattoir barns. The processing equipment in the slaughterhouse had been completely dismantled although they’d have to have serious overcrowding before anyone who knew what had happened in that plant would live in it. However, there’d be more folks who hadn’t a clue.
He heard one of the sentries hiss at him.
“Sarge, something’s coming.”
“Well, don’t tell me. Challenge them,” but Mitford reached for his spear with one hand and eased the knife out of its sheath with the other.
“Who goes there?” the sentry yelled.
Yells answered him but not the passwords. He ducked.
“Shit, sarge, they ain’t ours,” and he ducked behind the prominence on his height. “RED ALERT!” He clanged fiercely on the metal alarm triangle set on the height.
“WHICH WAY ARE THEY COMING, GODDAMMIT, RAINEY!” Mitford roared. “ATTACK! ATTACK! TAKE YOUR STATIONS!”
It was fortunate that, even with many out on exploratory patrols, there was usually a handful of people awake at any hour of the twenty-eight.
“COMING DOWN THE RAVINE, SARGE! Omigod,” and Rainey ducked as a spear clattered on the rock beyond him. “They’re shooting at me!”
More spears came spinning out of the darkness. Aimed at the source of light which was the “office” fire. Crouching to make a smaller target, Mitford dashed forward. In the stocks, Aarens was shouting to be released as two spent arrows and another spear fell close to him.
“C’MON,” Mitford roared at the men and women rushing out of the main caves, spears and knives ready, just as they’d been drilled. With grim satisfaction, Mitford knew there’d be no complaints about his drilling them after this. Only how many were attacking? he wondered as he pounded up the ravine and grinned as he saw the first attackers appear on the edge of the lighted areas. A good fight, that’s what was he’d been missing. Seeing a target, he paused long enough to launch his spear at an oncoming body. It pierced the chest of the leader, who dropped like a stone. Now the sentries on the heights were using their weapons, firing arrows and launching their spears into the crowd. Then the next of the attackers was howling as he charged at Mitford.
The Sergeant met the frenzied attack: the man had a knife in each hand but he hadn’t the first clue about effective fighting, slashing the air in the hopes that one knife would connect. Mitford ducked, sidestepped, and then plunged his knife into the attacker’s ribs. The man screamed, an awful wailing desperate sound, knives falling from strengthless hands as he fell back. Mitford remained in the crouching position as he quickly jerked his knife free and then tackled the next attacker. He was peripherally aware that his force was pressing in behind him. Then a stone, thrown from the heights, bounced off his shoulder, and he staggered against the wall of the ravine.
“HEY, WATCH WHERE YOU’RE AIMING,” he roared as he saw Bart, Taglione, and quite likely Sandy Areson swarming past him.
It was over quickly: the attackers had obviously had no real plan in mind. They’d seen lights and smelled cooking, then attacked at a time when they thought everyone would be asleep.
There were fourteen bodies to be buried and three whose wounds could be sewn up. They were starving, and even their Catteni-issue clothing was torn and incredibly filthy. When the sun came up, three women crept in, begging for help. They were in dreadful condition, not only starved but beaten and repeatedly abused. Mitford approvingly watched Patti Sue gently leading one of them, little more than a child, into the kitchen for probably the first real food she’d eaten since being dropped.
Only five of the defenders had been wounded: two of those by “friendly fire” from stones thrown down into the ravine. Mitford’s shoulder was sore but he didn’t mention it to Matt Dargle, who was busy sewing up knife cuts. Another man had tripped in the dark and broken his leg and was cursing his clumsiness while the bone was set.
“Sorry about that, sarge,” he said when Mitford walked around the infirmary to check the damages.
“Weren’t you right behind me up that ravine, Bart?” Mitford asked as he watched Matt Dargle sewing up the nasty slice on the dark man’s arm. “Teach you to keep your guard up.”
“Naw, they was aiming at you,” Bart said, grinning.
“Saving my skin, were you? Good man!” Mitford gave his uninjured shoulder a quick squeeze of appreciation.
The battle had roused the entire camp, so the cooks made an early breakfast for everyone. Mitford took advantage of the meal to drive home the lesson that they had to maintain vigilance.
“Good reaction, quick response time, folks, but they never should have got as far as the ravine at all. I think we’ll move the guard perimeter out a bit.”
“What about traps, sarge? Maybe we could rig some on the approaches?”
“Draw me a plan,” Mitford said, nodding approval.
“You know, with so many out on patrol, didn’t we leave ourselves a bit thin of fighting men here?” Sandy asked.
“Not when you were right in the vanguard yourself,” Mitford said in blunt approval.
“It’s my home, too,” Sandy said with a shrug. “Besides, you drilled all of us!”
“Didn’t I just?” Mitford said with a grin.
“All right, all right, we bitched,” she said, flapping her hand at his inference. “You knew what you were doing. I guess we’ve got a bit cocky.”
“We all know better now, don’t we?” Mitford said, glancing around him. “Hell, they didn’t even get as far as my office, did they? Now I need a disposal patrol.”
“You mean burial party?” Dowdall asked, looking up from honing his blade.
“No, disposal. I want those bodies dumped four fields over at least, Dowdall.”
“Aw, sarge,” Dowdall groaned in protest to being tacitly assigned the duty.
“Don’t want that carrion stinking up our camp, do we? You, you, you, you, and you,” and he ended up with a full squad. “Take care of it before the sun warms ’em too much.”
As soon as he got back to his “office” to write up the incident, Aarens began his complaint.
“You’d’ve let me die here, unable to defend myself! And you call yourself civilized! Think you’re such a big leader.”
Mitford walked straight up to Aarens, jerking him by the hair of his head so Aarens couldn’t evade his eyes.
“Look, you sorry piece of shit. You keep on this way and I’ll stake your living body out right beside the others.”
Aarens gasped. “You wouldn’t dare?”
“Oh, wouldn’t I? Just give me an excuse. Just give me one!”
Mitford knew that his rage was fueled more by a reaction to the stress of the surprise attack and the runoff of adrenaline in his system. He oughtn’t to lose control by taking it out on Aarens but better him than anyone else.
“Hey, sarge, take it easy. Take it easy,” and though there was a quaver in the man’s voice, his conciliatory manner caused Mitford to let his hair go. “You don’t want to waste me, sarge. Not now. Not when you’re going to need me.”
“Need…you?”
“Yeah, me, sarge,” and Aarens actually grinned. “Like I told you when I got here, I’m a mechanical genius. I can make machinery work when no one else can. I don’t even need manuals to tell me how things work. It’s a knack I’ve got. I used to make big money back in the States, just telling executives how to improve the efficiency of their production lines. Look, I heard what you were discussing with Mack Su, Capstan, and the others. They’re all desk jockeys. Me, I’m the guy on the floor who carries out their notions. And makes ’em work. You don’t want to waste the one real talent you’ve got who can give you lights for the caves? Hot water! Distant early-warning devices.”
“DEWs? How could you do that?” Mitford was suspicious but certainly willing to use Aar
ens—if the waste-of-space could produce the goods.
“You could mount solar panels—and their collectors, of course—all around the camp,” and Aarens gestured with his stocked hands, “with a circuit, say of a lighter wire. Anything breaking that wire and the alarm sounds. Simple.”
“At night?”
Aarens shook his head, denying that qualification. “Collectors should save enough of a charge to be functional all night long. Or how do those mechanicals start up? I mean, it’s simple enough.”
Mitford thought there was no harm in running the idea past Mack and Spiller.
“Yeah, simple enough. Now shut up for a while.”
“Yeah, but I’m supposed to be out of this contraption today,” Aarens complained.
Mitford gave him a long look and then pointed to the sundial. “Not until the sun’s on the first division. That makes it exactly a day since you got sentenced for harassing the little Chinese kid.” Mitford gave the man one more long stare before he turned to pick up a sheet and his pencil.
He almost regretted the fact that Mack, Spiller, and Jack the Nail thought Aarens’ idea had enough merit to make a prototype from materials that had been brought back to camp from the abattoir buildings.
Zainal’s team made it back to camp, just before the evening rains, by jogging whenever the terrain permitted, and were met with a stern demand from the sentries for the password.
“Password?” Kris yelled back. “What password? You know who we are: hell, it’s Kris Bjornsen, Zainal, the Doyle brothers, Coo and Slav. Damn it all, Tesco, don’t be so hostile.”
“Well, it’s my duty, Kris. We got attacked while you was all gone.” His grin gave her the immediate good news that the attack had failed and no one in the camp had evidently been killed or badly hurt.
They passed Tesco’s post by and hurried down to the caves, eager for more details about the incident.
When Kris saw that the Sergeant wasn’t in his office, she grabbed the first person by the arm, a youngster she remembered rescuing from the barns.
“Pete, where’s Mitford?”
“Inside,” the boy said. “Didja hear about us being attacked?”
“Yes, but we could do with some details.”
“Who? What?” Lenny demanded.
“Aw, just some starving renegades. Sarge led the counterattack—he was something else.” The boy’s eyes shone with admiration. “Bart and Sandy Areson right behind ’im. I missed most of it,” and Pete’s face fell in disappointment. “The sentries rained down arrows and stones and clipped a few of our guys.” Pete grinned irrepressibly. “Friendly fire, the Sarge called it. And they had fourteen bodies to dump—over that way,” and Pete made a wild gesture that indicated a considerable distance, “to keep the scavengers happy.” He gave an expressive shudder. “So you see, you missed a lot!”
“Were any of our guys hurt?” Kris asked urgently, glancing at the empty “office.”
“Aw, a broken leg and a couple of cuts is all. And the Sarge took in the ladies the bad guys had messed up bad.”
Inadvertently, Kris’ glance went to the stocks. They were empty. Could both Aarens and Arnie be on good behavior? Had the attack scared manners into them?
“Death to all invaders of our Camp Ayres Rock!” And Pete shot his arm up in a clenched-fist salute.
“Camp Ayres Rock?” Kris repeated, stunned.
“Sure, why not? The rock that protects us.”
“Well, you are named Peter.”
“Huh?” The kid screwed his face up.
“‘Peter’ means ‘rock,’ honey.”
“Oh, I never knew that.”
“D’you know where the Sergeant is right now, Peter?” Kris asked.
“Sure. Follow me,” and he gestured them after him. “He’s rigging distant early-warning devices.”
“He is?”
“Yeah, that Aarens guy did ’em. Not bad. And they work.”
“Aarens?” and Kris turned in amazement to Zainal.
“Wonders will never cease,” Lenny said, grinning at her, appreciating her surprise. “So he isn’t a total waste.”
“Takes all kinds to make a world,” was all Mitford said when they met up with him on his way back from the perimeter.
“But Aarens?”
“Surprised me, too,” Mitford said, leading them to a small cave that was his “inside office”—since the rains came, he said. “Did Pete there tell you all about the raid?”
“Can we debrief you, sarge?” Kris asked, laughing.
“Later. Give me the report on your findings, first. You do all right?” He glanced around at the others.
“Fine, sarge, we did great,” Lenny answered him.
“Coo’s gotten much weaker though, sarge,” Kris said quietly, not glancing in the Deski’s direction. Mitford grimaced. “Has anybody else found something to help?”
“Matt Dargle has narrowed it down to the lack of vitamin C, potassium, or calcium, and we’re looking for sources of those two,” and Mitford looked dour. “Right now there’re only three Deskis strong enough to go out with foragers to search.” He turned to Zainal. “You got any good ideas?”
“Deskis always need special foods. Bring in to Barevi. I do not know what.” And Zainal sighed. “Good guys, Deskis!”
“S’more’n I can say for some,” Mitford said in a low disgusted growl. He went on in a more positive tone. “Believe it or not but Aarens is the mechanical genius he told me he was!”
“So we heard.”
“Well, he cobbled together some perimeter circuit warning devices in case some other individuals think they can raid Camp Rock…” He grinned when he realized they’d heard the location had received a name. “He and Spiller believe we can even get adapt the panels to make water hot and maybe even internal lighting and heat. D’you remember anything in that report about the winters here, Zainal?” There was a hint of deep concern in Mitford’s eyes. “Like snow or floods or what?”
Zainal looked down at his big hands as if they might hold the answers. Then, with a sad sigh, he shook his head. “My people did not explore well. They did not see a lot we have now seen. But this planet has air to breathe and food for most to eat.” His voice held a tacit apology for the shortcomings of that exploration team. “The basic are here. Air, water, food needed to survive. And we survive well now, thanks to you.”
Mitford nodded in acceptance at that approval.
“Well, then, since the farm machinery seems to be shutting down after harvesting everything, and the farmers among us say that those loo-cows of yours, Kris, haven’t been rounded up in a wintering environment, looks like we all can expect to survive whatever the winter season brings.”
“Say, sarge, if the machines are all shut down, either by us or their programming, couldn’t we move into the buildings? We’ve found enough to accommodate all of us,” Kris said.
“That’s being considered as an alternative,” Mitford said. “Some folks are scared of the possibility of more marauders and feel safer here in Camp Rock. They’d resist leaving. However, those barns would be equally as defensible. Now lemme talk to the Doyles, will ya, and you two get some rest.”
The rain was still pelting down when Kris and Zainal stopped in the main cavern for the hot soup and the rather tasty form of soda bread that was available. It was so good that she didn’t even spit out the hard bits.
No one she knew was on duty there so she ate with Zainal. She tried not to, but she couldn’t help notice the sideways looks directed at them: some quite speculative and unfriendly. Well, it didn’t surprise her that there would still be animosity leveled at Zainal. Maybe that was why Mitford kept sending them out of the camp on patrol. Out of sight, out of mind. She sighed, a little sound, but Zainal caught it and looked inquiringly at her. She smiled dismissively and broke off a piece of her bread to scrape the last of the thick, tasty soup out of the rather lopsided pottery bowl. Zainal followed her example, grinning back at her.
T
hey washed out their utensils and returned them to the storage racks.
“I go see Coo,” Zainal said.
“I’ll come…” But when Zainal shook his head, she decided that a dip was the next order of business for her. “Give him my regards.”
“Regards?”
“Warm greetings.”
“Oh! Not a ‘boy’ saying.”
“Nope!” She grinned at him.
“One day you explain the ‘boy’ thing?”
“Any day now, m’friend,” Kris said with a laugh. “Your English improves in leaps and bounds.”
“Leaps and bounds?” He frowned as he tried to figure out the meaning of what she had said.
“I’ll explain that, too. Me for a bath,” she said in farewell.
The water in the underground lake was cold enough to curtail any lengthy wallowing. She was out and blotting herself dry beyond the main lights when she heard voices.
“Aarens had a point. How do we know that Cat isn’t a spy? How do we know he doesn’t have a comunit of some kind? How do we know he hasn’t left messages with those machine-things in the garages?”
“Come off it, Barker,” and Kris, hurriedly dressing, recognized Joe Lattore’s thick voice. “What would the Cats need to spy on us for, for God’s sake? And he’s no ordinary Cat anyway. I saw enough of the upper-class dudes and he’s one of them.”
“Then why’s he here with us?”
“That Bjornsen chick told me he’d killed a patrol leader and they caught him before the day was up.”
“Yeah, and who goes everywhere with that Cat? Huh?”
“You also heard the Doyle brothers same as I did, and they said there’s nothing doing between ’em.”
“They was careful, is all.”
“Oh, stow it. The Cat’s risked his neck to save us and I’m going to be grateful to him until I find a damned good reason not to be. And Aarens isn’t good enough. I know his type and I tell you what, was I hiring, I wouldn’t hire Aarens no way no how.”
Kris stepped as far back in the shadows as she could, a frisson of fear for Zainal running up her back. Did Mitford have any idea that such feelings were running against the Catteni? Probably, and that’s exactly why Zainal was sent out on constant reconnaissance—to reduce the possibility of reprisals against him.
Freedom's Landing Page 18