by James Axler
"Of course, Baron," the man managed to say without stuttering.
As the fishermen took their leave, Polk turned to a waiting steward. "Get a carpenter and nail this on the wall behind my throne," he directed him. "Let everybody see that ole Frank is dead."
"At once, Baron," the liveried man said with a bow.
"Now, as for you outlanders," Polk said genially. "Please stay for dinner. I wish to hear the details of the matter."
Apprehensive, Ryan glanced at his friends. They seemed uneasy, too, but he couldn't think of a polite way to refuse.
"Certainly, Baron," he said. "Our pleasure. But we do need to leave first thing in the morning."
"Why the rush? Stay awhile. I have a great need for people with your talents."
"Sorry, but we have to find some friends," Ryan said evenly.
Polk nodded. "And chill them. Yes, I can see it in your faces. Fair enough. You did your part, and I will do mine."
THE COMPANIONS CHECKED the horses and supplies as they were delivered to the courtyard of the ville, and everything was in fine shape. Dinner proved to be sixteen different things done to fish, and a roasted opossum. The companions ate the food, but Jak was in heaven. He stuffed himself with four portions and had to loosen his belt when they finally left the table for cigars and brandy. Around midnight, Polk took his leave, and the companions were left to their own devices. Doc, Jak and Dean excused themselves, while the rest took advantage of the baron's liquor cabinet. The brandy was merely winter wine, but strong flavored with plenty of kick.
"Too bad Clem decided to stay at Front Royal," Mildred said, sipping her drink. "We could have used him fighting that damn mutie. The man is a hell of a shot."
"He wasn't so hot," J.B. muttered. "Just an unwashed mountain man. Completely useless."
Ryan and Krysty remained neutral to the conversation, sensing a personal matter going on.
Wiggling closer, Mildred pressed a warm hip against the man. "I know that Clem liked me," she said, "but there's my medical condition to consider."
Glasses in hand, J.B. stared at her in total confusion.
Mildred took his hand. "I have a very small heart, and there's only room for one man there."
Speechless, J.B. squeezed her hand with all of his strength. If it hurt, she said nothing. Releasing her, J.B. rose and strode out of the room. Mildred sighed and sipped at her drink again.
"Damn men and their idiot pride," Krysty said, sloshing her drink as she gestured. "You better go have your way with him right now."
"That was my plan," Mildred said with a smile, placing aside her unfinished brandy. "See you in the morning."
"Remember how shy I was when we first met?" Ryan said with a grin as the woman strode from the room.
Krysty stared at the man over the rim of her glass. "You damn near forced me on the spot. I barely was able to seduce you in time."
Reaching out a hand, Ryan gently stroked her living hair, and the woman trembled under his touch, "We should go to bed ourselves."
She hiccuped. "My plan exactly."
"Mebbe."
WALKING ALONE through the quiet street, Doc paused in the darkness just outside the circle of light from a crackling campfire.
"Hey, there," he called to the group, "mind if I join you?"
Dropping the chicken leg he had been gnawing, the overseer stood up with a hand on his bullwhip. The big man had his weight equally balanced on both feet, and Doc knew immediately this was a trained killer. He had expected no less.
"Whatcha want?" the overseer growled dangerously.
"To get warm." Doc grinned. "Maybe talk some business."
"Yeah?"
"Of course."
As Doc approached, the slaves whispered among themselves.
"Shut up," said the boss, not even glancing in their direction, and the slaves went immediately dead quiet.
Stepping into the light, the big man saw Doc was clearly armed with a blaster, but that only made them equal. In the right hands, a bullwhip could cut a man like an ax. All it required was the room to swing.
"What kind of business we talking here, whitehair?" the overseer asked, grinning. "Mebbe ya need something warm to pass the night? They ain't pretty, but they'll do what they're told, by thunder. Long as you don't chill them, you can do whatever you wish. You want a man or a woman?"
Disgusted, Doc went for his blaster. The plan had been to chat with the man, get his confidence, lure him into a false sense of security, then strike. But the odious callousness of the overseer was beyond his limits of endurance.
The blaster came out of the holster and the bullwhip cracked, the weapon slapped from his grasp.
"So this is jacking, eh?" the overseer snarled, the leather spinning about his body. "Nobody steals my animals!"
The whip lashed out, and Doc stabbed upward with his stick, the knotted leather wrapped around the ebony shaft. The overseer cursed and pulled hard to free his weapon. Doc resisted for a moment, then released the stick and it went flying toward the man. Caught by surprise, the slave master dropped the whip to dodge out of the way.
Still holding the handle, Doc lunged forward with the bare blade of his sword and stabbed it deeper into the man's belly, then twisted the blade to enlarge the hole. Blood gushed from the wound, and the overseer sighed as he fell to his knees and toppled to the ground.
Retrieving the ebony cane, Doc wiped the blade clean on the dead man before sheathing the sword. After locating his LeMat, the scholar rummaged through the fellow's clothing, unearthing a ring of keys and a tiny .22-caliber homemade blaster. Mildred called such things zip guns, but he had no idea why.
"Here," he said softly, tossing the keys to the first prisoner. "The guards at the gate are drunk on brandy I bought for them, but move fast. I do not know when the shift changes. The swamp mutie is dead, so lay a fake trail to the east, then double back and scatter into the forest."
Doc pressed the zip gun into the hand of a woman prisoner. "Know how to use this?"
She nodded and pulled back the rubber band to see if there was a cartridge inside the thin pipe.
"Here is a knife each," Doc said, dropping a bundle on the ground. "And some bread. It was the best I could do."
"Bless you," she whispered, hugging the weapon.
"Why?" a man asked gruffly, working the locks on his ankles. There was a click, and he stood free from the chains. Red rings circled his ankles from the constant rubbing of the iron cuff, scars that would never go away, inside or out.
"Did you like being a slave?" Doc shot back.
"No," the man spit.
"Neither did I. Good luck." Doc turned and walked into the shadows.
THERE WAS A KNOCK on the bedroom door.
Grabbing his longblaster, Ryan rolled naked out of bed, and Krysty leveled her own revolver at the door.
"Yeah?" Ryan asked, pretending to yawn.
"Me," a familiar voice said.
Sensing trouble, Ryan padded across the room and unbolted the door, letting Mildred slip through.
"What's the matter? Is the baron planning on robbing us?" Krysty asked, stepping into pants.
"Worse. The old coot freed the slaves," she said quickly.
His chest glistening with sweat, Ryan inhaled deeply. "I expected as much. Do the sec men know what happened?"
"Not yet, but they will soon."
Ryan laid the blaster on the warm bed and started to get dressed. "Wake the others and get the horses."
"Already done. They're downstairs packing food."
"Let's go."
Hurrying downstairs, the companions mounted their horses and rode casually to the front gate. The guards were snoring on the ground, and they passed through without hindrance.
Once outside the walls, they pressed the horses into a full gallop.
"Which way are the slaves heading?" Ryan demanded.
"The freed prisoners," Doc said, stressing the words, "are dispersing into the forest."
"That's
east," Dean said, tightening the reins on his mare. "Good, because we're going north."
"West," his father corrected.
"But the closest Shiloh is in Tennessee," J.B. said, holding on to his fedora.
Just then, barking hounds sounded from the ville and a bell began to clang.
"I'll explain later," Ryan said, urging his mount to greater speed. Privately, the one-eyed man wanted to be furious at Doc for causing this unnecessary trouble, but he couldn't find a good reason. They had been planning on leaving in the morning anyway, and to be honest, Ryan had briefly considered freeing the slaves himself. He supposed there were just some things a man had to do no matter what the consequences.
Chapter Twelve
Dawn was breaking on the horizon, the indigo clouds of night lightening into the purple and orange of a new day. Sleepy people rose from their cots and beds, stumbling out of their cottages and huts, shuffling across the dirt to start another long day in the bitter fields. The rains had come late this year, and the soil was yielding poor crops. Many of the plants grew twisted and wrong, the grain inedible or deadly poison. Game was scarce, and few cans of predark food were found these days, so farming was the only hope of surviving another year.
Suddenly, the roar of a powerful machine broke the morning stillness as an open-topped wag full of armed sec men drove into the middle of the ramshackle ville. The machine was closely followed by a line of trucks draped in canvas. Armored and bristling with weapons, the war wags stopped with a squeal of brakes in the middle of the gawking crowd, the population backing away from the fearful machine. Some of the smaller children started to cry, clutching their mothers, while burly men with callused hands stepped forward brandishing sickles and axes.
"What are you doing here?" a towering giant demanded, squinting in hostility. "Go away!"
In the vehicle, a clean-shaved lieutenant in a crisp blue shirt stood and raised a small cone to his mouth. "Greetings and salutations, my fellow Americans." His loud voice boomed across the motley collection of huts. "I bring you great news from the baron of the United States!"
Instantly, a few men on the outskirts of the crowd dropped whatever they were doing and raced into the field. But black shapes plowed through the summer weeds to cut them off, and the men found a dozen more Hummers encircling the little ville.
"Return and obey!" a loud voice ordered.
Most of the escapees turned and skulked back to the crowd. But two bolted past the war machines, nimbly racing for the forest. The deadly whine of autofire sounded, brass shells arcing into the air like a golden rainbow. The stuttering line of tracer rounds reached out to sweep across the escapees, and the dead men tumbled to the ground, torn to pieces from the heavy-caliber bullets.
"As I said," repeated the sec man in the first Hummer, "greetings and salutations. We have come to offer you a once-in-a-lifetime chance to help feed your families and assist in rebuilding our wounded nation into the glory it once was! America reborn from the ashes! And only you can help!"
Murmurs came from the crowd. Some glanced at the fields, and the ring of wags turned on their headlights.
"Don't live in no America!" an old man shouted. "This be Tennessee!"
The lieutenant scowled at the man until he lowered his head. "As I was saying," the blue shirt continued, "you will receive the fabulous honor of being allowed to work for the glorious Great Project and help us rebuild America! It is a noble cause, one you will tell your grandchildren about with pride. Yes, you very people can become soldier-workers whose strong backs and brave hearts will gloriously fulfill our nation's ultimate destiny!"
There were more murmurs from the farmers, and the sec man began to wonder if any of them knew half the words he was using from the speech given to him. He decided it was time to cut to the bone of the matter.
The officer tossed the paper aside. The major was an ass; he knew how to do this. "All right, listen up you, brain-dead hillbilly scum!" he snarled. "We're here to gather everybody in the ville capable of doing a day's work. No pregnant women, crips or babies. But everyone else is coming with us!" He paused a moment to let that sink in.
"We asked this service of Shiloh ville down the road. The leaders of that ville foolishly refused us." The sec man paused again. "We begged them to reconsider, but they refused to help America and forced us to punish them severely."
The lieutenant took a breath and lowered his voice. "Shiloh will no longer worry about how to bring in their crops or hunt for food." The whisper changed to a shout. "Or anything! Have you seen what remains of their ville? Well, have you?"
Sobs came in reply, and he knew they had seen. This was why Dr. Jamaisvous waited a day before sending them to the next ville, to let the word spread and the fear build.
"As workers for the New American Army, you'll receive three meals a day, clean housing, and after one season you'll be sent home with a blaster and a pocketful of ammo. We have done this before and will do so again."
Faint hope brightened in their faces, and he smiled benignly at the crowd. God, what a lie, the officer thought, but kept a straight face. "That's the deal. Work and reap rewards. Or defy us, and force us to again bring down terrible destruction."
As if on cue, the overcast atmosphere rumbled and miraculously cleared, the heavily polluted clouds thinning until an azure sky was visible. Sunlight flooded the ville. Some of the people stared in wonder; others gasped in fear at the unnatural sight.
"Yes! The sky is ours to command. Watch!"
Another rumble, and the clouds rolled in to obscure the sun. As they touched, sheet lightning flashed and continued raging for more than a minute.
"Get in the bastard wags," the lieutenant ordered, supremely confident.
Beaten, the people of the ville walked toward the waiting line of vehicles. Sec men armed with long-blasters separated them, the men going in one truck, the women into another. A young woman saw the leering faces of the blue shirts and realized her horrible fate. With an anguished cry, she pulled out a knife from under her skirt and slit her own throat. Bright blood gushed from the wound, and she fell limply to the ground. At the sight, the farmers tensed, fear overlapping into anger, rage fueling courage. Heads started to rise in defiance, and hands became fists.
In unison, the sec men fired their weapons into the air, and the heavy autofires on the wags added their awesome barks to the deafening cacophony. Hot shells rained over the farmers, making them wince and hide behind raised hands. Stunned, shaken, their hesitant resolve broke, and once more they started to climb into the wags. Iron shackles lay on the floor and they chained themselves without instructions, knowing it would be the last free act of their short lives but having no other choice.
As the wags started rolling away, the babies wailed as the whitehairs held them tight. Nobody left in the ville believed that they would ever see any the departing villagers again. Not alive, anyway.
HOOVES POUNDING the misty ground, the companions rode hell-bent for leather through the early Carolina morning. The Flat Rock sec man had chased them for miles through the night, but Baron Polk had dealt fair and given the companions his best mounts. They easily outdistanced the older nags. However, soon after losing the sec men, they began to hear the long howl of hunting dogs. Hounds were a lot faster than horses on a short pull, and the companions were forced to slow and try to stealthily evade the relentless dogs.
"It's been a couple of hours since we heard them," J.B. said, glancing over his shoulder. "I think we finally lost them."
"Can't hear anything," Krysty said, closing her eyes to listen hard. The breeze rustled the leaves on the trees and a small animal was being eaten alive by something that purred, but nothing else. No barking dogs, no shouting riders. "I think we lost them."
"Said so," Jak stated. "Double back over creek, sprinkle black powder. Works good."
"My black powder," Doc complained, uncomfortably rolling to the gait of his animal. At least he still had enough for a few reloads, which was bette
r than nothing.
Reaching a creek, the companions reined in their mounts and let the wheezing animals drink for a while, before forcing them onward.
"But they were still thirsty," Dean said, stroking the sweaty neck of his pinto mare. She nickered in response, her long ears twitching happily.
Rocking at the hips to the gentle stride of his stallion, Ryan answered, "Never let a horse drink its fill. Slows them down too much. They get enough to stay healthy, no more."
"Should feed them soon," Krysty added, leaning forward as her mare daintily stepped over a pile of bricks. "We left in such a rush, we forgot to bring along feed."
Tightening her thighs, and holding on to the pommel of her saddle with both hands, Mildred leaned sideways and studied the grass rising from the low mist. "Plenty of grass around," she said, swinging back upright. "It shouldn't hurt them too much to live on just summer grass for a while."
"Okay, short break," Ryan said, reining his stallion to a stop. "No fire, cold food only. Stay alert. We leave in five minutes."
Guiding the horses to a nice section of grass, the companions tethered the reins to bushes and tugged hard to make sure they were secure. Shaking themselves to adjust to the lack of weight on their backs, the horses relaxed and began chomping at the tender blades, munching contentedly.
Opening his saddlebag, Dean took out an MRE envelope and ripped it open. Most of the food packets he dumped back inside the bag, but he kept the one marked Creamed Beef. Ripping off a corner, he sucked the food down and stuffed the empty foil back in the saddlebag. Loose trash on the trail would lead the dogs to them like bees to honey.
"Hey, Dad, can horses eat apples?" Dean asked, wiping off his mouth with a pocket rag. "There are some trees over there."
"Sure can," Ryan said around a mouthful of dried fish. Swallowing, the man looked over the area and nodded in approval. "Go gather a bunch. Doc, stay with him as cover."
Pulling up his pants, Doc stepped into view from behind a bush. "Certainly, my dear Ryan," he said, splashing some water from a canteen onto his hands and washing quickly. "Hum, we shall need something to carry the succulent fruit. John Barrymore, may we borrow your hat, please?"