by Nick Cole
The sun washed the field in gold, and out of the low-lying mist, arrows like birds began to race up toward the parapets. Loud knocks indicated the arrows ramming themselves into the wooden walls just on the other side of their heads. Someone screamed farther down along the wall. There was a sudden rush of the slurring Chinese, spoken in anger and maybe fear.
Escondido popped his head over the wall, keeping his rifle erect.
He shouted a string of Chinese directed at the others along the wall.
Then he sat down with his back to the parapet. “They’re using them arrows to keep our heads down. There’s thousands of ’em crossing the fields with ladders and poles now.” He took three short breaths, then, “Here we go!” Escondido popped his head over the wall, this time sighting down the rifle, and a second later the world erupted in thunder and blue smoke.
As the echoing crack of the rifle fades across the forest, the tribes began to whoop and scream below, breaking the morning quiet.
Escondido backed down behind the wall, handed the spent rifle to the Boy, and grabbed the other from the Boy’s frozen fingers.
The Boy had been told all his life about the legendary capacity of a gun to strike back at an enemy. But he had never seen one fired. He was never told of its blue stinging smoke and sudden thunder.
Three breaths as Escondido raised the rifle back over the wall. He targeted some unseen running, screaming tribesmen. A brief click as he pulled the trigger, and again the explosion.
They exchanged rifles. Unloaded and smoking, hot to the touch—for the other rifle, now loaded and waiting to be fired again.
Repeat.
“There’s thousands of ’em,” stated Escondido again.
Three breaths.
The explosion.
Repeat.
“They’re coming up the walls, it’ll be knife work shortly.”
The explosion.
Repeat.
“Duck!”
The sudden whistle of flocks of arrows flinging themselves from far away to close at hand, then the thick-sounding chocks as the cloud of missiles slammed down into the walls and old buildings within the outpost.
The Boy grabbed Raleigh’s knife when he heard the ladders fall into place on the other side of the pine logs. He put it in his mouth before he took the expended rifle and started the unloading trick he’d been taught.
Explosion.
“Be a long hot summer,” muttered Escondido.
Repeat.
The Boy finished reloading and waited to exchange rifles.
When nothing happened he looked up.
Escondido was slumped over the wall, almost falling facedown. The Boy pulled him back behind the parapet.
A bolt had gone straight up through his jaw and into his brain. His eyes were shut tight in death.
The Boy heard feet scrabbling for purchase on the other side.
All along the wall, lunatic tribesmen jabber, scream, and spurt blood as they hack away at the mostly dying Chinese.
The Boy, still holding the rifle, grabbed the sack of cartridges and tumbled off the platform, checking his landing with a roll.
He raced down a lane, his limping lope carrying him away from the bubbling surge of madmen now atop the wall and spilling over into the outpost. Chinese and Hillmen raced pell-mell for the old courthouse. Snipers from its highest windows below the old dome were shooting down into the streets.
The Boy was making good speed while watching the courthouse. He saw one of the snipers draw a bead on him and fire at the place where he should have been. Instead he crashed through the front door of a shack. Inside he found linens and pots and pans. There was even food in glass jars.
Go to ground, he thought, and wondered if this was the voice of Sergeant Presley. There was too much going on for him to tell.
Get behind the first wave of attackers, Boy. They’ll go for the courthouse.
He remembers Raleigh telling him to meet MacRaven at the front gate so that he could lead the tribes to the planned horror of their murdered leaders.
Outside, mohawked tribesmen were streaming down the streets with axes and blood-curdling screams. Bullets, fired from the courthouse, smacked and ricocheted into the cracked and broken streets.
When the first wave passed by the store, the Boy darted across the street and into an alley. He followed the alley and a few others as he worked his way back to the gate that sat astride old Highway Eighty.
He smelled smoke and burning wood.
Women were screaming.
Ahead, above the rooftops, where the gate should be, he saw an explosion of gray smoke and splintering wood.
The gunfire from the courthouse was increasing.
Breaking glass both close and far away.
Screams.
Whatchu gonna do now, Boy?
I’ve got to get Horse.
At the gate, the ashen-faced warriors were leaping over the collapsed remains of the entrance to hack with their machetes at the stunned Chinese riflemen mustering in the median of the old highway.
Through the smoke, MacRaven and a collection of warriors from the tribes of the Sierra Nevada were picking their way through the rubble. MacRaven turned, waving his machete, and behind him a vanguard of ashen-faced warriors pushed a wagon forward through the shattered remains of the gate. Atop the wagon rested a large gleaming metal crossbow.
The Boy crossed the open sward of grass to the on-ramp, waving at MacRaven.
MacRaven led the tribesmen toward the Boy as he pointed for the giant crossbow to be set up on the median of the highway.
“Have you found them?” roared MacRaven, his performance of concerned commander utterly believable.
The Boy nodded, unsure what to do next. He looked to the gate, hoping Horse would come through at any moment as more and more ashen-faced warriors poured through the breach.
MacRaven led the Boy away from the others as if to receive the planned bad news of their leaders’ demise.
“Speak to me like you’re telling me something horrible,” he whispered once they were some distance from the others.
The Boy couldn’t think of what to say.
“Just move your mouth.”
He opened and closed his mouth as MacRaven nodded. Then, “Where did Raleigh put the bodies?”
The Boy pointed toward the Old School.
“On the field, up there.”
“All right, in just a moment you’re going to lead us up there. But first I want to watch my space crossbow take out their courthouse.”
MacRaven turned back to the crossbow crew and raised his arm, then brought it down toward the dome of the courthouse.
A singing twang sent a six-foot iron shaft speeding from the gleaming crossbow into the cupola of the courthouse. Brick and debris shot out the other side of the building as rubble crashed down onto the lower levels and finally the steps leading to the parking lot.
“Great, huh?” said MacRaven, turning to the Boy. “It’s from Before. It was designed to go up into space and shoot down asteroids so smart men could bring soil samples back to earth. I found it inside an old research plant down east of L.A. Place called JPL, whatever that means. Doesn’t sound like a word, but maybe it was in another language I ain’t learned yet. From what I could tell, they were gonna send it up into space before the war. Good thing they didn’t, huh?”
The Boy heard a little electric motor whining as the drawstring recocks the crossbow. Three men levered another iron bolt off the floor of the wagon and placed it onto the weapon.
“I’ll conquer the world with it,” said MacRaven in armor amid the smoke and bullets. “Just wait.”
The catapult fired again and the massive bolt disappeared into the main body of the courthouse. Its effects were devastating.
31
THE MAIN GROUP of MacRaven’s entourage was twenty feet behind the Boy as he led them up along time ravaged streets toward the Old School and the field where MacRaven expected they would find the strung-
up corpses of their leaders.
Instead, MacRaven will find the body of his most trusted man and a wagon full of corpses, Sergeant. A wagon many will have already seen back in the hidden valley.
You know how it is, Boy. Whatchu gonna do now? ’Cause you ain’t got much time to do it in.
The blood was everywhere along their trek through the lanes of the outpost: in pools, splashed against the sides of houses, painting shattered glass.
The gunfire from the courthouse came in waves, and each wave seemed diminished from the one previous. The waves were punctuated by the giant crossbow’s singing note and the audible whistle of the great bolt through the atmosphere and then its sudden crash.
Ahead of the Boy, at a bend in the lane, a woman lay in the street, naked and dead. An infant wailed from the porch of the shack she lay in front of.
Around the bend, three Chinese guards were riddled with arrows. They stared sightlessly at the Boy, MacRaven, and the wild entourage of tribespeople, who grew quieter with each found body.
The air was still cool, reminding the Boy that it was just after dawn.
The Boy looked behind and saw MacRaven staring intently at him.
The dead did not bother MacRaven.
Whatchu gonna do now?
I’ve got a knife and a rifle.
It ain’t much, Boy.
The low concrete that abutted the sports field of the once school was all that remained and protected the Boy from the truth that was soon to be revealed.
Warriors were still climbing the walls toward the north.
But these warriors were different.
They wore clothes like the Chinese.
They carried large axes.
They uttered whoop whoops as they flooded toward MacRaven’s group.
In a moment, it would be the hot work of thrust and slash.
MacRaven’s entourage formed up quickly to stand against the sudden waves of Hillmen climbing the walls to counter-attack.
MacRaven fell behind the warriors of the tribes now eager to get their fair share of trophies. He signaled the Boy to come to him.
“Get back to the gate and find whoever you can and get them up here. It’s a counter-attack!” A moment later, MacRaven pulled a dead tribesman aside and thrust a Hillman through with his machete.
“Go!”
Now’s your chance, Boy. You get just the one.
I know.
The Boy ran back to the gate.
Black smoke climbed in thick pillars from the southern portion of the outpost, forming an inky backdrop to the crumbling courthouse. There were only a few Chinese snipers left in what remains of the old building..
At the gate, ashen-faced warriors were gathering to watch the crossbow’s work while a captain marshaled them for the final attack on the last of the courthouse’s defenders.
Dunn rode through the gate on his dark gray mare. He saw the Boy and waved his hat as he galloped the distance between them.
“Where’s MacRaven?”
The Boy pointed toward the top of the outpost. “Where’s my horse and gear?”
Dunn smiled. “What, dontcha trust us, Bear Killer?”
The anger behind the Boy’s stare checked Dunn.
“Nice rifle.” Dunn’s eyes were ice cold.
The Boy looked down at the rifle. He had completely forgotten about it.
“Give it here,” demanded Dunn.
“Where’s my horse?” said the Boy through clenched teeth.
For a moment Dunn’s hand fell to his machete. But then he heard a far-off volley of rifle fire and this meant something to him.
“Hell, keep it. Vaclav’s coming up with Raleigh’s horse and yours also, I suspect. Where’d you say the chief was?”
The Boy stared for a long moment, then pointed toward the field.
Dunn kicked his mount and tore off across the grass of the on-ramp. The crossbow sang again and now the ashen-faced warriors were marching in formation toward the courthouse.
Won’t be long now before things get sorted out. You better get while the gettin’s good, Boy.
He trotted through the broken timbers of the gate, smashed by the iron bar flung from the space crossbow.
The rising highway to the east was flooded with carts and wagon teams. Wild–eyed women and scrawny children who had followed the army of tribes watched the fort with hunger. On the other side of the highway, buildings from Before lay fallow and fallen amidst a pine forest that had overrun that section of town.
Vaclav led Horse and Raleigh’s mount down alongside the grass-covered highway. The other horses were wild with fear from the smoke and gunfire as Vaclav cursed and spit, trying to keep them under control.
When he saw the Boy he yelled, “Take your stupid animal already.”
The Boy limped forward and took hold of Horse. The bearskin was tied across Horse’s back and he found his tomahawk inside the saddle pack. A moment later he was up and whispering as he patted the long neck of his friend.
“What’s going on in there?” said Vaclav, looking at the rifle with the coal-black version of Dunn’s hungry blue eyes.
The Boy was just about to lie when they both heard shouting at the gate as Dunn came thundering through on his mare, knocking back two ashen-faced guards. He screamed something at Vaclav.
If the meaning isn’t clear it shortly will be, Boy.
“What’s he saying?” asked Vaclav.
Dunn waved his machete, still shouting as he drove his horse hard up the old highway.
Whatchu gonna do now, Boy?
Vaclav will be busy with the extra mount. Dunn, on the other hand . . .
The Boy raised the rifle and sighted down the barrel. The rifle was too long to steady with just his one good arm, which he needed the hand of to pull the trigger.
Horse has never heard a rifle before. Be ready, Boy. Horse might not like it.
He raised his withered left arm and set the rifle on the flat of his thin arm.
“What’re you doing?” Vaclav screamed.
Is it loaded, Boy?
Dunn’s eyes were wide with fear and hate as he raced to close the distance between them.
Horse danced to the right, turning away.
I’ve never fired a gun before, Sergeant.
Ain’t nothin’ but a thang.
Explosion.
The bullet rips into Dunn’s mount and Dunn goes down hard, face-first on the grassy slope.
The Boy urged Horse forward and they were off across the broken and grassy highway, down an overgrown embankment, and into the ruins and the forest beyond.
32
THE BOY HAD passed by the overgrown ruins of places almost familiar many times before. There had always been in him that desire to understand such places, to investigate them. But in this moment of shouting men behind him, and soon the inevitable dogs, he knew there was no time for the usual consideration of things past.
Green grass sprouted through the split asphalt of a wide avenue; the remains of an old road led up through the ruins that the Boy suspected was the other half of the Auburn that existed before the bombs. At the top of the rise, looking back toward the smoky pillars climbing over the outpost, the Boy saw the remnants of the Hard Men coming for him. Other men, ferocious lunatics, followed behind Raleigh’s riders with bellowing hounds at the ends of thick straps of leather.
Escape and evade, Boy, we done it a million times. If they’re bringing dogs, then distance is what you need. Out of sight, those dogs will start to slow down when they start searchin’ for your trail. Then you can confuse ’em.
The Boy patted Horse and knew that an outright race would put him beyond the dogs. But the Hard Men on their horses would spot his trail and the following would be easier.
He turned and started through the overgrown brush and tangle of a collapsed bridge that once crossed the road.
I’ll keep moving west, Sergeant.
He rode Horse hard for a time, working his way down a wooded ridge and
following a twisting maze of dense brush and warped trees along falling ridges and a steep slope that will eventually lead into the river delta around Sacramento.
By noon he had lost the Hard Men, but his progress had been slow. Way off, back up on the ridge, he heard dogs baying, moaning as if in pain.
If they catch me, will those dogs stop their noise, satisfied at what will happen next?
Sometimes I wonder if there is any good left in this world.
He thought of the bodies and carnage of Auburn.
At sunset, he pulled out the map from its hidden place in the bearskin. Sacramento was far ahead to the west.
Behind him, he could smell woody smoke in the fading light and he wondered if it was from Auburn or the campfires of his pursuers.
It was good to be alone again.
Is that the way of my life, Sergeant? My way through this world? Alone?
But there was no answer.
Why should there be an answer, Sergeant? When you were alive we never talked about those things. We talked of food and survival, and sometimes I just listened to your stories about the way things were Before. And sometimes also, why they had to end.
You take everything with you, Boy.
Yes.
He looked at what forty years of wild, unchecked growth had made of the terrain. It was a wall through which nothing could pass undetected.
The Old Highway is maybe a mile off to my right. I’ll have a better chance evading them there.
They could be searching the road for you, Boy.
If I put as much distance tonight between myself and the hounds, by morning I’ll have a better chance.
He remembered Sergeant Presley’s hatred of “chance.”
If all you got is a chance, Boy, you ain’t got jack!
It’s all I have now, Sergeant.
He rode the highway at a trot. The night was cool and mist rose from the lowlands on both sides of the highway. Cars and trucks, forever frozen in rusty dereliction, littered the road and made him wonder, as they always did, of the stories behind and within them.
You’ll never know, Boy. I could make up a story for you like I used to. You could tell yourself a lie. But what good would it do, even if you could know how things ended for those people?