The Silent Years [The Complete Collection]

by Jennifer R. Povey

  Hoof beats. Not a rider, but a lone horse, streaked with sweat and running towards the corral. She wished it could talk. Then it could tell her what had happened to its rider.

  It finally slowed to a walk, snorting and shaking its head. There was blood mingling with the sweat on its shoulder. It seemed sound, but there was the crease of a bullet wound along its side—a line of red that would scar. The attackers were not Silents then, who could not seem to work out guns.

  One of the boys approached it, calmed it with a touch, and led it away. The saddlebags were empty. Either the rider had used all of his ammunition, or it had been stolen.

  Helen let out the breath she had been holding. "That confirms it. They're hostile."

  And she knew what this meant. The greatest evil of man had come to Bruceton Mills: war. She supposed it was inevitable. She turned and walked straight for the town hall.

  Several people followed her. "What do we do?" one of them called.

  A soft voice followed up with "I can help." Irene.

  "You're a kid."

  "They're after kids."

  "So? They'll tie you up."

  "Not if I let them think I want to be with them. Then I can untie my friends."

  "What if they're using handcuffs?"

  "I'll steal the keys."

  "You can't do this," one of the men interrupted. "You're not putting yourself in danger, kid."

  "How do you plan on stopping me?"

  He made a grab for her, but she was gone, running away.

  "You shouldn't have encouraged her," the man said.

  "She won't get far." Helen sighed. "I was trying to discourage her."

  "You've never raised a kid, clearly."

  As he was right, she fell silent. Somebody would catch Irene. Had she been a few years older, Helen might have gone for her plan. But she was not even in double digits. Risking a child went against everything they were working for here: the values and principles of America.

  A part of her whispered that maybe it was time to set those aside. No. She had managed to hold on to civilizations for two years, she could continue to do so. As long as there were other people who remembered they were American.

  She stepped into the room they used as a council chamber and sat down. At this point, she did not care who joined her.

  A babble of voices followed her in.

  "Sit down and shut up." She sounded harsher than she meant to be, but it got them sitting down and mostly shut up.

  "We don't know what happened today. We can't be absolutely sure the incident wasn't somehow provoked or a misunderstanding. But we should assume these people are potentially hostile."

  "What if they're already on our turf?" That was Carl Wilcox.

  She smiled. "Then we ask them to leave," She kept her tone serious, "with whatever persuasion is necessary."

  This band might prove to be friendly after all, but Helen doubted it.

  "If it was a misunderstanding, they might be friendly."

  "If Milkins was one of them, do we want them even if they are?" she countered.

  "Point."

  "If they're friendly, we direct them to somewhere suitable a good distance away. If they're not, we kick their butts." She was absolutely confident that they could.

  "We try, anyway," said Lawrence Clark. "I ain't exactly a military man myself."

  "We all have plenty of experience."

  "Against Silents and bears," he argued. "Not against other humans."

  He had a point. If Tom was telling the truth, these people had been practicing conquest. "I think we're pretty tough."

  "What I'm saying is that we need a backup plan. A place to retreat to if we have to."

  She nodded. "Not a bad idea. We could consider moving those who can't fight up to the old mill. It has a back door, and..."

  "No. We'd have to split off too much to protect them," said Carl. "They're safest here."

  "And if we get surrounded?" Lawrence asked. "If these people really are taking prisoners, even slaves..."

  Helen took a deep breath. "You guys hash it out. I'm not a tactician. I'm quite capable of fighting, mind."

  Against humans? She wasn't entirely sure of that. Could she shoot a man? In defense of her own people...she had no choice.

  Did anyone ever have a choice?

  -#-

  Two armed riders made their way into the settlement. They were escorted by two of the older kids, one a girl.

  One of them was carrying a white flag. Parley.

  Helen stepped out. "What do you want?"

  "To talk to whoever your leader is." The speaker was small, wiry, energetic. His silent companion was so big that his horse looked less than happy about the weight.

  "That would be me," said Helen.

  "Your real leader." His tone was not just skeptical, it was entirely dismissive.

  She held her ground. She'd dealt with these types before. And to think they had had a female vice president before. "You deal with me or you deal with nobody."

  His eyes narrowed. "Very well. If you are the one who is to surrender to us, then so be it."

  She heard a weapon cock. "No. They're under truce. Let him finish."

  "It's quite simple. If you surrender and agree to live under our laws, we will spare everyone's lives. If you do not, then we will kill all of your menfolk."

  She heard a second weapon cock. "Not true." She felt under the spotlight. "You will surrender to us. Then you will leave the area and not return. I do not ask you to bow to us, only depart. If you do not, then we will kill you."

  "You don't have enough fighting men." His eyes took in the square. "You're so short-handed you have girls on patrol, as if they could do any good."

  How had things degraded so fast? "Leave. Patricia, Jason, escort them back to where you found them. Use any necessary force."

  Patricia smiled and fingered her sidearm. She was a fierce young woman, and Helen hoped she married a man as vibrant and powerful as herself.

  Patricia’s presence was perfect; it sent a message. The envoy frowned, threw back “We know the way,” over his shoulder, then cantered off. Helen relaxed a bit as the patrolmen followed him. "So..."

  "Should have let us shoot the assholes."

  "No. We follow the rules. Everyone is armed, correct? The very young, the very old and the pregnant should gather in the council house. It's the most fireproof building and has a back door."

  John Mark walked up and took her arm. "You've done your part, Helen. Let the people who are better at tactics take over now."

  She slumped a bit. "You're right. Just give me a rifle."

  "I think you'll like our idea."

  She arched an eyebrow. "Our as in?"

  "Lawrence and I. It should spook them quite nicely."

  Helen couldn't help but smile. "I'd like to see them spooked clean back to where they came from...without those kids."

  "Some of the kids may like being with them."

  "True. Those that don't, well, they're all welcome..." A thought hit her. "Has anyone seen Irene?"

  "No."

  The kid had, of course, done exactly what she said she would do. Not listening to adults. Wildling to the bone, but Helen had a feeling she'd be all right.

  -#-

  They did not have time to send the kind of search parties after Irene that Helen would have liked. One child was hardly important at a time like this.

  Helen had a rifle, she had ammunition. Whether she could bring herself to use them remained an open question. She decided she would do her best. And if she froze up? Hopefully somebody would cover her.

  "Not over there," John said. "I want you on this side."

  She realized immediately what he and Lawrence had done. He had massed most of the women together, so that it would look to those approaching as if most of the defenders were girls.

  No, better than that. If they came this way, they would be trapped. He was using their conviction that women were weak against them.
>
  She supposed some men had always been like that, the men who had asked female executives to make them coffee, the men who had pinched butts and justified rape. Those same men were the ones who had turned into cavemen so rapidly, stripped of the thin veneer of civilization. Some of the invaders were simply following the path of least resistance and being what they were expected to be. Everyone did that, sometimes. She knew she did.

  Where were they? Would they make a wide circle and come from the north? Had they stopped to burn somebody's barn on the way?

  No. They wanted this place; they'd leave stores and buildings intact. They wanted the women and children, too. They would not get any of the women. Her women fought better than her men.

  Helen heard hoof beats.

  The opposition were no fools. They came in pairs instead of a mass, firing from horseback, harrying. Some of them had bows, most had guns. They were hard targets, especially if you wanted to avoid hitting the horses.

  Helen did want to save the horses, albeit not at the cost of the town. Even in these circumstances, any horses that they could capture would be valuable. Yet, she had to hit the men. One of her shots hit a rider; he fell backwards, but not quite out of his saddle, then straightened.

  The bastards had bulletproof vests! Not that they hadn't found a few themselves in Bruceton Mills, but nowhere near enough. Armor. That was the one thing they did not have. Too late now to find or make some.

  She changed her aim, and hit one in the arm. He was forced to withdraw. Focus, she told herself. Make every shot count. She could feel her own breathing, but hear nothing...the racket of the bullets made her ears ring.

  There had only been supposed to be twenty of them. It seemed more like fifty, or as if every one of them could be in two places at once. She drew back into a building for better cover and better confidence.

  They had been working hard on their horseback combat, which her people had not. She finally understood how the Europeans must have felt when the Mongol Hordes invaded their pleasant lands. These people were likely to rape the women as well.

  They had killed Stephanie and would kill others. Helen let herself grow angry. It made her a better shot. A horse went down, but somehow...that seemed to be the invaders’ only casualty. She was not sure how many of the defenders had been lost.

  There was a faint whistling sound. Helen looked up; she could not help it. Perhaps it was a signal, because suddenly the harrying riders fell back. She realized they had arrived at a stalemate. She saw wounded and one dead horse, but the rider was already up behind one of his mates.

  Then there was a flash and a roar, and she lost consciousness.

  Chapter Seven

  A bomb, she thought groggily as she came around. They had blown her up. No, for she didn't seem to be harmed.

  Her head pounded as she battled to clear it. Thoughts came sluggishly. No, not a bomb. What they must have done was stockpile an bunch of flash bangs and thrown them en masse. It had been enough to stun personnel without damaging infrastructure.

  Her ears rang and there were spots in front of her eyes. She could move though, and she wasn't bound.

  But she was locked in one of her own store rooms, she realized with horror.. They had lost. To be fair, they had lost to far more experienced fighters. That would have made her feel better had they not also been rapists and misogynists.

  They had still lost. She wondered what they would do with her. The answer did not come straight away.

  Either they were leaving her here deliberately or they had yet to realize she was awake. The door was locked and there was no window. A single bare bulb provided her only light, and the switch was outside. They could plunge her into darkness and leave her there any time they wanted, and probably would.

  There was also no food or water in here. Most likely, she would be fed eventually. She was too valuable as a hostage for them to let her starve to death. Maybe they thought if they could coerce her into surrendering, it would reduce resistance to their rule.

  The door opened a crack, and somebody slid a tin mug of water and a plate with bread and cheese through the gap before closing it.

  Helen contemplated the food for a moment. Then she started to eat. They would not have gone to the trouble of keeping her alive only to poison her, and if it was drugged? Right now, she hardly cared. Staying alive was more important.

  While she lived, there was always a chance of escape. She had survived worse than anything these subhumans could throw at her. They would probably tell her that she could have her job back...

  No, they would not use her as a figurehead. That would be against what they stood for. Most likely, they were keeping her alive for a public execution. Or they would exile her or keep her locked up rather than risk making a martyr.

  That was slight improvement. Martyrdom was not very good for the martyr, especially for one that did not believe in any kind of reward in the afterlife. From imprisonment one could escape and from exile one could return, if one had help. If she survived. She thought of the men she had exiled, had driven out. Had any of them lived? Of course, they might still kill her and try to make it look like an accident.

  The food did not appear to be drugged. She ate all of it, and was still a little hungry. Was there anyone who could help her? That depended on who had been nailed by the stun bombs and who had not. For right now, she was alone with her thoughts. Who could she trust?

  Most of the young people would go along with the invaders. The kids could be indoctrinated fairly easily. Others would pretend to play along for their own lives, and she could not criticize them. In their place, she would do the same thing.

  She did not have that luxury. No, Helen would be used as an example: the fall of the ultimate uppity woman.

  So, how could she use that to her advantage? How did she make sure they didn’t get what they wanted? For a long moment, she contemplated playing dumb and claiming that her leadership had been a trick to upset the outsiders, and that John Mark was in control. They would be willing to negotiate with John, and might be convinced to let her go. Maybe she could pretend to be one of his wives.

  She did not know. She had no way to signal him about such a deception and would have to trust him—and his wife, Corinne—to play along. John could probably do it. Corinne had never struck her as having a lot of brain cells to rub together. Unfortunate but true.

  Another option was to bow down, to surrender and hope her people could salvage something. The town might be able to keep hope alive until the invaders' guard was down and then kick their butts six ways to Sunday.

  Helen could see no other choice. Surrender might even save her neck. On the other hand, she was not breeding material. They had no reason to keep feeding her.

  She pushed that morbid thought out of her mind. If she was going to die, she was going to die, but she intended to live. Even if it looked like betrayal, she would live, because then she could help. As a dead body, she could achieve nothing. Well, maybe increase her people's morale a little.

  Would people understand? As she had the thought, the door opened.

  Tom Milkins stood in the doorway.

  "You asshole," were the first words out of her mouth.

  "Come on. The council wants to talk to you."

  All thought of surrendering or playing the meek woman fled. "You mean: they want to string me up higher than we did Max."

  Of all things, he patted her on the butt. "Not yet."

  She wanted to slap him, but the two armed guards precluded that. All she could do was glare. It was not even a particularly effective glare. She was too tired and shaken even for that.

  He escorted her into her own familiar council room.

  "So. You put up resistance, but you should have known we would not be so easily defeated."

  She studied the speaker. Fifty if he was a day, steel hair and eyes and... "Charles?" Her tone was incredulous.

  Charles Easton. In another life, he had been the CEO of a major bank until his rat
her unfortunate habit of beating his wife had been publicly revealed. He was a loser of the first order, but when she had met him, he had cowed her.

  "Helen Locke. A third-rate lawyer."

  "At least I didn't get fired for embarrassing my employers." Now, he did not cow her even if he had all of the guns on his side. This was her turf, and that bolstered her. Maybe that was irrational and illogical, but there it was.

  "No, but now your little reign is over. Things here will soon get back to normal. The way they were before women took over and emasculated men."

  "Just how big is your little republic, really?" She knew she sounded snide—it was quite intentional. She was trying to keep him off guard.

  "Bigger than yours. Oh wait, yours doesn't exist anymore."

  "But I still do. Or do you intend to fix that?"

  "Now, that's a difficult situation. I probably should just kill you, but I think it would increase morale a little too much. So, let's see. I can keep you locked up in a store room for the rest of your life. Not likely to be too long with no sun or exercise. Or you could voluntarily leave, now."

  "Alone, or can others go with me if they wish?"

  "Alone. The only reason you're being given this opportunity is that there's no point trying to...retrain you." His tone was nasty for a moment. "I would take it if I were you."

  "It does seem the least unpleasant of my options, doesn't it? On the other hand, making you put up with me has its appeal."

  "You have until tomorrow to think about it. Take her back to her cell. Not you, Milkins. We need to discuss your reward."

  So, he had switched sides again. Loser. And he had the cheek to pat her butt.

  They pushed her back in the store room. Wonder of wonders, the light was still on. Maybe it hadn't occurred to them that leaving her in darkness would sap her energy and render her far less dangerous.

  Milkins had patted her butt. She was wearing what she had worn for the fight: a flannel shirt, now torn, and blue jeans.

  And now she wasn't facing down that asshole, she realized she could feel something in her back pocket. He'd put something in her pocket.