His eyes scanned down the coast of the river, looking for more bridges. A dotted line down the center of the river represented the division between Iowa and Illinois.
Steele peered up at Thunder. The big biker ran his fingers through his beard untangling snarls. The fire emitted a low crackle in the background with an additional pop every few minutes.
“We can’t let him cross or it’s a toe-to-toe fight against Jackson’s superior forces.”
Thunder shook his head. “And we can’t run. All our vehicles are abandoned on the other side of the river.” Steele knew that of all the things that irked his big biker ally, it was the loss of his motorcycles that stung the most. All the gangs had lost their freedom of mobility, and at the same time, severely limited their scouting usefulness to Steele.
Steele sighed. “Hacklebarney doesn’t have enough vehicles, and if it did, how long before he catches us?” He ran a hand up and over his scarred head. “Gwen, do you know anyone in these towns down here?” He tapped a finger on Keokuk the furthest southeast point of the state.
“Sure. Don’t know if they’re still there though. I know more people through here.” She pointed.
Tiny dots littered the interior of Iowa west from the Mississippi. “How many people? And do you think they will fight?”
Her long blonde hair was around her shoulders today and her skin glowed. “Those are the villages of Van Buren County. Each village less than a thousand. Stand up against the might of the U.S. military? I dunno. You saw how difficult it was to get Hacklebarney onboard.”
Steele nodded and placed a hand on his beard.
Frank grimaced. “We need to sink those bridges and hope we can play defense.”
“My girls can handle it,” said Red Clare. The old female biker frowned. “Gotta keep on the lookout for those dog fuckin’ Wolf Riders.”
Steele turned toward her. “I wish I knew what they ran into, but I’m assuming it was bad.” He glanced at Gwen. She pored over the map trying to hide her worry about their mutual friend.
Frank eyed Red Clare and then Steele. “We need a plan in case we can’t blow them in time.”
“I sent War Child this morning. That old fucker was excited about getting to blow something up. Thunder has the bridge into Hacklebarney ready to blow. I’d figure maybe we’d wait until somebody we didn’t want to cross decided to cross.”
Thunder smiled, looking like a sinister Santa Claus.
“Smart,” Frank said.
“Only if it works. Otherwise, I could have sent War Child into a nasty scrap.”
His eyes darted up. “But we need to take care of the bridge near Burlington in case Jackson goes north.” He looked at the leader of the Seven Sisters. “Red Clare, can you head that way?”
The leathery reddish-haired biker nodded her head. She flashed him some yellow-stained teeth. “I’ll get some of the girls going that way, sweetie.”
Steele sighed. “Back to our worst-case scenario. This is what I got. If Jackson comes from the south, we’ll set up here. It’s about a mile south of where we stand now. Close enough where we can deploy quickly and it’s between both us and Hacklebarney.” He tapped the map.
Two small circle hills stood near one another with a low-lying saddle between them. Another hill stood a few hundred yards north toward the Reynolds’ farm.
“John, do you know the names of these hills?” Steele asked the old man.
John scratched his cheek. “Don’t suppose they’d be on a map now, would they.” He glanced at the map. “But I know ’em. The two furthest south are Sauk and Fox Hills and the bigger one is Black Hawk Hill.”
“Thank you, John.” Steele’s finger tapped the edge of the map as he thought. “They’re mobile and we’re not.” Advantage Jackson. “He’s flanked us in the past, but I think he’s gunning for us. His victory was stolen from him on the island. Now, he wants it even worse.”
He glanced at the small black-haired woman. She stood, but the hunch in her shoulders gave her an uncomfortable appearance. She gave him a pained smile. His eyes said he was sorry, but he couldn’t say it in front of the pastor nor would he say it in private. Tess had to understand to survive as a group she couldn’t just off the leader of another group. The tall man in black watched them from across the table. His eyes soaked in everything, weighing the meaning of a single blink.
“Tess. I need you and best shots of the Sable volunteers out in front of the Sauk and Fox Hills. Hunting rifles only.”
She smiled. “The sharpshooters will do the trick.”
Steele nodded. “I’ll keep Trent. I need him.”
“He’s all yours.”
“Okay, you’ll likely run into a scouting force. A squad or platoon of soldiers searching for us. You are a delaying action so we can get mobilized. Slow them down and retreat. Back behind here.” He tapped the line between the hills.
His eyes jumped to the pastor. The man mirrored a Puritan clergyman at the Salem witch trials. Unforgiving at best. “Pastor, I need your Chosen here between the hills. It’s exposed, but Hacklebarney has enough sandbags to construct a protective wall.” His eyes moved to Gwen. Her body language was confident.
“We’ve thousands of bags ready to go,” she said with a smile. “Usually we use them if the river’s going to flood, but it’s not that time of year.”
“Perfect,” Steele said with a nod. “It should protect them from most gunfire.
The pastor’s sharp eyes pierced Steele as he turned toward him. Weeks ago that man had tried to murder Steele and half the people in the room.
“My men are not expert fighters.” He paused. “They have fervor, but none of the formal training of the bikers.” He said the word bikers as if it was a cigarette butt on his tongue.
Steele nodded. “I only need them to hold.”
He was cut off by someone pounding on the farmhouse’s old wooden door. Everyone’s heads turned. War Child burst in. Blood ran down his face and his white hair fell loose out of its braided ponytail.
“What happened?” Steele asked. His mind ran away with every potentially awful thought possible.
The old biker breathed heavy and his voice came out in a gravely groan. “They’re across.”
KINNICK
Warden, IA
Kinnick sat behind a square restaurant table. In front of him was a notepad, a pen, and a glass of water. He faced a dim restaurant even during the middle of the day. The windows were still barricaded, blocking most of the ambient light from the overcast sky. The tables had been cleared out and only the dining room chairs remained in short rows facing his direction.
He clasped his hands in front of him, feeling like a mob boss awaiting the townspeople under his protection to pay him tribute. In reality, he was waiting for the people of Warden to finish filtering into the dining room. He could sense Hunter looming near the right-hand wall like a court bailiff ready to jump into the fray at a moment’s notice. He only had a sidearm as did Kinnick, and none of the townspeople were allowed weapons inside the restaurant. Washington and Duncan patted people down at the door. Duncan peered into a woman’s purse and waved her through. A line formed running along the building.
Kinnick checked his watch. They were fifteen minutes past the agreed start time, so he nodded to Hunter. Hunter waved to Washington and the Marine stepped into the doorway.
“There’s no more room.”
A man peered around him. “Come on.”
The large African-American soldier stood his ground blocking his path. “You can see through the windows.” A crowd had formed outside. They looked over one another in an attempt to see inside.
Kinnick picked up his pen and clicked the silver button on top with his thumb. Click-click. Click-click. Hunter positioned himself near his right again, hands clasped behind his back. “Hunter, bring them out.” The Green Beret disappeared into the kitchen.
Kinnick stared at the people. They were regular enough. Some were overweight. Others were thinner. Alm
ost all were white. He saw the old woman that had witnessed the Marines kill the boy. She will surely testify. An eyewitness did not bode well for the Marines’ fate. Volk had all but confirmed that he was guilty. How can I be fair and see this horrible situation to a successful conclusion? You can’t, his mind mocked.
A cluster of boots thumped the floor in the back, and a moment later, Hunter brought Volk and Whitehead into the main dining room. He escorted them to chairs. The townspeople whispered angrily to one another.
A lanky man with a ball cap on his head stood and pointed with a stiff finger at the Marines. “Fuck you for what you done. My boy’s gone.”
Kinnick raised his hand. “Enough, sir. We’re here for a trial, not a lynching. Next outburst and you’re gone.”
The man looked like he was about to spit but instead took a seat next to his wife with ear-length blonde hair, who wiped her nose with a handkerchief. He placed a comforting arm around her, his eyes piercing Kinnick.
Kinnick spoke loudly so even the people outside could hear his voice. “You all agreed to a dual trial for the Marines and the Biggs. They will be judged by a jury of their peers, and I will preside over the decision. Is this clear?”
People nodded their heads. Kinnick gave Hunter a single nod. “Bring them out.”
In less than thirty seconds, Hunter brought Martin and Randy Biggs out and sat them at another table on the other side of the room from the convicted Marines. The left side of Martin’s face was different shades of black, purple, and yellow. Randy was slumped over in his chair, already defeated. He dipped his shaved head and stared at the floor.
“We’ll start with the murder charges brought against Sergeant Volk and Private Whitehead. We will begin by hearing Sergeant Volk’s story. You may stand.”
Volk stood in his spot. He lifted his chin a bit and stared unafraid at the town’s people gathered against him. He sneered a bit. “At approximately 0330, Private Whitehead and myself began our nightly curfew patrol. As we all know, a curfew was put into effect after the assassination of USMC Private Gore. At approximately 0415, we came across two civilians near the docks. They were in clear violation of said curfew.” He turned toward Kinnick now. “We had strict orders to treat all civilians out after curfew as immediate threats.” He turned back to the assemblage with a tight-lipped smile. “However, since they were a couple of kids, we decided that we should just scare them a bit and send them on their way.” He shuffled his feet. “I asked the older of the two what they were doing out after curfew. He gave me some sort of bullshit about checking fishing lines. I told him to get lost and he responded by telling me to fuck off. I’ll admit I took a swing at him and knocked him down. I mean, come on, we could have executed him for violation of curfew for Christ’s sake.”
“You did,” shouted a lady.
Kinnick pointed at her. “We’ll have order or nothing.”
The lady plopped back down in her chair and clamped her mouth shut.
“That’s when the other civilian took a lunge at us. It took me a second, but he had a knife in one hand. We were so close, he could have killed one of us. I shouted, “Knife!” and I struck him with the butt of the gun. He went down hard.”
Kinnick jotted some notes. Knife? How will we know if he’s telling the truth?
“When I yelled to stay down, he tried to stand up, so I hit him again. Maybe a few more times, but we were dealing with a deadly situation. I guess he hit his head pretty hard.”
“How many times did you strike the civilian?” Kinnick asked.
“Once or twice.”
Kinnick had watched the man as he spoke. His eyes drifted a fraction when he said the word twice.
Kinnick’s mouth tightened. “Which was it? Once or twice?”
Volk gulped. “Twice, sir.”
The townspeople probably didn’t notice, but Kinnick did. There was more to his story or he was being deceptive or both. Kinnick also knew that a hit to the skull with the butt of a rifle could kill someone, but for that matter, so could falling.
“And he had a knife?”
“That’s correct.”
Kinnick jotted some notes. “Whitehead, you may stand.”
Whitehead was nervous. He was young and had a healthy fear of punishment. His eyes peered down at the floor.
“You may speak, Private Whitehead.”
“It’s as Volk said, we were on curfew patrol around the dock when we saw the two civilians. When we asked them to go back to their homes, the older one took a swing at us. It was an accident. We weren’t trying to hurt anyone, just scare ’em.”
“What was an accident?”
Whitehead kept his eyes downward. “His death. Volk was only trying to scare him.”
“Did Volk tell you that?”
“Well, yeah.”
“What exactly did he say?”
Whitehead glanced at Volk. Volk’s eyes were hard.
Kinnick was stern. “Your commanding officer asked you a question, Marine.”
Whitehead stared back down at the floor. “He said if you weren’t going to do anything about Gore maybe we should put some fear into these rednecks.”
Cries went through the crowd. They whispered to one another in hushed tones.
Kinnick clenched his jaw. I wasn’t trying to put fear into them, I was trying to recruit them to fight with us.
“We was only trying to scare them. Rough ’em up a bit. Let ’em know we meant business. We’re Marines, sir.”
“Whitehead. Did you see a knife?”
Whitehead’s eyes dipped even lower. “Yeah.”
“What kind of knife was it?”
“A black folding knife.”
Kinnick turned to Hunter. “Do we have the knife?”
Hunter shook his head. “We do not.”
Kinnick turned back to Whitehead. “Where did the knife go?”
“I dunno. Fell in the water, I suppose.”
Kinnick sighed. He circled knife on the paper. If they had no knife, it was hard to prove that they had any just cause to assault the young men. “Now, Whitehead, was there a knife?”
“I don’t understand.” Whitehead looked to Volk. A confused look settled upon his face. “Volk said there was a knife.”
Kinnick squeezed his eyes closed for a moment. No knife. Volk, what have you done? “So Volk said there was a knife, but you didn’t see the knife?”
“Well, yeah, he yelled knife and we took quick action. I only assumed.”
“The kid had a knife,” Volk piped up. He crossed his arms over his chest. “I saw it.”
“Where’s the knife?”
“No idea. Betcha one of them took it off his body or it fell through the cracks of the dock. But he had one.”
Kinnick gave Whitehead a short gesture with his hand. “Whitehead, you may sit.”
“Next, we’ll hear from Doug.” Kinnick scanned the seated people. “Where’s Doug?”
A teenage boy stood up hesitantly. His mother leaned in and whispered something to him. He nodded a swollen battered face. The left side of his face was the shade of the sky at dusk. His lower lip stuck out, a fat earthworm twice as big as the upper lip. He was skinny but taller than average as if he had just started his pubescent growth spurt. He walked down the aisle, his shoulders slightly hunched.
He stopped near Kinnick. Kinnick pointed to a nearby chair. “Go on and tell us what happened.”
The boy gripped his hands in front of his body. “Well, me and Andrew. We’s was checkin’ the trotlines like we do every morning. You see, we let out a bunch of trotlines out from the docks every night, and before dawn, we check ’em to see if we got anything. Usually bring about three or four catfish every morning.” He glanced at Kinnick for approval.
Kinnick nodded. “Go on.”
“Well, we’s was almost done, had a real good catch too. Two good-sized catfish had to a been twenty-five to thirty pounds each when those two over there came up on us.” Doug pointed at Volk and Whitehead. “
You know Andrew was funny. He always was making jokes. Sometimes they was mean, but that’s just how he was. A jokester.”
“What was Andrew joking about?”
Doug’s eyes danced nervously about the people. He glanced at his parents and dipped his eyes in adolescent shame.
“Doug, you can tell us what he said. You aren’t in trouble.”
Doug looked away. “He was talking about Kat Mulligan.”
“What about her?”
Doug frowned. “Andrew liked her. He was talking all big about having sex and stuff with her. About how they did it in his car.”
The crowd murmured to one another and eyes drifted to only who Kinnick could assume was Kat Mulligan’s father. Blood rushed to his face and it turned red.
“It’s okay. Was he joking about anything else?”
Doug’s shoulders slumped and his lip twitched to the side like he might break down and cry.
“Doug, please, this is serious. Answer the question.”
Doug gulped. “He was talking big about fighting the monsters. Said he figured that Marine would be a monster now and that he’d probably have to take him out too to keep the village safe.”
“What else?”
“That’s when the Marines walked up on us. They asked us what we were doing. We told them we were checking lines like we’s do every day. That one called us little cunts and then he punched me in the face. I fell down. That’s when Andrew tried to stop them.”
“Is that when Sergeant Volk hit Andrew?”
“Yeah, he hit him with the butt of his gun in the face and it knocked Andrew down. Then he kept pounding his head with the butt.” Doug’s plump lip trembled. “The sound was so bad. It was like a tree branch breaking and his head was. His head was like mush.”
Doug took a deep breath, his chest shaking as he tried to control his emotions. Andrew’s mother cried in her seat, hands on her face.
Kinnick let the boy collect himself. He leaned a bit closer. “What was Andrew doing when the Marines came up on you?”
The Departing (The End Time Saga Book 4) Page 39