Years After Series | Book 1 | Nine Years After

by Clary, LeRoy

  I liked him. I managed to prevent myself from laughing, a feat Mayfield should be proud of, although my glance at her said she hadn’t thought the story funny.

  One soldier barked for attention and they all stood and reluctantly lined up. This time, a pair of scouts hustled ahead, one to either side.

  I didn’t like that.

  In my mind, I recreated the route we’d taken. It was the easiest way to walk down from the entrance, which was also the old, overgrown road. If they continued following it, the road would end at the door to our home.

  We’d cleared away some of the vines and brush blocking the entrance, never thinking that others might stumble across it and discover the door. Now, I wished we had covered it back up.

  Not that they were intentionally searching for it, but if they continued, they would see the door in the late afternoon. Anyone finding a door leading into the side of a mountain would be curious. That couldn’t be good.

  When the men had advanced, Mayfield revealed she was thinking along the same lines when she whispered, “Do you think we should do something to divert them? Maybe fire a few shots over their heads and run like hell so they chase us?”

  The idea was both original and compassionate. It showed she had feelings for those still below even if she didn’t say so out loud. It was also stupid.

  I said, “You and I have been in a hole in the ground for the last nine years. The most I’ve run is maybe twenty steps, and that was years ago. How long before those soldiers that walked all day long will catch us? If we last a half-hour, I’d be amazed.”

  “But we have guns.”

  “How many of those men are you willing to shoot today? I’ll kill an equal amount.”

  “Go to hell. They are going to find the doorway and then take that information back to whoever commands them, and we don’t know what will happen after that.”

  The odd thing was, we agreed on almost all but the details. I said, “Let’s follow and see what they do. Maybe they will turn back before they reach it, or not care if they do find it.”

  She shifted her backpack and glared at me for suggesting we be reasonable.

  We remained parallel with them, always behind so none caught sight of us in peripheral vision. They marched in two lines since the road was wide enough, but here and there they had to circle larger bushes or trees that had managed to grow with roots penetrating the pavement.

  They arrived at one of the craters a bomb or missile had created. They paused and examined the upturned concrete the force of the explosion had caused. Shortly after that, one of the scouts rushed back, looking excited as he waved his arm for attention.

  He reported to the one in charge, and both went ahead to join the other scout. The three of them examined a bare patch of the road that water rushing down the hillside probably washed away moss and vegetation, leaving a layer of soft mud.

  Without going closer, I knew they were looking at the boot prints left by a pair of newbies who didn’t know better than to walk along hard surfaces and leave prints as clear as if we’d set up a strobing LED on the trail.

  They now knew there were two of us, that we’d traveled that way in the last day or so, and that we had been walking down the mountainside, not up. That begged the question: How had we gotten up there without leaving footprints? It also asked what were we doing up there? What was there to see?

  We had kicked aside moss, chopped and cut wood, and generally ignored the idea that someone might come along and wonder who we were and what we were doing. Our trail was going to lead them directly to the front door.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Mayfield looked scared. She had every right to. Her expression revealed only half of my fears. The men were going to find where we had left the underground sanctuary. We’d left too many clues. What they did next, who knew?

  She whispered, “They will find the door in an hour, Danner.”

  “That will tell us what we need to do. I mean, their reactions should be informative.”

  We moved ahead, using all the available cover. It wouldn’t be good if they spotted us. For me, I had no idea what my response would be. Run or shoot? Flee or fight?

  The scouts were usually in visual contact and they kept halting and pointing at the ground. Had we left that many clues to our passing? There could be little doubt.

  We didn’t even know what the signs of our passing there were. Footprints in soft mud, sure. But what else were they finding now that they were following our trail?

  The man in charge barked a command.

  Every one of them slipped his rifle off his shoulder and carried it in front with two hands, the butt ends down, the other pointing at the sky, but ready to use. Heightened awareness. Again, I was struck that it seemed while the uniforms were somewhat ‘uniform’ the weapons were not. Some rifles had wood stocks. A few had shiny barrels, others black with stocks like ours—composite material.

  A few of theirs looked ancient, the wood stocks dull, dented and worn. None had scopes. None had the massive silencers and flash suppressors ours did.

  The scouts seemed to get more excited with each new find. They rushed ahead, fingers pointing, and the others hurried to see their discoveries. Several times, they pointed ahead, which was where we’d come from.

  The road took them right to our old front door.

  They saw it at the same time we did. The scout nearest was so surprised his feet didn’t seem to obey and he almost tripped as his eyes located the ten-foot-tall steel doorway set into the granite of the mountain, the colors almost matching the granite of the rock.

  The other shifted his position, so his rifle was pointed at the door as if it would pop open and enemies would rush out. The soldier in charge marched bravely in front of his scouts, head held high, right up to the door. They halted and waited for his reaction without being told to.

  He examined the door, the ground where it had swung open and pushed back the vegetation and ground-litter, and the many unintentional footprints that Mayfield and I had left. His head shifted slightly.

  He moved aside, studied the rock wall and opened a weatherproof door that blended in with the surroundings. Even from our distance, through the binoculars Mayfield handed me, I saw the little green light below the speaker grill.

  So did the head soldier. Instead of chevrons or stripes on the arms of his uniform, he had little brass things on the collar of his shirt. I also saw the expression as he leaped aside as if the speaker was going to injure him when he noticed the light.

  The scouts talked excitedly together and pointed. The leader crept closer. He reached inside the unit and pushed the only button briefly, then he stood aside and waited.

  We were too far away to hear, but someone below must have spoken to him, probably thinking it was us pushing the button. I could imagine Sarge growling his disapproval because we hadn’t done as directed and reported in, or our teacher in her stern tone. Even the mayor or administrator may have answered, it didn’t matter.

  At the first sound of a voice, all three leaped away as if the speaker had become hot. The scouts had their weapons pointed at it, but the other waved them off and stepped in front of the unit again, and from the rear, it appeared he was talking to it.

  There was no way to tell what they were talking about, or the words exchanged, but the back of the soldier stiffened. He did not look happy. With a final exchange, he spun and barked a series of orders to his men. He then closed the small door and turned the handle to secure the weather-tight seal—which would also effectively minimize any sound or threats coming from the speaker.

  The soldiers leaped to obey. A pair of them rushed to either side of the huge door and took up positions with their backs to the mountain. They were going to guard it against anyone leaving—or entering.

  Others moved under the direction of another soldier as they lined up shoulder to shoulder and slowly walked ahead in a line, their heads bent down, their eyes searching the ground. When they found anything, they sto
pped and called out. A scout raced to look and interpret what they found.

  They located where we’d cut branches from trees, where we’d gathered firewood, and probably where our feet had scuffed the ground. They eventually came to a stop where Mayfield and I had lain side by side looking up at the stars and moon. Our bodies had left impressions in the moss, and probably our heels had dug in.

  It was odd to watch. Odd and instructive. We learned a lot about how to track and follow by the way they acted. Every place in the clearing was searched, and anything we’d moved or changed, they looked at and discussed, even the large rocks we’d blocked the door with were examined and rolled over to look at the other side. They must have noticed something out of place with them.

  Meanwhile, a few pairs extended their search, making a series of circles of the area beyond the clearing, expanding the search area. Another pair climbed the steep side of the mountain, gaining the advantage of height.

  “Time to go,” I mouthed. In five minutes or less, we would be discovered. In not much longer than that, they would discover our present location and the little bushes we hid behind. There was no mistaking the disturbed accumulation of forest litter and leaves where we’d been laying as we watched.

  Mayfield slipped out first, drawing away from the clearing until she entered the deeper forest. I followed silently, or as silently as possible, my mind churning information as if it was overloaded. As soon as the scouts or soldiers discovered that we’d been watching, at least some of them were going to follow us.

  We didn’t know how to hide our passing.

  They knew how to follow a trail. They were muscled to walk or run long distances. We were not. I made mental pros and cons in my head. The cons filled it. The pros only had a couple of items.

  They expected us to run. Therefore, we shouldn’t. That seemed logical, except that if we didn’t flee, they would catch us sooner.

  We did have an advantage in weapons.

  The leader would keep part of his men back. The two guarding the door, obviously, but he would also have to consider that the door might open again and many from Deep Hole might charge out, after their conversation. He had to keep a force there. More than two, for sure.

  I guessed he would depend on his scouts—and they had the most chevrons on their sleeves. Each decision seemed to be almost a collaboration between them. One of them would remain with him at the door.

  He would send no more than four after us. Probably three. A scout and a pair of underlings.

  While thinking, I ran. The way was downhill, so easier to run, which also meant it was easier for those following. Listening for them was almost useless because and sounds of followers were masked by us crashing through the brush and our gasps for breath. We were not used to running.

  All that said that we were doing it wrong.

  There had to be a better way. But I couldn’t think while running.

  If we shouldn’t be running, we should stop.

  Where?

  I was on to something. Wildly looking to my left, the mountain rose. To my left, it fell away until reaching the narrow valley and river below. Ahead was the path that had once been a road.

  Ahead, and to my right, was a game trail that went up the side of the mountain. A hundred feet up, it looked like it leveled off where rocks and boulders fallen from above had come to rest.

  “There,” I huffed and pointed.

  One look at my finger and Mayfield turned slightly and went up the game trail without missing a step. I stumbled twice, caught myself and made it to the shelf of rock, where I fell behind a boulder and slipped my backpack off. My rifle was in my hands.

  “We’re going to warn them?” Mayfield asked.

  “No.”

  “I can’t kill an innocent man who isn’t trying to kill me.”

  “Not kill,” I said between gasps for air. “Shoot them in their thighs.”

  “That will still hurt, and they might not walk again if the bullet breaks a bone.”

  I didn’t know what to say. It was either shoot them or be captured. The second alternative didn’t seem to offer much of a future for us. I said, “These scopes will let us shoot where we want. Aim for the outside of the thigh. Miss the bone.”

  “I’ve never shot at a moving target. How can we be that accurate?”

  “I’ll show myself. They’ll stop. We shoot.” The lack of wind in my lungs kept my explanation short. I saw nothing of them and heard nothing. Maybe they were not following us. I knew three prayers. Two had passed my lips when the first of them came into view.

  It was a scout, bent at the waist, looking at the ground instead of upwards where we were. Two men followed, their heads swinging back and forth nervously. They held their rifles in front, ready to use them when they spotted us. At least, that was my thinking.

  I hissed, “If they don’t raise their rifles, don’t shoot. But if they do, you better make it quick because we don’t want the sound of their shots warning the others, and I don’t want to be shot.”

  Mayfield was prone, where her aim would be most accurate. She gave me the barest of nods. My attention returned to the three men.

  The scout came first. I waited for those behind to get into a better range. The scout passed where we had turned off and onto the game trail. He paused and searched for more evidence of our passing. In a moment or two, he would figure out that we had left the main trail.

  Meanwhile, the two behind came closer.

  The scout turned and faced the bottom of the game trail . . . his eyes followed it up, almost to our position. He knew we were there.

  I stood and shouted, but not too loudly, “Hey, everybody, stand still!”

  The scout froze. One of the two soldiers behind looked up at me but made no move to raise his rifle. The other hesitated as if considering his chances. He saw me, not Mayfield and her weapon aimed at him from behind a boulder. No doubt her eye was to the scope and aimed at the outer portion of his upper leg.

  His rifle came to his shoulder in an instant. A sound beside me no louder than a dry stick being broken in half cut the still air. A splash of red appeared on his upper thigh. His hand fell to cover the wound on the leg. He toppled sideways his rifle tossed aside.

  The other soldier seemed galvanized into action. As his rifle came up, Mayfield shot him in the same leg, near the same place. Sarge would be proud of her marksmanship. He howled in response, raised the wounded leg and hopped a time or two before falling, he continued to howl the entire time.

  The scout was older, wore chevrons on his sleeve, and there was a touch of gray at his temples. He wore a handgun. His posture remained the same awkward stance, feet spread apart, hands at his sides. His eyes had watched the other two get shot and fall, and while he didn’t know where the shots came from, he knew they were not mine. That information put him in a critical position.

  The two soldiers that had fallen, writhed and cried out in their pain, each seemingly trying to outdo the other. Their rifles lay on the grass beside them. Fortunately for them, neither stretched an arm to reach for them.

  The scout slowly stood more upright, his hands kept in clear view. He didn’t attempt to try and help the other two. From his expression, I’d guess he felt more disdain than sympathy for them.

  I called to him, “Drop your weapons. All of them.”

  He unfastened the wide leather belt and lowered it to the ground. Then he pointed at his left leg and pulled his pant leg up. The handle of a knife revealed itself. He removed it from a holster and placed it near the belt.

  I pulled my handgun and loosely aimed it his way. With a wave of the barrel, never actually pointing it at him, I said, “Follow the path up here. Do it quickly.”

  He pursed his lips, turned to look at my handgun, and then he searched the surrounding area, never spotting Mayfield. For him, there was no option. If he failed to obey, the unseen sniper would shoot him.

  Mayfield would appreciate me calling her a sniper. However, the scout
made up his mind that it would be better to come up where we could talk than to be shot. He walked ahead, his hands always visible, held out to his sides.

  “What are you going to talk about?” Mayfield hissed.

  “I don’t know. Give me a few good ideas.”

  “The screams of those two down there will bring the others.”

  “So, we shouldn’t stay here. Good idea. What else?”

  She scowled at me as the scout was almost to the top. “That was not an idea. But I think we should go, soon. You shoot the scout.”

  “He can give us the information. You shoot him.”

  Mayfield said quickly, too quickly, “He’s a soldier. In one military move, he can probably take our weapons and turn them on us.”

  “You should listen to her,” the scout said in an even tone as he came to a halt about ten steps from us.

  “About leaving?”

  “No. Shooting me. Sound carries on mountains, sometimes farther than you think.”

  “You are different from the others,” Mayfield said.

  “They are the regular army, recruits mostly. I’m hired. They pay me to track and keep them from stumbling into enemy camps. The name is Mitch.”

  Mayfield said, “You work for them but owe them no allegiance?”

  “Not entirely true,” he said as he smiled like he didn’t have a care in the world. “They paid me to keep them out of an ambush for this trip. I owed them that and failed. If nothing else, I should give them back the pay.”

  “Gold?” I asked because that’s what the books said you pay people.

  He shook his head. “Ammo, this time. Ten bullets for working three days—but that was until we located the portal. With luck, they’ll reward me with twice that.”

  I thought of the boxes of shells we carried. It sounded like they might be worth a fortune. “What will they do with the portal?” I knew he was talking about the door.

  “Try to enter it. They will fail, at first. When they report it to their leaders, there will be others that will arrive and try to breach it, one way or another.”