Years After Series | Book 1 | Nine Years After

by Clary, LeRoy

  “What then?” Mayfield asked.

  “They will bring others until one of them figures out how to get past it and to those below. They won’t quit until they succeed.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  “Why?” Mayfield asked. “Why is Deep Hole so important to these people?”

  “Deep Hole? A decent name.” The scout was relaxing bit by bit and he seemed to muse over the name. He watched us as he thought, perhaps deciding if he should trust us. When he did speak, his voice was uncertain. “I guess for what’s down there, eh? And for hate and revenge.”

  “Hate?” she asked.

  He turned slightly to face her. “They hate you. All of you. Everyone does.”

  She said, “I don’t understand.”

  “When our country was attacked, I mean at the very beginning, yellow politicians, cowardly top brass military, and greedy rich people scurried down into the safety of their holes, leaving the rest of us up here to fight and die. They never came up and helped or checked on us. We won, but they say millions died. Tens of millions more died in the following year from the lack of food since all distribution was gone, bandits, and diseases. Farmers didn’t raise crops because there was no way to get them to market. The roads and railroads shut down Worst of all, were the thieves and bandits.”

  Mayfield and I exchanged looks. We knew nothing of what he was saying.

  He continued, “While you folks down there slept in warm beds and ate all the food you wanted, we slept in the mud, fought, and starved. Most died.”

  “The two of us were seven years old,” Mayfield said.

  He didn’t back down. His eyes narrowed. “How old were your parents? The ones that abandoned us and took you below? They left us up here to die.”

  He was about my size, a dozen years older, and his words had me ready step closer and take a swing my fist at his jaw because of the attitude. He anticipated it and said softly, “Don’t do it, son. I’ll hurt you.”

  “What?” Mayfield asked, having missed the interaction between us.

  “Nothing, “I muttered. Then I turned to the scout and decided to try a new approach. “I think we should leave. The problem is what do we do with you.”

  “Because I can track you from here to Canada and back again?”

  “Yes. That leaves us with only a few choices,” I said.

  His smile grew wider. “You want an honest answer? You should shoot me in the leg like you did those two idiots down there. Like they didn’t have the sense to know they were covered by another weapon when you popped up and told them to stand still. And those rifles of theirs don’t fire half the time with the shit ammo they’re issued, and when they do fire, either the bullets don’t go straight, or the shells have too much powder or not enough. They would have missed you, most likely, even with you standing up there like a complete idiot.”

  He was looking at Mayfield’s rifle.

  She said, “Mine shoots straight.”

  “I know. That thing is worth a fortune, and certainly your life. All new and shiny, the scope alone is the best I’ve ever seen. If’n I was you I’d mud it up good to hide the newness. Splash some dull paint on it, and it still would be the most valuable rifle in the state.”

  I said, “He keeps telling us things we don’t know. If we take him along, he can’t track us. Hell, maybe he can help teach us to hide our trail.”

  Mayfield barked, “The first time we both fall asleep, he will kill us and take our guns.”

  Mitch nodded, “That’d be the logical conclusion. And it would be wrong.”

  “Wrong?” I asked. “How?”

  “Yup, wrong because there are things I haven’t said. Since a guy named Sir Wilson came into power locally by killing everyone who opposed him, and plenty who didn’t, things around here have gone to shit. I’ve been looking to take a hike to Idaho or Montana for some time now. I just needed an excuse. You’re a good one.”

  “I don’t understand,” Mayfield said.

  He faced her. “Then try and understand this. I’ve been listening while you talked. The birds behind me have quit singing, several have flown off. Something spooked them, probably those city-soldiers clomping through the trees. I’ve heard a few whispers. The three of us are about to have company.”

  The men Mayfield had shot were below and still crying, but softer. I looked higher on the hill in the direction where we came from and spotted movement in the shadows. He was right.

  “Which way?” I hissed.

  He pointed along the edge of the rock shelf we were on.

  The shelf ran for as far as I could see, parallel to the path below. As we moved off, Mitch didn’t seem worried that he left his gun and knife behind. Perhaps he was thinking he would get a chance at taking ours. If so, he would be mistaken.

  Mayfield went first, not exactly running, but moving faster than those slinking down the mountain behind us would be. I hung back, where there would be time to react if Mitch did anything. It’s funny how a mind works and accepts things in dangerous situations. My mind accepted that I might have to shoot Mitch.

  It didn’t bother me.

  Our shelf had taken us a few hundred yards when we heard shouting. They had found their men. That was fine. I guessed they would provide first aid to the wounded, question them, and then decide what to do about us. That would take time. Probably a half-hour or more.

  As we hurried, the shelf angled downward and rejoined the main path that had once been a road. Since we’d ambushed them once, it would be logical to expect the same again. They would follow us slower, being watchful of any place where we might leap out and shoot them.

  I said, “Hey, Mitch. What about the other scout?”

  “Hates them even more than me. I’ve seen him purposefully lead them on a goose chase.”

  “Meaning?” I asked.

  He chuckled. “That man doesn’t want to be the one walking into an ambush and being the first one shot. He’ll delay them, or lose our trail, or something. Just give him an hour.”

  Mitch seemed to know the other scout too well. I said, “Have you been working with him long to make a statement like that?”

  “My brother,” he said.

  That explained a lot.

  Mayfield slowed a step and turned to look back at him, a puzzled expression twisting her features. She said, “You are such a jerk you’d abandon your brother?”

  Mitch shrugged. “No worries. He’ll catch up with us by nightfall.”

  I didn’t know how to take that news, and even less in the little he had shared with us. I knew I liked him—he reminded me of me. That was a lot to like—from my perspective.

  But in my years of playing poker, even though it had mostly been with the same players, I’d learned to read people. Tell when they were playing a strong hand or bluffing. At least, I thought I could. Everything told me Mitch was playing it straight.

  He didn’t spill too much information or try to influence us. He answered questions with logical sounding answers. Either he was a master bluffer, or he had been about to leave the area and try somewhere new.

  I said, “Mitch, let me ask you something.”

  “Shoot.”

  I didn’t care for his choice of the word to express himself, but I realized what he meant by, shoot. “If you wanted to get away from us, could you have done it before now?”

  He chuckled and tossed his thumb over his shoulder. “Back there, we rounded a sharp corner. You were out of sight for a couple of steps. On the downside of the path were brambles so thick that in three running steps I’d have been out of sight and your gun would still be at your side.”

  “So, you thought about it?” I asked.

  “There and a few other places. Sure, it crossed my mind.”

  “But you stayed. Why?” I had no doubt he could have done exactly as he said.

  His arms swung as he walked with long steps and his breathing was shallow, both in contrast to ours. He gave the impression he could continue at the same p
ace for three or four days. He finally spoke, his words chosen carefully, “I mentioned Sir Wilson. The man that runs things around here, especially down in the flatlands and Everett. Has his army and town. He now has five or six smaller towns, and Everett, which is still pretty large. He runs everything.”

  “Why not just move to another town?” I asked.

  “Because there is a Sir Wilson in every one of them. First, they start a small gang, then eventually take over a town by killing other gangs and their leaders. They recruit soldiers and make deals with the gangs of other towns or villages to combine their attacks, and when they have the chance, they kill each other and take control of what they can. They gain more power and draw the attention of the larger towns or small cities. It is a cycle that exists everywhere.”

  “And another Sir Wilson comes along to squash them,” Mayfield finished.

  “Then the pattern starts all over again,” Mitch said. “But each Sir Wilson seems to be nastier, in my opinion. They kill, steal, rape, and do little for the betterment of the people. They are concerned with their wealth and power. The only thing they all agree on is that when a government sanctuary is discovered, they join forces to attack.”

  Ouch. That laid out a feudal system I hadn’t anticipated. They were in a constant state of war. If they didn’t grow and expand their influence, a nearby feudal lord would attack and defeat them—and take over their cities. If they grew too fast or too large, the next level of feudal lords would destroy their towns and kill the leaders.

  He explained larger cities like Seattle had twenty or more feudal lords running things, all intending to take over the weak. Mitch explained all that as he walked. Sir Wilson had been a small gang leader only a few years ago. His merciless acquisition of people and areas had left many dead.

  Mayfield asked, “What is the population of America today?”

  “First, there is no America. Not in the sense, there was. It is tribal areas governed by ruthless leaders. The population of what had been America is probably less than ten percent of what it was.”

  “What about the rest of the world?” I asked.

  “From what we hear, it’s pretty much the same globally, possibly worse. The economic collapse affected everyone, even those living in the outback of other countries. It drove us all back to the stone age. Well, maybe that’s a bit of a stretch, but almost. No telling where we’ll eventually end up.”

  We walked in silence as we came to where the valley widened and filled with farms. Mitch pointed. “We’ll go there.”

  “Over that mountain?” Mayfield protested as she saw the enormous size and the snow still on the peak across the valley.

  My legs hurt and so did my feet. One look at the mountain suggested to me we refuse. Instead, I asked, “Why?”

  “There’s a small mountain pass over there we can use, foot traffic only. It’s not obvious from here and unknown to most. But if we continue down this valley, we’ll meet up with Sir Wilson’s men sooner or later. They are on constant patrol but are lazy and keep to the main roads and closer to cities. They are rewarded richly for finding and surrendering people like you.”

  That sounded ominous. It seemed people on the surface did a lot of walking, certainly more than in Deep Hole. We would walk until we couldn’t, but my mind was busy with something else. Becoming a captive to a gang leader didn’t sit well at all. Since I didn’t intend to reveal the location of Deep Hole, getting captured meant torture.

  Why was Mitch so friendly and helpful? That was another question that haunted me.

  He had betrayed his employers, stood aside and allowed two of them to be shot, and spirited us away from the main group. Would he do the same with us? Sell us out? People are usually helpful with it comes to small things; it helps them or provides a good feeling. Less so in either case, when it costs them something, meaning time or effort. So, it became a trust issue with me. What did he want, and did I wish to give it to him when I figured out what it was?

  Mayfield was still in the lead. At a bend in the trail, she turned her head to look at me. Her brow was furrowed, her lips pinched. In some manner, almost as if mentally connected to me, she was wondering too. Something was bothering her and the way she had positioned herself so I would see her expression but not Mitch, revealed that on some level she agreed with me.

  I spread my hands to express I had no idea but hoped she understood my concern was hers. She followed small paths, most along the edges of meadows and clearings, and game trails, always moving higher in elevation. I heard Mitch give her directions several times.

  The ground was soft, covered with layers of needles fallen from evergreens. Below that softness was black dirt and rocks. Lots of rocks. The air was cool enough to continue wearing our camouflage army uniforms, but the suggestion about smearing them with dirt or mud sounded more and more like a good idea.

  The main problem with our clothing was that it was new. It was possibly the only new clothing anyone on the surface had seen in years. It immediately identified us as newcomers to the surface, which also said we were from one of the government underground shelters. Surface dwellers hated us if Mitch told the truth.

  That much of what he said, I believed. While in Deep Hole, I’d heard the whispers about those who were locked outside when the attack came. If it was me, I’d be angry with us.

  He called a rest at the top of a small mountain we’d ascended. From there, we had a view of the valley and farms. Without asking, I sensed he was looking for Sir Wilson’s men, small groups or larger.

  We sat on the bare ground to catch our breath. I rubbed my sore calves and thighs. As casually as possible, I said, “What will they do to the sanctuary?”

  “If you’re asking, they will get inside, eventually.”

  Mitch didn’t say more, so I did. “That door is massive. Solid steel.”

  “There are explosives. Most are pretty weak compared to the old days, but they will blast rock well enough.”

  “Rock?” I asked, already knowing his answer because I’d figured it out.

  He nodded. “You’re right. The door is solid. They will either use powder to blast a few inches of rock beside the door at a time until they have a new tunnel or slaves with chisels and hammers will go to work. They’ll dig a new tunnel into the wall beside the door.”

  “When they get inside, there’s another door,” Mayfield said before I could stop her. I didn’t want to provide any more information to help them, not even to Mitch.

  “I know,” he said, taking some of the sting from her slip of the tongue. “A little entrance hall and another door where there used to be an elevator. That’s gone now, replaced with stairs that go down to the filthy warrens below.”

  His tone had turn gruff.

  Mayfield instantly objected to his words. “Filthy? Those halls and rooms below are very clean and if you’d ever been there you would know that.”

  He turned to her. “Wrong word. Sorry. I should have said stink. And I have been down there to smell it. Once was enough.”

  Mayfield ignored the second comment, which is what stilled my tongue and thinking. Instead, she went for the first. “Stink?”

  He wrinkled his nose.

  She was very offended. “Say what you mean.”

  He allowed his eyes to drift from the farms and road well below us until they solemnly rested on her. “I mean you smell bad. Both of you. I doubt you’ve ever had a bath. Your bodies reek, all of you from down there do. You’re so nose-blind and can’t smell it. You live in confined tunnels with recirculated air that absorbs the stench of sweat, illness, and machinery over the years and you got used to it, I guess.”

  “Really?” she asked in the same disbelieving tone I would have. Her arms crossed over her chest and her eyes narrowed. The thought that we smelled bad had never crossed my mind. We used swabs soaked in alcohol to clean ourselves—when we got dirty, which was not often. She looked at me. I looked at her with the same bland expression, knowing better than to
agree with Mitch in any small manner.

  “Really,” he said firmly. “The smell of the two of you are about to gag me. If you don’t mind, move aside and sit downwind.”

  Downwind. Another interesting concept that needed some thought to understand, but the idea was obvious. More important was the smell or stink he spoke of. If we had a unique smell, or stench as he put it, others would know us, underground dwellers, by that alone, and that would endanger us.

  Mayfield was blushing and about to verbally attack him. I could see it building. I said quickly, “We still have a good part of the day left. Can you take us to a place where we can wash ourselves and our clothing?”

  Mitch said, “Good idea. I was afraid you’d be offended.”

  “Not at all,” I lied and avoided meeting Mayfield’s stern gaze. “Where was this other government sanctuary you entered?”

  “Over closer to Everett, to the north about a day’s walk from the city.”

  At the first chance, I’d look at our maps and eliminate that one, but I knew which he was talking about. “Are there more of them that have been located and breached?” I asked and wished the words could return to my mouth.

  He sighed. “I’ve heard of a few others that were raided. Lots of good stuff down there, like your weapons. They say that there was one in Oregon where the people just opened the outer door and greeted those nearby as if nothing had happened.”

  “And?” Mayfield asked.

  “The locals killed them all and went below and cleaned out all they wanted, then poured oil down into the sanctuary and burned it. I’m not sure if that actually happened, but it’s one of those stories people tell but nobody knows anyone who was there.”

  Mayfield looked scared for the first time. Her face twisted and her complexion turned as white as a person ill. She probably felt the same fears as me.

  I was terrified.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “Mitch, I’ve got another question,” I said. My voice sounded hollow to my ears.