Years After Series | Book 1 | Nine Years After

by Clary, LeRoy

  The dehydrated food was light, would last years, and should hold the same value as bullets, maybe more. He placed the small medical kit aside as if it was a precious bit of glassware. The extra underclothing and spare uniform parts went into a third pile.

  He said without raising his eyes to us, “Noticed the two of you kept your handguns on you when you went in the water. Makes me respect you more.”

  “It was nothing personal,” Mayfield said casually, but I caught the note of caution in her tone. She also watched him closely. I was not the only one with trust issues.

  “Course not, and no offense taken.” He reached into a baggy pocket sewn onto the outside of his pants on his thigh. He removed a small rod of metal and held it up for our inspection. “Screwdriver. Plus at one end, minus on the other. Good for taking a gun apart to clean and rid of the water inside before it does damage. Got some gun oil in here somewhere, too.”

  Plus and minus. He meant it was a Phillips and slot screwdriver. I’d seen them before and used them in maintenance functions. He pulled a small metal vial free from his baggy pocket with a smile and reached his bare hand in my direction. He wanted my gun. We remained like that for a few tense seconds. My other hand found my rifle and pulled it closer, then I passed him my pistol.

  Instead of being upset, he winked. I don’t believe he considered me much of a threat, with or without a gun in hand. The truth was, he could probably knock the barrel of either aside and take them as easy as taking them from a child. Or he could simply shoot me with his gun and take it all.

  No, he couldn’t shoot me with his gun because he’d left it back at the encounter with the two men we’d shot. When told to drop it, he had, then left it there. He had come up the path to talk with us and then the others came to investigate, and we slipped away. His gun was back there.

  That was an odd thought. We had guns and he didn’t. He didn’t seem worried or at a loss over it. He’d also mentioned how unreliable his bullets were. That may or may not be true. The word unreliable was also suspect. If one in ten bullets failed, that left a ninety percent chance the first shot would kill me.

  Mayfield had turned her body away from him slightly, and her pistol was in her hand at her side, just out of his line of sight, and his reach. I wanted to wink at her like he’d done to me but felt foolish.

  Mitch concentrated on turning a few screws on my nine-millimeter as he quickly disassembled it. His shirttail dried out part of the insides, and a few drops of yellow oil was smeared around, then the excess wiped away.

  As he reassembled it, he began talking to both of us. “She’s got her pistol ready to shoot me, and you reached for your rifle to bring it closer. That’s good. Makes me feel like the two of you might survive up here despite all you don’t know. You got good instincts, even if you’re ignorant of how things are. You’ll learn.”

  He snapped a few pieces of the gun together, tightened a screw or two, and nodded approvingly. “That’s the best handgun I’ve touched in years.”

  I accepted it back. He reached his empty hand to Mayfield and she reluctantly gave him hers.

  He started to work on her gun and said in the quiet of the late afternoon, “You still got a lot to learn, though. Let me give you a situation to think about. Suppose I pulled the firing pin from Danner’s gun? Know what that is?”

  “No,” we said at the same time.

  “Just one of the internal parts. A critical one, small enough to hide as I took it apart and you’d never know. Without it, the gun won’t shoot.”

  “Why are you telling me that?” I asked as my fingers curled around the stock of my rifle.

  “So, you know it. Never, and I mean never, let another person clean your weapon or do anything to it. You do it all yourself. Always. Never trust anyone else to do it for you.”

  Mayfield and I exchanged puzzled looks as his hands cleaned hers.

  He said to me, “You’ve seen me do it once. Now, you clean yours again as I do hers. Copy what I do. Then she is going to do hers alone.”

  I tried to imitate his moves. He slowed and showed me each when I stumbled. Eventually, both of us had our pistols back together. We sat back and smiled at each other.

  “Do they work?” He asked.

  We didn’t have an answer.

  He pointed at a tree fifty feet away. “Each of you put a slug in that. No more than one shot because we don’t waste ammo.”

  Mayfield, always a better shot than me, went first. She hit the target slightly off-center, chest-high. Mine hit the center.

  Mayfield then stripped hers, cleaned it and reassembled it without any help. I needed minimal support.

  Our pistols went into our holsters, with me feeling a measure of accomplishment at the target shooting. One thing we knew; they worked after our disassembly and cleaning.

  Mitch said, “Your rifles?”

  “What about them,” I asked.

  “Do they shoot?” he grinned wickedly. “You can try them out now, or later when you need them to defend your lives with them, but then, they may or may not fire if you have not used them.”

  Mayfield said smugly, “Mine shoots. Remember, I fired two rounds right where I aimed.”

  That left me. He had a good point, one I’d remember for a long time, but in anger, I picked up my rifle and shouldered it. After taking a quick aim, I pulled the trigger to prove to him I was not a complete idiot.

  Nothing happened.

  Not even a click. I lowered it, and in confusion, started to examine what had broken.

  “The safety,” Mitch said softly as if trying not to embarrass me.

  He was right. I thumbed it without looking at either of them and fired one shot, making a sound more like a dry stick snapping in half than a rifle shot.

  Mitch said, “You’re embarrassed. Imagine if you had pointed that at someone pointing their gun at you. They’d have won. Simple as that. You wouldn’t even have the opportunity to be embarrassed. You won’t forget it again.”

  He was right about that. I felt the heat on my face residing with his calm words.

  Mayfield hadn’t said anything.

  A sneak glance in her direction revealed no shame, humor, or superiority.

  Mitch stood, brushed off his pants and said, “It’s getting on, so I’m going to go up on the ridge and wait for my brother. While I’m gone,” he tossed his tool to Mayfield, who caught it, “you should both break down your rifles since you’ve fired them. Clean and put them back together. Don’t force anything. If you have problems, wait for us.”

  With that, he was gone.

  After he was out of sight, Mayfield said, “Do you trust him?”

  “I trust you. Only you.”

  “Yes,” she said as if that was the perfect response.

  It was all that was required for both of us. Mitch was a bonus providing information we’d never had, other than Sarge when we were five years younger. If he had asked for a weapon as payment for his services, I’d have trusted him more. If he asked for ammo or some of our new clothing that was better than the rags he wore, it would have been sort of a business deal.

  Instead, he had asked for nothing. That worried me. It worked at the back of my mind like the itching of the mosquito bite on the back of my hand. It didn’t hurt, but there was a constant little sting that wouldn’t go away.

  Mayfield said, “We don’t have to stay here and wait for them.”

  “What would be better?”

  She sat and examined both ends of the screwdriver before removing her rifle and starting to disassemble it on her sleeping bag so she wouldn’t lose any parts in the thick grass. “They would follow us if they wanted. They are scouts, for God’s sake. We are like innocent children.”

  “I feel helpless.”

  “About them and those people still down in Deep Hole.” She said, her jaw clenched so tight I watched her muscles in her face flex. “I’m getting tired of being at the mercy of others. You know what?”

  “What?
” I had no idea, but her voice was more a growl than what I was used to with her.

  She looked up. Her eyes narrowed. “Tell me if I’m out of line, okay? There are only eighteen of those soldiers left back there. Two of those are injured, and their guides are with us, so that leaves sixteen ragged soldier recruits with guns that don’t shoot or blow up in their hands. The two of us could probably kill them all. With Mitch and his brother helping, I’m sure we could.”

  “Kill them all? You could do that?”

  She began assembling her gun, her fingers flying from piece to piece, and I only saw one mistake she quickly corrected. “There are almost three hundred guiltless people down there. All innocent. Some of them are only a year or two old. They don’t deserve to die in the way it’s going to happen.”

  The guys I played poker with, the woman who had raised me after my parents died, the young women who had been intimate with me, and others. Their faces flashed past like we were passing each other in a passage.

  Sarge, my old teacher, the administrator, and mayor that had expelled us. I started to understand. It hadn’t been about hating us. Not personally. I could see it in Sarge’s eyes. They felt they had no choice.

  Mayfield was looking at me. Waiting. Allowing me to come to my conclusion.

  “Can you?” I asked her again. “Kill?”

  She pulled her pistol, spun to face away from me, and fired at the same tree, striking it dead center. Then she holstered her gun and faced me as if that made a point I didn’t understand. “Either eighteen soldiers die with the secret of the entrance location with them, or three-hundred innocent friends die. Eighteen military strangers against three-hundred friends.”

  “Mitch and his brother?”

  “They were paid to scout, not kill innocent people. I don’t believe they count in our equation one way or the other. Maybe we shouldn’t even ask for their help.”

  “You’ve already decided,” I said as I hung my head and considered the implications.

  “I have no choice.”

  She was right.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Mayfield and I had no choice. Those were her words, but they also damned me. If she had no choice but to fight the army, did I? If she returned and killed half of them and the other half escaped and brought another army to rip into the granite until they bypassed the steel door and killed our friends, what did my lack of making the correct choice now do to me?

  Speaking of those choices reminded me that making one would ensure everyone I knew, except for Mayfield, died. The other choice was to become a killer of at least eighteen men.

  It was not fair!

  Nobody should ever have to make such a decision.

  To her credit, Mayfield didn’t outwardly attempt to influence me. She stripped her rifle down to the basics, applied the oil provided by Mitch, and put it all together again without any parts left over. She shot the tree again.

  I took the tool and began doing the same with my rifle without talking. My fingers fumbled. At one point, I think I sat for ten minutes or more, lost within myself. Imagined images of the two of us leaping from cover and shooting nine men apiece prevented my fingers from moving.

  In my musings, three of my victims didn’t die immediately. If I didn’t finish them with another bullet, they would survive and tell the world of the entrance to Deep Hole and cost the lives of all I knew. It was those three that stilled my hands.

  Words like murderer, killer, slayer, and butcher, surfaced. Others like coward, deserter, and weakling followed. If we went back and killed those men in the army, we’d be murderers or worse. If we allowed them to break into Deep Hole and kill everyone we knew, we would be the other names—worse ones.

  Getting a restful night’s sleep might never come again, no matter our choice. I said, “It’s not fair to put us in this position.”

  “Nobody or everybody did it. Your choice. Come on, Danner, think. Either we let all our friends and acquaintances die . . . or we kill those who intend to murder them. The people up here are making us do it. We never decided to use dynamite to break into the homes of others and kill them. Not us. Not anyone in Deep Hole.”

  My mouth refused to function and form words.

  She waited and tossed more wood on the fire. Then she said, “Is it fair to kill three-hundred people just because they were scared and locked the door to be safe and keep their families safe in a time of danger?”

  “Was it fair to leave those poor people beating at the door and begging for safety out in the danger? Just so we could stay safe?” I hated defending either side.

  We were children when it happened and the adults in Deep Hole had avoided talking about the subject, at least when I was around. Sure, they must have felt guilty. What they did, their choices that day may have saved everyone down there, too. A single bomb or missile could have jammed the door so it wouldn’t close. Too many refugees getting inside would have used up all the resources, so nobody survived. Everyone couldn’t be saved. It was as simple as that.

  Looking into the eyes of Mayfield, there was no doubt of the right path to take. We were going back. “How will we do it?”

  “I don’t know,” she said and covered her face with the palms of both hands as she sobbed. When she collected herself, she said, “If just one of them lives, it will mean the end of Deep Hole. If we do this terrible thing, nobody in that army group can live. We have to count the bodies and track down and kill any that manage to escape the initial attack.”

  “We also have to hide the bodies so nobody will ever find them. Eighteen dead bodies near the entrance to our shelter will be obvious to any who find them that they must investigate. It will eventually draw more to the site.”

  She tossed me the screwdriver and oil. “Clean your rifle again. Keeping your hands busy is a good way to clear your mind.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Move around. Explore. Do you think there are fish in the water?”

  Neither of us had ever seen a fish. My head still swiveled and found wonder and newness all around. Hell, neither of us had ever seen a rock or briar with thorns. The dirt was moist, almost black, and things were crawling on it or burrowing. After my experience with the bug on the leaf, I let them be. Who says I can’t learn quickly?

  My mind was on the world around me as my hands stripped the rifle down to the basic components. When I started to put it back together, I realized why not paying attention had been a bad idea. There were screws with no place to go, a spring that didn’t fit anywhere, and a rod left over.

  “Do it again. I’ll help.”

  There was no scorn in Mayfield’s voice, only gentleness. Too bad she hadn’t acted the same way towards me for the last few years. We would have made a great couple.

  “No, insert the spring in first,” she said. “Now that smaller screw.”

  “Three different size screws to make mistakes with. A good engineer would have compromised and made them all the same.” The rest of the pieces snapped, fit, or were screwed into place.

  As suggested by Mitch, I raised my rifle and aimed as close as possible to where Mayfield’s last bullet had chipped off the bark, leaving a raw, yellowish scar. It struck the bark at the edge.

  “You were trying to hit where mine did.”

  I said, “I did hit it.”

  “Did not. You hit the edge of the old bark and you know it.”

  “How do I know yours went where you aimed?”

  She smirked and waved an arm in the direction of the tree. “See for yourself. It hit right in the middle of that place where the bark broke free.”

  “No matter where you hit, that would have happened,” I protested.

  “Then, you will just have to take my word for it.” She turned her back and added another piece of wood to the fire. “We’d better use the little light left to set up our tent and gather more wood.”

  I stood and walked away, picking up sticks and fallen branches as I moved along. When my arms w
ere loaded, I went back and silently dumped the wood on the remaining pile and went for more. Speaking would only get me into more trouble. There are times when being quiet is the only way to win an argument—or to break even.

  On my third trip, the tent had been erected by her, the contents of our packs stored inside, including our sleeping bags. We sat, watched and listened to the darkness fall, and talked only a little.

  Mitch and his brother hadn’t returned. They might not. It was not as if we were all fast friends. Only earlier today Mayfield threatened to shoot him.

  They were not there when my eyes would not remain open any longer. One of us standing guard was proper and the safest thing to do, but one glance at Mayfield’s bobbing head convinced me that there are times to take calculated risks. In poker, you have to bluff to win. Too much bluffing and you’re sure to lose, but there is nothing like getting away with a good bluff.

  Tonight, we’d both sleep. If we were attacked—so be it. If nothing else, it would remove the decision we had to make from our responsibilities. I had learned another thing. Smoke from a campfire makes me sleepy.

  Inside my sleeping bag, my eyes closed, and my mind was at rest, almost asleep, Mayfield whispered, “Have you made up your mind?”

  “I can’t let everyone down there die, especially from insane, meaningless revenge.”

  “Me neither.”

  The next thing I heard was a soft snore.

  She touched my shoulder to wake me. The light filtering through the thin material of the tent told me it was daylight outside. We crawled out to find Mitch and his brother sleeping under blankets on the other side of the dead fire.

  Despite our best efforts at being quiet, both woke within thirty seconds.

  They stood, stretched and grinned at us like they found us funny.

  Mayfield snapped, “Out with it.”

  “See? I told you,” Mitch said with a chuckle. “She does not back down and is ready to fight at the smallest provocation.”