Five Suns Saga [Part III]

by Jim Heskett

  Quentin wrapped an arm around Farah’s shoulder as she dipped her head. Kellen worried he’d placed one card too many on top of their stack, and it was about to tumble.

  “I’m so sorry,” Kellen said.

  “Dad?” Willam said. “What does that mean? There’s no help coming?”

  Quentin tried to clear his throat, but he failed to get any words out when he opened his mouth. Instead, he pulled Willam close and hugged him.

  “But we have good news,” White said.

  Farrah lifted her head and sniffed. “What’s the good news?”

  “We found your people yesterday. We brought back Dave and Isabelle Carter, two of Rappaport’s generals. They’re with your people. A couple thousand of them, on a farmhouse just north of Boulder.”

  Farrah clapped her hands together. “They’re safe? Oh, thank God.”

  Quentin frowned. “You brought these two generals here? Why?”

  “So they can report back to Rappaport what they’ve seen,” Kellen said. “They’re going to return, make a plea, and convince her to send troops.”

  “If there’s still time,” Quentin said. Then he dug a hand into his pocket and removed a single key, grimy and covered in years of accumulated dirt.

  Kellen’s eyes widened when he saw it. The key to the underground bunker in Nederland.

  “Soon,” Quentin said, “someone will come for me, because of this. If that happens, whatever Helen Rappaport does won’t matter much anymore.”

  Chapter 32

  Alma - Denver

  After an endless stream of negotiation through various channels, the local Eighteeners finally agreed to speak with her. Alma used every bit of her patience and tact not to freak out during the negotiations. Based on advice from George, she was starting to see how her temper could cost her ground in relationships. Alma wasn’t used to not getting what she wanted.

  At times such as these, she saw the benefit of keeping him around.

  George escorted her to a dozen or so local Eighteeners hanging around another sports stadium. Enormous brick facade around it, a building large enough it looked like it could house a small town. Took Alma a moment to realize the structure was a baseball field. Above the facade, the metal risers of the seats rose like a black skeleton.

  A man with a furry mustache emerged from the entrance to the ballpark and held out his hand. “You’re Alma?”

  “That’s me.” She tried to smile, but it didn’t feel convincing on her face.

  “My name is Brent, but everyone calls me Bulldozer. You can call me Bulldozer, okay?”

  Alma finally shook his hand. “Would you like to talk inside?”

  Bulldozer looked around, dug his hands into his pockets, and shrugged. They were standing on the street corner, a small collection of armed men within spitting distance. Behind them, merchants hawked wares on the street, some pushing carts. Pedestrians stopped to browse collections of meat, vegetables, clothing, and tools.

  “We can talk right here,” he said.

  “If that’s the way you want it.”

  Bulldozer nodded at Hector, standing next to George. “Are you really Hector Castillo?”

  “He is,” Alma said, “but he doesn’t talk much.”

  Hector pulled down his scarf to show the gash across his throat.

  “I see,” Bulldozer said.

  Alma cleared her throat. “You can talk to me. My name is Alma Castillo, and these are my people.”

  Bulldozer’s genial expression darkened. “Fine, Alma. You want to tell me why you’ve marched thousands of troops on my city?”

  “To join you,” she said.

  Bulldozer smiled again. “Why would we want to let you join us?”

  She buried her frown. This man was too inquisitive, but she didn’t want to argue with him. She didn’t need a show of force here. “There are thousands of us between here and California. Pockets of Eighteeners, scattered, looking for a leader. If we unite them, we can march back east and retake DC. We can make this a country again.”

  Bulldozer sucked on his teeth and cast his eyes up to the darkening sky. Mustache twitching. “I’m not sure if that interests us. We have a life here. No one messes with us. We’ve cleaned out all those burned freaks, there aren’t many Red Streets to speak of, and all the other piddly gangs are specks of dirt. So, there’s no reason for us to feel threatened. Isn’t there some former politician out east, trying to conquer everything?”

  “Helen Rappaport. She has an army, but they’re busy fighting the Infinity. By the time we get there, they’ll have killed each other off.”

  “What if they don’t? I hear she has tanks.”

  Alma gritted her teeth. “If they don’t, our combined armies will still be able to crush them without too much trouble. I’m sure of it.”

  “I’m not sold. Not getting what’s in it for me or my people.”

  She was about to counter, but something in his face changed. “Actually, there is something you can do for us. Can’t believe I didn’t think of this before.”

  Alma put her hands on her hips. “And that is?”

  He tilted his head toward the open entrance of the ballpark, a gleam in his eye. “Walk with me.”

  Hector and George both took a couple steps toward the entrance, but Bulldozer held up a hand. “Whoa, I don’t think so. Just me and the little lady. We’re going to talk business.”

  Her eyes fell to the holstered pistol on his hip. He noticed her gaze and cackled. “If I wanted you dead, I wouldn’t have let you come this close in the first place.” He pointed up past her, and Alma angled her neck to see snipers on the rooftops in the path of his finger.

  Bulldozer cleared his throat. “We don’t take chances here. Still, if it makes you feel better…”

  He removed the pistol and held it out to her, butt first. Alma had two knives in sheaths on her back, hidden underneath her shirt. No one had so far bothered to search her. She raised her hands in surrender and bowed her head in a sign of deference. “You may keep it. I don’t have any qualms with you staying armed.”

  He seemed pleased at this. “Good, good. Now, step inside my office.”

  As they strolled through the door and into the wide space of the ballpark, her mouth dropped open. With the sweeping vista of the mountains behind it, her eyes took in a field free of debris, with thousands of pristine seats pointed down at the diamond.

  “You have your people keep this stadium clean?” she said.

  Bulldozer beamed. “Fresh coat of paint this fall, too. I like baseball. Always did, growing up. Working on getting a league going, but it’s hard to fill out enough rosters. Plenty of time left before spring training, though.”

  “Impressive.”

  He folded down a chair in the nearest row and had a seat. Stared out at the pitcher’s mound. “There’s a town up in the mountains of Nederland. A commune, I guess. We rooted out the people a few days ago because we’re looking for something. A bunker.”

  “And?” she said.

  “We don’t know where the caretakers went. There are exactly two keys to it, and we haven’t been able to locate Quentin and Farrah, the owners of these keys.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “What’s in this bunker that’s so important?”

  “No one knows for sure,” he said, shrugging.

  She watched him closely. He was lying. He knew exactly what was in that bunker, but wasn’t willing to say.

  “But,” he continued, “it’s something important enough for a whole shitload of the townspeople to give their lives for, that’s for sure. There’s a council, but they’ve all scattered. Someone said they’re holed up north of Boulder at a farmhouse, so we were going to collect all our people and march up there tomorrow to find out.”

  “I will make you a deal.”

  Bulldozer’s eyes rose, and he nodded his acceptance for her to speak.

  She cleared her throat and straightened her back to give weight to what she was about to say. “I will hel
p you assault these people and locate this Quentin and Farrah and kill them to take their keys. Once we’ve done that, you march east with us, and we crush Helen Rappaport and her army. Then, we take this country. After that, I will make sure you have enough Eighteeners interested in baseball to fill out your league.”

  Bulldozer thought on this for a moment. Then, he stood and shook her hand. “Okay. Tomorrow, we attack.”

  Chapter 33

  Quentin - Boulder

  They waited until morning to venture out to find the refugees at the farm north of town. Farrah had twisted her ankle the night before, and her lack of mobility proved a challenge. Also, White insisted on cleaning the bullet wound in Quentin’s arm with hydrogen peroxide and fresh bandages, then giving it time to rest before trying to put any stress on it. Quentin protested, saying the bullet had only passed through the fleshy part, barely hurt at all, but White practically forced him. And when a guy White’s size gives you an order, you’re wise not to put up too much fuss.

  In the morning, when Kellen and White helped Farrah into their car, she gave him a thumbs up and a smile which spurred a sense of hope in Quentin. They would reunite with their people. They would collect the refugees and inspire them to all emigrate together. Maybe down to Colorado Springs, or maybe up north to Montana, maybe out east to Kansas. Anywhere but here. The Denver area was overrun with these vile Eighteener gangsters. Collectively, they were no better than Boss Chalmers had been in Chicago. Ruling through violence and fear, taking what they wanted in the name of empire-building. At least Chalmers had been trying to build a community. All these Eighteeners cared about was power.

  Over the hill on Highway 36, just past town, Quentin viewed the collection of tents lining the grass at a farm in the shadow of the foothills. Hundreds of the structures.

  “I can’t believe it,” Farrah said, her chest heaving.

  Quentin had to agree. After they’d been attacked by the mobs of Eighteeners, hundreds had died. Quentin had seen some escape into the hills, some through the barricade at the front of town. And thousands more, he’d had no clue what had happened to them. They’d fled along Canyon Road, he assumed only to be cut down by the invaders.

  And now, here they were. Maybe not all of them, but enough that he felt a proud sense of homecoming, seeing his people. Mixed with profound guilt, sure, but also pride.

  They exited the highway in the farm’s driveway, across the packed grass of the expansive pasture. A dozen faces turned toward the car approaching.

  Guns pointed at them as they neared the farmhouse. A line of armed men formed across the driveway. Quentin recognized every one of their faces, these brave people uprooted from their homes, but still full of passion for defending the weak and old.

  Quentin rolled down the window and leaned out. He caught the eye of one of his soldiers, who raised his weapon to the sky and squinted.

  “Is that you?” the young man said.

  “Good to see you,” Quentin said. “We thought you were all lost.”

  The young man barked at the others, and they broke the line, clearing a path toward the farmhouse. More faces came out, many donning weary smiles.

  They were home.

  White navigated the car toward the house and parked. A man and a woman emerged from the front door, heads held high.

  “That’s Dave and Isabelle,” Kellen said. “Rappaport’s generals. They’re going to help us bring her army here.”

  Quentin waved to them as he left the car and crossed the grass to the house. He shook Dave’s hand. Strange to meet someone from this mythical army of Helen Rappaport, something he hadn’t been convinced was a real thing until this moment. With so many questions swirling around his head, he didn’t know where to begin.

  “My name is Quentin,” he said. “I see you found my people.”

  “You could say that. They’re better armed and more prepared than I would have expected.”

  Isabelle crossed her arms and leaned against the front door of the house. She was a strange creature; beautiful, with a scowl on her face she made no effort to hide. Quentin wasn’t sure what Kellen and White had done to persuade them to travel here. What could be in it for them?

  “I appreciate you coming out here to see what you can do for us,” Quentin said. “I know we’re a long way from the east coast.”

  “It’s no trouble,” Dave said, nodding. “Helen understands that she’s been fighting the Infinity out east for so long, we can’t just let the rest of the country stagnate. If we want to be one community again, we need to make sure everyone is included.”

  Quentin noticed the use of the former vice president’s widow’s first name. These two were more than generals. Most people would not be on a first-name basis with her.

  Isabelle cleared her throat. “We need to offer her concrete proof of the size of the Eighteener army. If she’s going to come out here with force, we need to be able to show her how it’s worth diluting her armies out east.”

  “Pardon me,” Farrah said, “but we don’t really give a shit about what Rappaport does or doesn’t do.”

  Dave barked a nervous chuckle. “Say what?”

  “What my wife means,” Quentin said, “is that we need to get everyone out of here. It’s not safe to stay. We need to be on the move north, or south, or somewhere. Anywhere but here.”

  Farrah nodded. “If you get the evidence you need or don’t, our priority is our people’s safety first.”

  “I understand,” Dave said.

  Farrah and Willam joined them on the porch, and everyone gave their introductions. And, as Quentin was thinking through how he would explain his plan for a mass evacuation, five thousand Eighteeners appeared on the nearby ridge, assault weapons in hand.

  The war had begun.

  Chapter 34

  Quentin - Boulder

  As the Eighteener army thundered down over the hill to the east, Quentin knew it was all over. His people, as well-armed and trained as they were, were hopelessly outnumbered. Outgunned. These Eighteeners had probably been sleeping in beds the night before. Eating regular meals, maybe even with real meat and fresh vegetables.

  His people had been in tents on the cold ground in the field surrounding a farmhouse. Scared, homeless, uncertain. Quentin hadn’t even had a chance yet to walk out through the tents to greet people and ask them how they were doing.

  He turned to his wife and child, both of them staring at him in disbelief. Farrah was a fighter, no doubt about it, but she had an injured ankle and could barely walk. Willam was much too young to see all of this, but it wasn’t the first time this week he’d been exposed to something a child should never have to see.

  Quentin had to get them out of here. Flee with them into the mountains to the west. But he couldn't leave his people, could he?

  Kellen grabbed his arm, sending a jolt of pain to the bullet wound in his bicep. Quentin winced, but Kellen didn’t let go.

  "You need to leave,” Kellen said. “You and Farrah and Willam. Take the car and go.”

  “I can’t.”

  Kellen’s face insisted. “The bunker is more important.”

  The first gunshots cracked the sky. People scrambled out of tents, alert and confused. The tents were arranged in a large circle around an open space with several rows of plastic bin containers in the middle, stacked three and four high and twenty to a row. Somehow, the townspeople had smuggled supplies out of Nederland before escaping.

  Swarms of people raced toward those containers, tossing them to the ground, ripping them open, yanking guns out. Within two minutes, more than a hundred of them had donned arms, readying themselves for the fight. Several of them were cut down by the invaders’ bullets as they tried to load magazines into the assault rifles.

  Children screamed. The elderly tried to flee, but many of them stumbled and fell. Snow churned underneath boots, mixing with the mud underneath.

  "I can't," Quentin said. "I can't go."

  All around them, the locals re
adied their guns and raced out onto the battlefield. There was barely any cover; a few leafless trees here and there, some small valleys in the pasture to use as foxholes. Mostly, a large open space sat between the farm and the road. Two acres, maybe a little more. The road was now filled with thousands of Eighteeners, all of them armed and shooting. Barely bothering to even drop to a knee to provide any cover, at least not yet. Why would they? They had brought thousands.

  This would be a bloodbath, over in minutes.

  “I can help them,” the easterner Dave said. “I’ll get your wife and child to safety.”

  “Take them to Nederland,” Quentin said. “Up to Eldora ski resort, past town. She knows where to go.”

  He hugged his wife and mouthed goodbye while he drew his son close with his other arm. “I love you,” he shouted. “We will see each other again.”

  Around them, wood on the porch exploded from gunfire. Splinters sailed through the air like daggers. He pushed Farrah and Willam toward the car, and Dave caught the keys on a toss from White.

  They raced toward it as Quentin wondered if he would ever see his family again. If any of them would survive this day. If separating himself from them at this moment was the worst choice he could have made.

  A few of the Eighteeners had been bold enough to cross the field, and a smattering of them were headed straight for that car. Quentin counted four. As his family ran, the attackers raised their assault rifles to hip height, pointed straight at his wife and child.

  Quentin, Kellen, White, and Isabelle all leveled pistols in unison and fired in that direction. They cut down the advancing Eighteeners in a matter of seconds. Farrah, holding Willam close, released her grip on their son. Then, Dave and the young man helped his limping mother into the car.

  Quentin didn’t take his eyes off them until the car had started up and disappeared over the hill to the west, toward the mountains. If Dave were smart, he would travel along the foothills for a mile or two before rejoining the road.