Neal Barrett Jr.
Page 27
Howie saw him a split second before Jones. Tommy came out of the trees, firing the rifle as fast as he could, going through the steps he’d practiced every night—fire, lever another shell in the chamber, fire again. Ritcher Jones jerked up straight, a startled expression on his face. Bullets whined all about him, slicing off twigs and digging dirt. Jones danced aside, snapped off a shot and missed. Tommy kept coming, squeezing the trigger every second, doing everything right. The only thing Howie hadn’t taught him was to aim. Lead hit everything but Jones. The preacher bent his knees and fired again. Tommy cried out and went down; without pausing an instant, Jones swept the long barrel toward Howie.
Howie threw himself at the preacher. White fire blinded his eye and a sound like thunder filled his head. His shoulder struck Jones solidly in the gut and sent him sprawling. Howie heard the pistol hit dirt. Jones cursed him and pounded him with his fists, cutting Howie’s cheek and bringing blood to his eye. Howie couldn’t see Jones but he knew he was there, knew when his hands got past the hurting fists and found the preacher’s throat. Ritcher Jones kept fighting, lashing out wildly at Howie’s head. Howie didn’t care. All he could feel was the rage in his heart, the sorrow for Lorene and Marie, for his mother and his pa, for boys he’d seen die in the war, and everyone else who was gone that he wouldn’t ever see anymore. All the hurt and the pain flowed through his hands, and when Chan tried to pull him away, he saw there was nothing he could do but turn away and take care of Carolee, and see what could be done about the boy….
EPILOGUE
Chan said Tommy would likely make it, that it was fortunate indeed Chinese doctors were the best in the world.
“He would not have a chance if he were left to the butchers in your country who call themselves physicians,” Chan explained. “If one is shot in the toe in America, the leg will most probably be amputated at once. If a finger is afflicted, the arm itself must go. On the other hand, I have seen miracles of healing in China. Even if a limb is nearly severed—
“Fine,” Howie said, “as long as you get him back on his feet. He’s a good kid and worth saving, and I sure ain’t anxious to give Carolee had news.”
Howie sat up and stretched, left Chan below, and made his way to the forward deck. The sky was an awesome shade of blue, and a gentle wind swept in from the east. A giant of a man who belonged to Chan’s faction back home was sitting cross-legged on the deck, facing Carolee. He had taught Carolee a game that involved colored marbles. It made no sense to Howie, but seemed to delight Carolee.
When the Chinese saw Howie, he stood and bowed solemnly, and walked back along the deck. Howie knew he wouldn’t go far. Chan had carefully explained to the man that Carolee was a sacred person, as anyone could see from her innocent manner. Chan’s friend took his job quite seriously and seldom let Carolee out of his sight.
“Hello, Howie,” Carolee said. “You want to play?”
Howie eased himself down on the deck. “Not me. You’re too good. You doing all right?”
Carolee leaned forward. Sharing secrets was one of her favorite things to do have been trying to make Mr. Huan smile. I don’t know if I can.”
Howie grinned. “You keep trying. He’ll come around.” He looked at Carolee, at the tine mist of hair across her face, then past her to the east. Chan assured him California was a good four hundred miles away, but this failed to set Howie’s mind at ease. High Sequoia was still there. Lawrence was there too. He had the power and the will; he’d do whatever he wanted with the country, until someone else got big enough to stop him, and do something different. Things would get better or worse. Howie wondered if that was the way things had to be. Maybe it was. It seemed like you could fix things good sometimes, get everything going real fine, and then someone else would come along and tear it down. Like they did in the Great War. Everything was supposed to be nice before that, but you couldn’t tell it now. There wasn’t much left to show.
“You want to tell me a story?” said Carolee. “Huan tells me real good stories.”
“I ain’t much good at telling stories,” Howie said.
“Please!” said Carolee.
“All right,” Howie said. “But don’t expect a whole lot.” He stretched his legs out on the deck and leaned against the high wooden rail. “There was these two people, and they had ’em a real nice farm. There was all kinds of stuff growing, wheat and corn and everything. They worked real hard. And one day they got the notion to get all dressed up, and take the younguns to the Blue-vale Fair. They figured on having a whole lot of fun.”
“Was the younguns girls or boys?” asked Carolee.
“One of each,” Howie said. “There was a boy, and he had a real pretty sister who looked just like her ma.”
“A boy and a girl!” Carolee clapped her hands in delight. “Just like you and me.”
“That’s right,” Howie said. “Kinda like you and me.”
Afterword
A writer grows attached to his character. I lived with Howie Ryder through the trials and tribulations of Through Darkest America, and the ever-increasing pain he endured in the book you’ve just read. A lot happened to Howie. He suffered, nearly lost his life more than once. He survived, he learned—but at a terrible cost. The secrets he uncovered at the beginning of his quest shook him to the core, but they paled at his discovery of an even more inhuman crime about to be unleashed upon the world.
Howie’s story is more than a tale of his adventures. If I have done my job as a writer, he has grown, become more than he was before. He has escaped with Carolee. He has found a new friend, but he will always be scarred by the years that led him to his journey to China. Now, the strength, the wisdom, he has gained will be sorely tested as he faces new, even more deadly foes in the Chinese faction eager to begin a horrifying breeding program of their own.
As Howie’s writer, I would imagine a new love in Howie’s life, one he surely deserves. And I would see a Chinese master, far ahead of the seers of the West, who sees a small light still burning in Carolee, a light that might shine brightly again. Through it all, I see Howie Ryder becoming much, much more than any of us could ever imagine in our wildest dreams…
-NEAL BARRETT, JR.
Table of Contents
Title Page
LICENSE NOTES
Meet the Author
DISCOVER CROSSROAD PRESS
Introduction
DAWN’S UNCERTAIN LIGHT
PART ONE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
PART TWO
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
EPILOGUE
Afterword