Had Dante tried to open it?
Victor pushed this thought aside. The answer was as insignificant as it was unattainable.
He opened the briefcase and set it on the ground. Inside lay a disassembled AK-47, and the sight of it conjured memories that had lain hidden in the cobwebs for years. As he picked up the parts of the weapon, his hands took over and began snapping them in place, moving in a rhythm he could not have consciously imitated. Unlike the puzzle pieces still spread in his mind, these pieces fit together smoothly and the process was like putting on a favorite sweatshirt that had been lost, or driving a car that has been sitting in the repair shop for years.
When all the parts were assembled, he inserted a clip into the weapon and chambered a round. Then he looked through the remaining items in the briefcase: a few passports under false names, a wad of euros and another of dollars, a black-and-gold lighter…
He picked the lighter up and studied it as if he had never seen the item before. A golden dragon with three-dimensional claws held the lighter in a fierce grip, and despite the circumstances Victor felt the ghost of a smile playing on his lips. Even after how much time the lighter had spent entombed in exile in the briefcase, it still reminded Victor of a time when he had felt like a king.
He closed the briefcase and carried it back to the cabin, where he exchanged it for his backpack. He was almost ready to leave now. He took the backpack to the kitchen, where he found the canned goods still tucked away in the cabinet for a time of desperate need. This, along with the deer meat he had smoked the day before, would keep him well-fed for a few days—plenty of time, he hoped, to find Dante and bring him back.
He tried not to consider the significance of finding the food. Anyone raiding the house would easily have found the food, but they had left it. Maybe that was because, as he had discovered at the cow farm, these people were not as desperate for food as everyone else. He tucked this thought away with all the other things he would consider later. Now it was time for action.
Armed and provisioned, Victor closed the cabin door behind him and regarded the horse tracks leading toward the road. There was no moment of uncertainty, no doubt as to whether he would follow. Like a leaf torn free of its branch, he had no choice but to go where the wind would take him.
_____
Somewhere in the dark recesses of his mind, the place where old memories retired and childhood dreams languished forgotten, Victor had come to believe that so long as he kept Dante safe, he still had a chance at redemption. Only now, as he followed the trail away from the cabin, did he realize he had believed this all along.
There was a reason he had not told Dante about his time with the Force—a reason that, even years later when the information he knew was no longer classified, he did not sit down with Dante and explain, This is what happened when our roads diverged, and you went on your adventures around the world while I stayed here, working toward a better future. He had tried to tell Dante. He had even convinced himself he was going to broach the subject. But as soon as the flashbacks started to crowd in, he would fall silent. Dante had once compared Victor to Andy from Stephen King’s Dark Tower series, a robot whose programming did not allow it to share its secrets unless a password was given.
Dante did not know Victor’s password. Maybe nobody did.
The first few hours went by in a blur. He jogged as fast as he could without losing track of his surroundings. The sweat spread across his back, sandwiched between his coat and his backpack. Already, even after the first half hour, he felt his legs complaining because he had not worked himself this hard in a long time. He had grown soft at the cabin—he knew this. The old Victor, the man of shadows and secrets, would have laughed at him and sped on ahead.
The old Victor, he thought, would not have let Walker get anywhere near the cabin. He would have put him in the ground.
But Dante’s presence in Victor’s life complicated things, in good and bad ways. Sometimes, after Victor had expressed some idea that seemed necessary to him, Dante would look at him as if he had just suggested setting up a statue of Stalin in their front yard. Dante had become Victor’s conscience in a way, giving Victor a second perspective on his decisions. But at other times, Dante simply did not understand the necessities of their new world. He did not realize how much the outside world could have changed while they played recluse at the cabin. That was why Dante had chosen to believe Walker’s story, despite Victor’s skepticism.
Victor could not blame it all on his brother, however. He had let his guard down, and that wasn’t something anyone else could force him to do. Someone had watched the brothers, invented a ruse to get Victor off the property, and then taken Dante by force. The pieces did not fit together yet (it was particularly difficult to imagine what motive anyone would have to kidnap a grown man), but they were there, rattling around in Victor’s brain, and sooner or later something would click.
_____
The day warmed, the morning wore to noon, the signs remained fresh and yet Victor caught neither sight nor sound of those he followed. His feet took him to a paved road pock-marked with frost heaves, and now he was only guessing the riders had continued in the same direction. He passed gas stations whose windows had been broken, the snack shelves inside emptied; houses set alight long enough ago that saplings now grew in the ruins; a small car dealership whose line of display vehicles had been smashed, as if a group of PCP-high thugs had decided to go on a rampage. But Victor knew it would not take PCP to make a person do something like that. It just took an opportunity. The sight of so many squandered resources reminded him why he had gone to the cabin in the first place.
There were more buildings ahead, clustered at the top of a hill—a small town, by the look of it. Yes, he had driven through here on his way to the cabin. He remembered it had been a scenic little town with a colonial feel and a few local landmarks. He had maxed out a credit card on groceries in this town before he disappeared off the grid.
A cross-walk sign covered by a laminated paper caught his view. The paper read:
TOWN OF FAIRFIELD, FEDERATION
TRADERS WELCOME
NO VAGRANTS, THIEVES, OR INFECTED
VIOLATORS WILL BE SUBJECTED TO SUMMARY EXECUTION, BY ORDER OF MAYOR JOHN FELIX
LOCAL MILITIA ON STANDBY
YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED
How the world has changed, he thought. The sign gave him pause. It was reasonable to think that, in the wake of a catastrophe that had plunged the entire country into a severe food crisis, smaller governments would appear and impose their own brand of justice. This “Federation” might be one such place. And if that was so, Victor doubted they would take kindly to outsiders.
The full reality of what had happened finally settled on Victor’s shoulders. He felt the first stirring of fear deep in his gut—not fear for his safety, or even Dante’s, so much as the fear that he might find himself helpless to save his own brother. All the years of careful planning might come to nothing because he had ignored his instincts when he saw Walker. He had allowed Dante to take the lead, to prioritize compassion over caution, and now…
Now we’re in the rabbit hole, he thought, and there’s no telling where it will lead.
Victor read the sign again, trying to decide whether it would be wiser to enter the town or to go around. Had the horsemen come this way? It was the most logical assumption, but Victor was not ready to go on assumptions just yet. He wondered if the horsemen were considered outlaws. The other possibility, the one he did not like to imagine, was that they might be in league with this “Federation,” in which case the townspeople might take their side against Victor.
Victor was still standing by the sign, undecided, when he heard the echoing report of a gunshot.
Chapter 8: Mexican Standoff
Men on horses occupied the center of the street, their mounts dancing nervously as the riders brandished guns. Locals watched from the doorways of buildings and porches to see what would happen.
&nbs
p; This is just like in the movies, Victor thought. The world falls apart, and suddenly we find ourselves in the Old West.
But there were no cacti here, no citizens with shotguns in their hands and steel in their eyes. The only people who appeared armed, other than the horsemen themselves, were a group of men standing on the right side of the street in front of a colonial-style Dunkin Donuts with white columns set in front. Though every man in that group was armed, they neither raised their weapons nor challenged the horsemen.
“Where’s the girl?” Walker shouted. He looked nothing like the ragged survivor the brothers had found tearing into their deer. He had exchanged his winter coat for a dark leather jacket that fit him only a little better. He was waving a pistol in his hand as he shouted, and if Victor was not mistaken, there was a sword strapped to the saddle of his horse.
Victor counted seven men on seven horses. He stared at them only long enough to identify his brother. Then he moved to the side of street and began trotting along the sidewalk, crouching as he went.
It appeared Walker had shouted his question at a man standing in the midst of the horses. Now, as Victor crept closer, he heard a sickening crunch as Walker struck the man with the butt of his pistol, knocking him to his knees.
“Where is she?” Walker shouted, spit flying from his mouth. The knot of men on the opposite side of the road (Militia, Victor thought, recalling the laminated sign) stirred like a hive of bees, but none moved toward the horsemen.
“I didn’t want to have to do this,” Walker added, tucking the gun into his belt and reaching for the hilt of his sword.
Victor knew this might be his only chance. After laying the backpack on the ground beside him, he propped the barrel of the assault rifle on a low picket fence, switched the firing mode to semi-auto, and took aim. As Walker’s sword came down, the rifle bucked in Victor’s hands and began arcing hot shells through the air.
He took his time, not wanting to hit Dante or the man whom Walker might or might not have killed. He felt as if a release valve had been turned, and all the anger and fear coiled within him through that long morning now came rushing out with rattling, heart-pumping relief. One of the riders was flung against the back of his mount, while another horse stumbled and whinnied.
Victor was so focused on his work that he did not realize anyone was returning fire until a large splinter grazed his jaw. He drew the rifle back and dropped beside the fence. The bullets continued striking above him, blasting holes through the thin wood. He crawled on all fours, dragging his backpack, until he was hidden by the corner of a house.
The next sound was unmistakable, even amidst the shooting, and one he would long remember: the thunder of horses’ hooves. They were not riding toward him, however, though they could easily have surrounded and killed him. Instead, he realized as he chanced a peek around the corner of the house, they were fleeing down the road, taking Dante farther from Victor’s grasp.
Victor did not have time to dwell on their cowardice. A bullet zipped over his head, and he ducked back into cover. The fire was coming from the militiamen. Maybe they were in league with the horsemen.
“Stop shooting!” he shouted, his voice raw and hoarse. How long had it been since he’d had a drink of water? The sulphuric smell of gunpowder surrounded him and left a metallic taste on the roof of his mouth.
There was a brief, considerate pause. Then a voice answered, “Who are you?”
Victor imagined those militiamen spreading out now, some of them stealing across the street so they could sneak around the side of the house. He didn’t have much time before they surrounded him.
“Those riders kidnapped my brother!” he shouted.
“Why the hell should I care about your brother?”
A woman’s voice interrupted their shouting match. “Help! Allen’s dying!”
An image came into Victor’s mind of Walker raising that sword. He supposed Allen must have been on the receiving end of the blade. Little though he cared about anything except freeing Dante, this gave him an idea.
“Felix?” he shouted, guessing.
“Yeah?” the other man answered uncertainly.
Victor could hear someone moving through the brush at the back of the house. Soon he would reach the corner. If Victor spilled blood here, any chance of cooperation would be gone.
“I can help that man,” he called. “I have training.” Even as he spoke the words, it seemed a weak gambit. What were the chances a town such as this didn’t have a single doctor?
“Please, Felix!” the woman begged. “Please!”
“Throw your gun out!” Felix shouted.
“I’m going to need some reassurances, Felix.”
“Like we won’t kill you as soon as you step out?”
“Something like that.” Victor aimed the rifle at the back of the house. “If your guy comes around this corner, he’s a dead man. There’s no need for this.” He hoped that, if Felix was a leader in this small community, his word would carry weight. If Victor could get him to promise safe passage, Felix might have to honor his word.
“You have my word,” Felix began, “we will not execute you—”
A man holding a 12-gauge shotgun came around the back of the house and stopped, leveling the weapon at Victor.
“Without due process,” Felix finished.
Despite the tension of the moment, Victor found himself dwelling on that phrase (”due process”) and its absurdity in the context of a local government no more familiar to him than that of Chennai or Timbuktu. And he felt his finger tightening on the trigger of the rifle, because this was how a boar felt when it was cornered by the hounds—
(A boar or a bear? he thought)
—and if the other man even flinched, then to hell with cooperation and this would indeed become the scene of some old Western film, only here there would be no heroes, no morals to stand upon, just violent friction as the wills of two parties clashed against one another.
“What’s it going to be, fella?” Victor said to the man with the shotgun. “Should we die today?”
_____
The Arab had tied the rope, and though it bit into his wrists to do so (his horse, excited by the commotion, was edging toward a canter), Dante managed to extricate one hand from the rope binding him to the horn of the saddle. The other came free within moments, and in the chaos of their flight from a gunfight they could easily have won, the horsemen seemed more intent on chewing road than safeguarding their prisoner.
The reins of Dante’s horse were clutched in the gloved fist of the Arab, the man who had kept Walker from beating him to a pulp back at the cabin, and Dante doubted he would be able to jerk the reins free and gain control of the horse. Instead his best bet appeared to be a thicket of bramble by the side of the road up ahead, mountain laurel and looping vines, and if he could just climb in there, the riders would be forced to dismount and his chances of escape would improve.
He slipped his feet from the stirrups, shifting his weight as he prepared to leap—
His horse swerved beneath him as the big man jerked on the reins, but Dante was already leaping, falling, striking his hip on the pavement and rolling away from the thunder of hooves, and he heard a shout as he gained his feet again and then the sharp report of a gun, and he was leaping into the tangle of branches like a swimmer into a pool, arms outstretched to protect his face, heart beating a rhythm in time with the horses.
The horses were already wheeling about (That was fast, he thought) as he pushed into the brush, ignoring the cuts across his face and arms. Six men? He only prayed they did not know the area. Unless they knew a road that circled around the other side of this jungle, he should be able to outrun them. Hell, hadn’t he once won a footrace on a Brazilian beach against a group of lean athletes, all for a bottle of Sprite and directions to the best place to get a hamburger?
All you have to do is buy some time, he told himself, bruised and bleeding, as he fought his way through the undergrowth. Victor is close
. Find him, and the two of you can escape this mess. The sight of his brother had rekindled his determination to escape, and the most he could do now to help Victor was to stay alive—alive and free.
Only briefly did he consider what would happen if the horsemen continued on without him and Victor hurried by before Dante returned to the road. It had sounded like the start of a shootout back at Fairfield, so Victor would probably be delayed a little longer.
If he’s still alive.
He would not let himself consider the alternative.
“Dante!” Walker shouted from the edge of the road. “Remember what I said happens when you try to run?”
Brothers (The Last Colony Book 1) Page 6