He finished, and set down the drill. He blew away the shreds of metal, and removed his safety glasses. Reaching over to a container on the truck-bed, he pulled out a bolt, and threaded it through the hole. He checked, top and bottom, that it went through smoothly, then nodded to himself. Standing up he noticed Wentworth.
He shouted out a greeting, moving over to the generator to shut it off. “—the meeting go? The Elders on our side now?”
“The Mayor’s discussing that with them right now — but I don’t think it’ll be any problem. They didn’t say much, but I could see them vibrating when they watched you arguing with Jenkins.”
“I figured as much.”
“You did a good job there.”
“Hey, it’s all about getting into their head, right?”
“I guess so. Listen, Raxx — O’Neil wants me to help out with training her men. Are you going to be okay without me?”
“Umm… what time are you going to help her with that?”
“Not until tomorrow.”
“Oh, yeah, that’s fine — you can still help me this afternoon, right?”
“Of course — what do you need?”
“Tell you what, just hold she shield up while I mark her.”
“The sandbags are coming, right?”
“Them and the styrofoam are on order. We’ll get ’em, don’t worry! Okay, just hold it there while I get some measurements… you can put it down for a second now…”
“Boys — excuse me, boys!” The light green dress flowed around her ample figure, highlighting the femininity of her curves. The look on her face belied her light-hearted tone of voice. “Vince told me you’d be here.”
Wentworth regarded the approaching figure while Raxx smiled.
“Maria! Lovely as always!”
“Oh, Raxx… listen, boys I know how busy you are, and Vince told me not to bother you—” she smiled conspiratorially, “but I figured you’d need a good meal to keep you going. Where can I put this without troubling you?”
Raxx showed her, and she placed the basket she’d been carrying on the truck bed.
She started counting off on her fingers, “Two Simcoe Salmon sandwiches, four meatballs — two each — and a thermos of coffee, plus crackers.” She smiled, “I want the thermos back, boys!”
“But what if we’re still thirsty?” said Raxx.
“In that case, you’ll have to stop gallivanting, and come home for some fresh brew! But oh, my, look at me! I’m keeping you men from their work — Raxx, Iain — be careful, promise?”
Wentworth nodded. “Promise.”
“Promise,” said Raxx.
Maria clasped their hands, and looked at both of them. She nodded, and walked away.
Raxx watched her leave, then looked over at his partner. “Iain?”
“Yeah… I prefer Wentworth.”
“Wentworth it is, then.”
“Vince has been listening to too many rumours.”
“Hey, I’m not judging.”
“Of course you aren’t; you’ve only got one vowel for a name. So what are we doing now?”
* * *
Walking out of the city gates, he could see the constabulary assembled to the south-east, going through early-morning drills. He walked towards them, rifle slung over one shoulder. Some of the older members pointed in his direction, sharing a joke amongst themselves.
“You’re late.”
He looked at Patricia. They were the same height.
“You didn’t specify a time.”
“It’s nine-fifteen in the goddamned morning.”
“I’m just a mercenary, what do I know?”
“Yeah… you are.”
“Is it alright if I address the troops?”
“The constables? Yes.” She turned away and cleared her throat. “Constabulary… form-UP!” They ceased their exercises, and assembled in front of their Captain. Three blocks, two rows deep… subconsciously he nodded at the organization, while the Captain spoke.
“You’ve all been briefed on what these operations are for — you know their intent — it was my estimation that the best training you could receive would be from the mercenary Hope hired, with whom I formulated these plans. This is him, Iain Wentworth, recently of the Blackstock Massacre. Most of you have seen him, and all of you have heard of him. He will be conducting training over the next four hours, under my supervision. I expect discipline, and proper Hope attitude out all of you — is that clear?”
“Yes, Ma’am!”
She nodded at him, and he stepped forward. This mass of men and women was no army — off to the left he spotted the overweight supply officer — to the right, the light-weight personnel administrator. They regarded him with doubt and suspicion. On the far side of the line he noticed a couple of the older members whispering to each other.
“You!” He guessed at the rank on their shoulder, “Sergeant! Is something funny?”
“Ah, no… nothing’s funny.”
He turned his attention on the rest of the company. “That’s good. Your Captain’s given you a lawful command, and I’d expect that Hope’s Constabulary would have the dignity to obey it.
“None of you know me from a derelict — maybe a few rumours, some of you — but here’s the man. I’ve been in long conversation with your Captain. You’re lucky to have a leader of her calibre. She didn’t ask me here out of stupidity — she asked me because she wants her constabulary to have the best training available. Do any of you doubt that?”
The assembly looked confused. Some of them opened their mouths, but no proclamation was forthcoming.
“I asked you — do any of you doubt your Captain?”
“No.”
“That was weak. I’d hoped for better, but I accept what I have before me. Now, I am going to be training you in the operation of platoon level combat. I am going to be training you so that I and my compatriot will survive the upcoming battle with Slayer and his men. This is a field in which I have expertise. Now I ask of you, and I need an honest response. Are you able to learn from me?”
“Yes!”
He dipped his head, shaking it. “I asked you a question, whether or not you could learn. I’m going to ask you again. Can you learn from me?”
“Yes — Yes, ma’am — Sir! — Yes Sir!”
“Do you want to avenge your brothers- and sisters-in-arms who died on that supply caravan?”
“Yes sir!”
“Good! Now, I want the four senior commanders — sergeant, that’s you, isn’t it? — to confer with me. The rest of you return to your previous training, under your senior group commander. Questions, problems, concerns…? Good. Dismissed!”
It took them a moment to react, unfamiliar to the phrase — but then they scattered, while the three sergeants approached him.
“O’Neil… I’m beginning to think that your Constabulary might not get us killed, after all.”
The Captain snorted in response.
Chapter 25
Once again he stood before his men, grinning, a sheen of sweat across his chest.
They’d won their second tribute from the settlements, the Mennites eyes shining like rabbits in the electric light. Their submission had filled his belly with a warm, quiet laughter.
“We are a new force! The faithful steward the land, whilst we steward them! Like the fattened cows they herd, they are there for our food, our clothing, and our pleasure!”
A fit of laughter rolled through the band. No need for formality this time. The point had been made, and tonight they were revelling. Even his own planning could be put on hold for once. A cask had been tapped, and the stewards were unloading — they’d feast soon, after some drinks. The Catamite had a soft, wistful look in his eyes, his pipe smouldering darkly.
“With each act of submission, every tremor of fear, each flame of anger they become more like us, their forgotten children! Our truth fills them with bile and they forget their lies of love, land, crucifix, and family! We grow! Th
ey diminish!”
He slammed his fist on the table, rattling the cutlery. Another cheer went up, eyes gleaming red in the torchlight.
He smiled with a hanging jaw. For a moment these men were almost as brothers. A forgotten want, a sudden urge for kinship that not even the Catamite brought forth in him. The bonfire glowed warm and violent. Perhaps Jenkins prophecy was more than mere dream…
Then—
A shattering of contexts.
Ears screaming, thoughts jumbled — his men scattering, diving to the floor — a blast wave through his body, chemical scent — he grabbed the table for support, gaping at the ringing hum, watching the band right themselves. He looked at them, and they him. A brief amnesia.
The dust settled. Then he screamed, “The trucks!”
The band started moving, chaotic like a swarm of bees. Some hefted weapons, readying them, others scrambled for medical supplies, and others simply ran towards the chaos. He stood, and strode through them, the Catamite following in his wake. He exited the hangar, rounded the corner to the supply sheds, and passed through the crowd that had gathered. He came to a halt. A nervous fire burned up from his groin, numbness travelled downwards.
The supply sheds were torn open, corrugated steel shredded open like pieces of fruit. The hulks of the vehicles remained. One had been twisted, an ugly interpretation with its roof open wide. The other had rolled, its tires hanging limply and its engine shiny with leaking fluids. The supplies were gone, scattered. A plank from one of the crates had flown towards the hangar, penetrating the side and canting lazily.
The remains of five stewards were in the blast radius. Various scraps — bovine, human — littered the area, but five torsos were unmistakeable, arrayed spastically around the blast centre. One and been split open along the seam of his chest; another appeared unharmed, but was unmoving.
His hearing was beginning to return. Above the ringing he heard a wail. A survivor was kneeling by the front to the still-righted vehicle. His hands were clasped to his ears, blood running down his elbows and dripping off his chin.
The Mennites had planted a bomb in their tribute.
An animalistic scream of fury came out of Slayer and he looked up at the sky, bellowing at the heavens. The endless ringing made his voice sound far away. He turned to face the band.
“Prepare yourselves.”
It was all he said. They unfroze and started scrambling.
The next five minutes were a swarm of activity. Slayer wandered about giving orders, while the band equipped themselves and mounted up. The Catamite opened a vial hanging from his neck and snorted some of the contents. A moment later his grin widened and a maniacal look replaced the haze. He let out a jackal’s call.
Once every man was armed, and they had mounted their vehicles, the Catamite drove the dune buggy around so that Slayer could face them. The band was expectant, their mounts rumbling, their souls forged of iron.
He raised his pistol in the air, pointing at the sky. “We go for vengeance!” The heavy crack sounded as he pulled the trigger, and the men let out a war cry. Gunning the engine, the Catamite circled around, leading them out of the compound. Everybody was going this time. They’d all make the Fathers pay.
They drove hard, full of juice and anger for their lost brothers. A lustful yearning worked its way through them, driving them to find an outlet for their rage. They tore down the pathway, brush scraping against the sides of the vehicles, tearing off leaves, and screaming out for vengeance.
Slayer ground his teeth.
As they left the woods and the Catamite turned right onto the highway, he thought he saw something out of the corner of his eye. As the vehicle kept moving, he turned around, staring behind them. Something back there had drawn his attention.
There it was — barely visible above the noise, light, and vibrations of his band. A pair of red lights, floating, somewhere in the distance. He stared at them, trying to make out what they were, as more of the men turned onto the road behind him. He was just beginning to sort out the perspective when a splash of white sparks appeared between the two red lights. His eyes widened. Muzzle flash.
His mouth was just opening to shout out a command when the crack of automatic fire reached them.
* * *
“I got their attention. Start driving.”
* * *
Panic broke out. The Catamite had the sense to slow down gently, but the man behind him didn’t. The gutted station wagon ground to a halt, only to lurch forward with a plastic crunch as the long sedan behind it slammed into its rear. The rest of the column stopped nervously and the motorcycles jerked their way past them, halting in a cluster further down the road. Desperate and angry, Slayer knelt down, fumbled for the switch, and turned on the dune buggy’s flood lamps. He was blinded by them, staring into pure whiteness while throwing his arm, indicating for the band to pursue. It worked. He heard the roar of engines, then the Catamite turned the dune buggy around. They were now at the tail end of a column that stretched on down the road.
The enemy continued firing, sporadic bursts followed by their echoing crack. His band returned the favour. Crossbow bolts shot out, falling short, while those with pistols levered themselves out the windows, sitting on the frames. The motorcyclists drove cautiously, keeping a wide margin between them and the vehicles.
With the mass of headlights pointed west, he could make out the shiny, rusted sheen of the fleeing truck. Jenkins had guaranteed no interference from Hope until next spring at the earliest, but the old man had been wrong. His lips snarled at the thought of those citizens daring to interrupt his plans. But damn them all, his band knew these roads — they knew every turn, every pothole, and every slick patch of gravel.
The enemy was cresting a rise now, while his column pursued through its valley, bellowing out their fire in return.
* * *
“Shit! You okay?”
“The sandbags caught it. Keep going.”
* * *
They crested the rise. There was another short valley here, less than half a kilometer across. He saw the taillights disappearing again as his band spread out along the road, gaining ground. The motorcycles worked their way cautiously, gradually overtaking the lead vehicle. The enemy came into view once more, climbing the next hill, and each of the bikes lit up with their own automatics. How these faithless had managed to plant tech-heavy explosives in the Mennite tribute was beyond him. The Fathers had always been too faithful to even consider anything like that before. Ahead of him men were leaning out of their vehicles, trying to get a point of aim. The smells of petroleum and gunpowder filled the damp night air.
The whole situation was strange. Strange that the Fathers would allow foreign tech into the mix. Strange that they’d speak to the Constabulary — if that’s who this was. He squeezed the roll bar with a white knuckled gripped. A wariness was growing within him…
No, those thoughts were disgusting. Any other time he’d be leading the pack, hot on the scent of the blood. Following the scent of exhaust is what drove these thoughts. It wouldn’t matter, either way. Whoever the taillights belonged to, they were coming up to a sharp curve, and from the looks of things they were taking it too fast.
He chanced a couple wild shots with his pistol, and saw one of the taillights go out.
His bullet or one from the band. It didn’t matter.
* * *
“What the hell was that?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“The turn’s coming up.”
“Glad to hear it, this mag’s almost done…”
* * *
The vehicle’s brake lights lit up at the last second. Like a chain reaction, the column followed suit, sending up dust clouds as they slowed, grabbing the edge of the embankment to speed their turn. The motorcycles passed on the inside, retreating back to the middle of the column.
He fired off a couple more shots during the brief moment the truck was in sight, before it disappeared again behind the h
ills. One by one they were making the turn, when something ticked at him — there was a line of discolouration on the road ahead.
* * *
Raxx swerved through the turn, underestimating it — he clutched, counter-steered, and for a brief moment rode the far bank. He could feel clods of earth being churned up. It wasn’t enough, the gentle slide would ground them into the ditch — Damnit! — he eased the RPMs up, and released the clutch, leaning his body to the side as if it would do anything to counter-balance. The wheels spun, then gripped, then spun again, but it was enough. With a nudge on the steering the truck nosed back onto the road, and flattened out. His shoulders twitched; only a bit further to go.
The manoeuvre had thrown Wentworth on his side, but he ignored it. He pulled out the magazine with the tracer rounds in it. As the truck realigned he fell back into his point of aim. The first of the raiders had appeared around the bend behind them. Give it a few more seconds… anywhere on the road’s surface would do.
He held down the trigger and a swarm of red phosphorous shot through air. Blue devils appeared forth wherever they struck, then flattened out and splashed in a heavy woof, turning the road into an orgy of flame.
The last tendrils pursued the back of the pickup truck, licking it, as he and Raxx sped off into the night.
* * *
The fire moved too fast to compensate for. Half the column was already engulfed, while the other half slammed on their breaks and skidding across the hardpack. In front of them a station wagon was fishtailing violently. The Catamite was letting out an angry growl. He refused to lose traction, and as a consequence they were nosing up on the station wagon. Five meters had closed to two meters, they were almost riding its bumper now, and there was still no safe way around. The Catamite screamed out a wordless curse, Slayer just gritted his teeth. Their world had shrunk to the narrow space between bumpers.
And then the wagon righted itself. They were still rolling towards the conflagration, but there was no imminent crash coming. Slayer began to loosen his grip on the roll bar, when the wagon made a sudden swerve to the left. He could hear the screaming of the occupants as the car went into a spin, and in sudden flash he saw what had prompted the manoeuvre — a fallen motorcyclist and his bike blocked the lane ahead.
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