Jonesbridge

by M. E. Parker

  Chapter 16

  “Ramani!” the salvage factory administrator called from the hillside. “Damn it all, that is you under all that fur.” He strode over to Coyote Man to embrace him. “Soon as I heard about a wildman, I knew you’d survived. Listen to those bombs. We did it. We actually did it.”

  Witnessing this exchange between Coyote Man and the salvage administrator siphoned away Sindra’s remaining hope. She leaned over Myron and placed her ear over his mouth relieved to hear him breathing, as faint as it was. She stared at him, memorizing every feature of his face in case she would have to someday tell the child she carried about the man who fueled her dreams.

  “Ramani didn’t survive, Cyril. That man is gone. I’ve transformed.”

  “Tranformed?” Cyril gave Coyote Man a firm pat on the back. “This noxious air has really gotten to you.” He laughed. “Time for these hill monkeys to get what’s coming to them.”

  Sindra had heard many stories of the enemy. Aside from fighting under another banner, the E’sters had a divergent set of values from what her people had. She’d never seen one herself, but if the salvage factory administrator was an E’ster spy, anyone could be. If they didn’t look different from her, or speak another tongue, how could anyone determine an enemy from a countryman? One thing she knew for certain was whoever, or whatever, the E’sters were, once they made it across the bridge, they would show no mercy of any kind. Sindra realized then that they couldn’t stay here and wait for the carnage. They had to go now. She formulated one plan after another, but all her plans involved running, and in his current state, that meant leaving Myron, her dreams, everything that mattered. When she considered staying and fighting, in her mind, it always ended with Myron dying.

  Her planning ended suddenly when Cyril pointed his pistol, first at Errol, before changing his sights to Lalana until his aim finally landed on Sindra. A smile grew on his face. Sindra stared down the barrel of the gun in Cyril’s hand as though she were looking into the eyes of the first ghost that had ever raped her. She kept her eye on the muzzle, mesmerized, wondering how such a tiny hole could cause so much fear, so much damage.

  “Me and Ramani need a trophy. You are coming with us.” Cyril grabbed Sindra by the hair, shoving the barrel of his gun into her back. “But since I am a generous man, I’ll give the rest of you gimps to the count of three to be out of my sight, or I’ll give you a bullet.” He pulled Sindra close, tying her arms together behind her back with the straps from Myron’s litter.

  “Don’t waste a bullet on a slog. We need all the ammo we can get.” Coyote Man stepped in front of him. “Let’s go.”

  Cyril laughed. “Don’t tell me you’ve taken to these hill monkeys.”

  Sindra watched Coyote Man’s face as Cyril spoke, unable to tell if he’d truly transformed into a coyote, a neutral party in the wild, or whether Cyril had awakened some part of the old Ramani along with his E’ster allegiances.

  With a shove to her back, Cyril followed Sindra as they left the bunker and Myron behind. Her hands were cinched so tightly behind her that her shoulders ached, and the cold gun barrel nestled at the base of her back reminded her of how difficult escaping would be. It would do Myron no good at all for her to find the same fate as his, so she stumbled along ahead of Cyril, the E’ster pig, as they climbed through the creek bed, listening to him yammer about his triumphs as a recon in the old country and their perilous trek all the way from Chesapeake to Jonesbridge, sniffing out all the decoys along the way.

  “That your handiwork?” Coyote Man asked, nodding at the smoldering munitions factory down in Jonesbridge.

  “That’s right.”

  “How’d you pull that off?”

  “It wasn’t easy. I’ve been planning it since you got tossed on the dead heap. Almost got caught a time or two.” He whistled. “A civil guard saw me smuggling the last bit. I took care of him and everything else went as planned. Soon as the coal stopped coming I knew our brothers had found us.”

  With constant prodding, they made quick time over rocks and up the hill, passing bodies along the way, heading to the top of Iron’s Knob where they could watch the E’ster invasion in safety. The sun had begun to set, and the E’sters continued to pepper the countryside with artillery. Coyote Man stopped suddenly. He raised his hand and stood motionless glaring at a spot on the hillside.

  Sindra followed his sightline and spotted a coyote with a bent ear standing in the path of the setting sun. Prepared to dart away, the coyote froze in Coyote Man’s gaze. “It’s Nick,” he whispered.

  “What?”

  Coyote Man flicked his own ear to point out Nick’s half ear. He held a finger to his mouth. Dropping to all fours, Coyote Man yipped and howled, a high-pitched wail, never taking his eyes off of the coyote. The coyote’s one good ear twitched.

  “Come on. We don’t have time for this.”

  When Cyril spoke, the coyote whipped around and trotted across the hillside. Coyote Man’s expression soured. A whistling sound passed over head, and another.

  Nick ran right into the path of an E’ster piss whistle. The blast sent an avalanche of rock down the steep face of Iron’s Knob swallowing the coyote in stones and fire and dust.

  “Nick!” Coyote Man yelled.

  “What’s happened to you, Ramani?” Cyril asked, giving Sindra a nudge to keep her moving.

  Coyote Man ambled toward Nick. “We got to see if he’s still kicking.”

  Cyril moved to intercept Coyote Man, sliding in front of him with both his hands on Coyote Man’s chest. “We’re not derailing our escape for some cur.”

  “That cur saved my life.” He pulled up both arms and spread them between Cyril’s hands, throwing Cyril into a seated position on the boulder behind them.

  “Figures. Curs stick together.” Cyril rose to his feet. “Shoulda let you die with dignity—instead of turning you into some savage.”

  Nick had a piece of his ear missing. He was covered in splotches of mangy fur, and he fed on what rotted that the sandy wind hadn’t yet whittled to bone dust. But Nick possessed more dignity in his tail alone than Cyril ever had. “Who’s the savage?”

  Cyril snapped his fingers. “Changed my mind. I am going to see about that animal, and if that blast didn’t kill that fool cur then I’ll do it.” He pointed a finger at the middle at his forehead and lifted his thumb as if shooting a pistol.

  “Not if I croak you first.”

  The steel in Coyote Man’s eyes frightened Sindra. She backed away, jerking free of Cyril’s grasp as Coyote Man wrapped his hands around Cyril’s throat. Cyril hacked and threw his arms up to block him. His eyes bulged, and his face turned a shade of pink before transforming to bright red. With his right arm, Cyril groped the ground for his pistol. Sindra saw the barrel of the gun sticking into Coyote Man’s gut with Cyril’s finger searching for the trigger.

  Without thinking, Sindra rammed Cyril off balance. They all fell into a rocky depression with Cyril still gasping for air as Coyote Man struggled to regain his grip on his countryman’s throat. Without the use of her hands, Sindra wormed her way to her feet. The two men rolled away from her, and as Coyote Man rolled on top, Sindra kicked Cyril in the the ribs.

  A muffled clap sounded from the fray. Coyote Man’s grip loosened. Cyril stood up with the gun still in his hand and shoved Coyote Man back. His limp body rolled down the slope into a dark ravine. “There. He and Nick can find the Great Above together.”

  Cyril turned to Sindra and punched her in the face. She twisted around, smacking the ground without her hands to break her fall. “Kick me again and you’ll join them. I don’t like killing. But I’ve done what I’ve had to do to win this war.” He jerked her to her feet and pushed her forward. “Look at it this way. I’ll be a hero. And that means you’ll be a hero’s wife.”

  “You’ll have to kill me first.”

  “Live trophy or a dead hill monkey.”

  They reached the summit of Iron’s Knob with only remnants of da
ylight remaining. From here, Sindra could see the Jonesbridge defense artillery returning fire through a curtain of black smoke in a fierce battle for the Jones’ Bridge, the only bridge that spanned the Great Gorge. The Gorge had not been wide enough to thwart the long range shells as was once believed, but it was far enough for the shells to fall short of the factories when the enemy finally arrived, just as Myron had predicted they would.

  Cyril kept his eyes focused on the bridge gate, as if he expected an Eastern Bloc battalion to march right through, flag unfurled to finally claim their prize and adorn Cyril with a medal on the spot.

  “You know,” he said, gazing at the bridge, “five years ago, when I first realized we finally had visual confirmation of this place, me and Ramani stood almost in this very spot. We underestimated you. I had never seen so much industry. This is really it. The heart of what keeps you kicking, year after year, drawing out a war you’ll never win.”

  Leaning against an embankment, almost lying down, Sindra shivered as the air grew colder. The wind on Iron’s Knob howled across the Gorge, carrying clouds of spent ordinance. “I don’t care about this stupid war or your worthless victories.” Sindra coughed. “Just let me go. I’ll never be your trophy anyway.”

  “Shut up. I’ll talk. You listen.” When Sindra saw Cyril’s foot cock, readying to kick her, she twisted around to let her ribs take the blunt of the blow, protecting her abdomen and her unborn child at all costs, now confident she’d thrown up the black whisper concoction before it had worked its dark magic.

  Cyril tethered Sindra to a shin pine branch next to an outcropping, and for two hours while Cyril stared at the bridge, she managed some wiggle room in the cords around her wrists. When she felt the strips loosen, she squirmed for relief, but her movement didn’t go unnoticed.

  “Don’t get any crazy notions about running off.” Cyril kept one eye on the bridge as he ripped more burlaps strips. He patted along the contours of Sindra’s legs stopping for a grab of flesh mid-thigh before making his way to her feet, tying them together in another knot so tight, Sindra feared she would lose feeling below her ankles. With hope for any chance for escape dwindling, she tried to come up with another plan. “Not so tight. If I’m going to be your trophy, you’ll want to take care with me, right?”

  “Even weathered and damaged a bit, you’ll make a fine prize next to what passes for a woman around here.” Cyril loosened the strap around her ankles a little, but added an extra tie around her knees. With one hand still between her legs, he groped his way up her waist. Sindra bit down, thrusting her knees up against Cyril’s chest.

  “Won’t be long now,” he said, staring at the bridge gate.

  Lying on the ground, Sindra watched the puffs of smoke from artillery fire drift across the sky like little balls of brown cotton. She concentrated on fonder times, like rail-walker stories around the campfire and about the airship that Myron had crafted from scraps that he promised would sail them over the Gorge. Feet leaving the ground, head floating above the smoke, it was a sensation she got just thinking about Myron, taking flight with some of his hope.

  “Sure is taking them a while,” Sindra said with a hoarse voice that took more energy to produce than she had expected.

  “They’ll be here. No way those scrawny defenses can hold us off much longer. I just hope they don’t get desperate and try to destroy that bridge or we’ll all be stuck here.”

  “You may have more firepower, but I’ll bet we’re smarter.”

  “Shut your mouth.” Cyril stood up and smacked her across the face with the butt of his pistol.

  The pain jolted her all the way to the roots of her teeth. Sindra struggled as he gagged her, fought with her tongue, trying to spit the gag out, biting down hard on the fabric the way she wished she had bitten down on those ghosts every time they had tried to force themselves on her.

  “My old man kept a wench like you. Healthy and nice to look at. And feisty, just like you. Avalina. A carpie that worked the shack by the River Hudson. Old man took me down there when I turned twelve to let her turn me into a man.” Cyril never took his eyes off the gate. “I did make my manhood that day, but not before she gave me a good kick in the bull eggs for her trouble.”

  Sindra squirmed, tried to protest through the gag, but her whole body ached, fatigued to the point of paralysis. Her lips were parched and her stomach groaned, and she was not going to be caged again, so while the Jonesbridge gate held Cyril in a trance, she kept patient, enduring his yammering until she could work free, even if it took the time for the moon to wend across the sky before it settled in the haze behind Patriot’s Pass.

  As discretely as she could, she maneuvered Sindra’s Star out of her smock hem, having earlier in the day cursed its sharp points as she heaved Myron’s litter around boulders the size of overloaders. Her wrists stung every time she worked her fingers along the burlap, the same sensation that had begun to burn her face where the gag tugged at her cheeks.

  Cyril finally looked down at Sindra. She immediately stopped sawing, lying as still as she could. “It’s a shame you’re tainted. Hips like that, you might have been able to have a strong baby. You’ll make a fine carpie wife, though.”

  “I am not a carpie.” She considered her life the past few months. “Not by choice.” The tone in Cyril’s voice when he said the word baby reminded her of how valuable new, healthy life in this wasteland really was. “And I’m not tainted, either. I, I’m pregnant right now.”

  “You’re lying.” Cyril rolled Sindra on her back and lifted her smock. Her whole body clenched when his hand touched her abdomen. “Look at that.” His hand followed the slight outward contour from her belly button to the tops of her thighs. Sindra squirmed away. “Hell, I’m going home a hero and a father.” He stepped away gazing back at the bridge again and returned with a blanket that he spread out over her.

  Sindra’s hands and feet had been in so much pain that she had almost forgotten the misery of lying on the frozen ground until the warmth of the blanket brought feeling back to her extremities. As soon as Cyril looked away, she began to hack through the burlap again, popping the thin strands one at a time with the star instead of trying to muscle through a thick clump of rope. Under the cover of a blanket, she finally had an opportunity to work free. The strap grew thinner with every minute, and as she pulled hard, finally a warm relief spread across her hands as the grip loosened, thankful again for the little star in her pocket that guided her way.

  Flashes from artillery shells lit the horizon again. Loud booms from inside the Gorge rumbled beneath them. Cyril stood up, hands on his hips, gazing into the smoky horizon at the bridge. She wondered what he expected—a throng of merrymakers dancing across the bridge to whisk the hero and his trophy off to a delightful victory feast? She imagined that living in Jonesbridge all these years, pretending to be a patriotic administrator, thoughts of this day had eaten holes in his thinking the way a moth consumed cloth.

  Sindra wiggled her legs and knees free with her feet soon to follow. She rested for a few minutes, gathering her strength, knowing she had one good shot at making her escape. She scanned the ground in the campfire’s light, in search of a fist-sized stone within her reach, and mentally calculated the distance. Then she loosened her gag.

  “Cyril,” she whispered. “I know I don’t matter, but think of the baby.” She readied herself, legs in position under the blanket. “It’s so cold. Two people are warmer than one.” Saying those words made her feel sick.

  He ambled toward her, looking over his shoulder in the direction of the gate. “Shh. You hear that? Quiet. The bombs have stopped.” He reached down to put the the gag back in her mouth and settle under the blanket with Sindra as she suggested.

  When his fingers came near, she bit down with all the power of her jaw.

  Cyril yelled. Sindra hopped to her feet, the numbness in her legs from hours in one position made her wobble, almost sending her back to the ground.

  When Cyril got to his
feet, Sindra kicked him right in the bull eggs. While he was doubled over, she raced for the rock she had spotted and gave the back of his head a smack. Cyril’s body flattened out on the ground. Sindra eyed the spot of blood on his head and rolled him over with her foot, shoving him again until he tumbled down the hill into darkness.

  Glistening in the firelight, Sindra spotted Cyril’s gun. She picked it up, and closing one eye, she peered down the barrel then turned it around so that the handle fit in her hand. Fearful of the power it possessed, she threw it down and gathered as much of Cyril’s gear as she could carry before racing toward the bunker, praying Myron was still alive.

  Chapter 17

  Out of breath from her escape, Sindra heaved the door of the bunker open to find Myron splayed out on a bench beneath the turret. His color didn’t look right, like the snow in Jonesbridge, a bit gray, yellow around the eyes. He was still breathing. She could see his chest rising and falling, but he looked as though he had already died. “Wake up, Lalana. Myron looks awful,” she yelled, rushing down the steps.

  Lalana and Errol were asleep, huddled up together at the foot of the steep concrete stairway of the bunker. Lalana’s eyes popped open. Disoriented, she cast a bleary eye at Myron and clicked her tongue. “Lordy. He does look bad. I’m afraid that slug has to come out.”

  “Can you do it?”

  “I was hoping it wouldn’t come to that.” Lalana cocked her head and put a hand on Errol’s shoulder, hoisting herself to her feet. “First, I’ll need to whip up a batch of blister back.” She took inventory of her bag, mumbling, pulling out jars and cinched bags. “Garlic concentrate. Bit of silver. Horn bind. Infection’s a worry. Specs too small to see can kill a man as sure as any piss whistle.” Even as cold as it was, Sindra noticed a bead of sweat on Lalana’s brow. “Going to need something sharper than a charred stick to finagle that bullet out, though.”