by James Hunt
Chapter 3
The man on the operating table convulsed, blood dripping from his mouth as he screamed in pain. Even with his arms and legs tied down, Kemena feared that he could still break free. “Hold him!” Two of his comrades did their best to keep him steady, but even with their help, she had trouble pulling the bullets from his leg and torso.
Kemena had pulled the tourniquets around the wounds tight, doing her best to keep the patient’s blood inside him where it belonged, but the number of bullet wounds was making it difficult to keep it that way.
Sweat beaded on Kemena’s forehead as her steady hand maneuvered through the ragged and torn flesh. Each dig into muscle and bone triggered another spasm and scream from the soldier, his face turning pale and his lips a light shade of blue. He’s not going to make it.
“Please, god, stop! Stop it, please! AHHH!”
Blood stained the entire front of Kemena’s apron and her arms and shoulders; it was as if she wore a crimson dress that slowly dripped to the floor. The muscle under her eye twitched as she felt the edge of the tweezers scrape the metal of the bullet, but just as she grabbed hold, the soldier spasmed in pain once more, and it disappeared behind a layer of muscle. She pushed deeper, finding it again, then yanked it out.
“Dr. Mars.”
“Just keep him still.” She moved to the next wound, digging into the flesh, a fresh layer of blood welling up from his skin and spilling over the side of his leg. She removed the bullet quickly before he could spasm once more.
“Dr. Mars,” the nurse repeated.
“What?” But when Kemena looked up, she realized the soldier was motionless. She pressed her fingers to the vein on his neck and felt nothing. “Wheel him out and put him with the rest. Who’s next?”
The other nurses brought in the next patient before she had a chance to wipe her hands. The soldier’s left arm dangled from fibers of muscle and tendon around the shoulder. He was still conscious, looking away from the wound, as if ignoring it would make it any less real. The moment Kemena saw it, she knew it would have to come off. “I’ll need tourniquets and the blade.”
“Please, no! Let me keep it. I need to keep it.” The soldier begged in the pained voice of a child, lips protruded, eyes red, face wet with sweat and tears. “Save it. Please, save it.”
“It’s too far detached from the muscle. Even if I—”
“I know you can!” The soldier’s scream echoed through the small space, fierce enough to freeze everyone in place. Only Kemena walked over to him, examining the wound more closely.
More than half of the skin and muscle had been torn, and the arm was dislocated from the socket. A portion of the collarbone had been chipped along with the connecting humerus. Some of the tendons had been sliced through, but a few remained attached. “I’ll have to put the arm back into place before we start.”
“Dr. Mars, do you thi—”
“I think you should help keep him down.” Kemena snapped then turned to the soldier. “I can’t promise you that this will work, and even if you heal properly, there’s no telling how useful the arm will be. There’s been a lot of nerve damage.”
“Do it.” The soldier answered without hesitation or fear.
Kemena grabbed a wooden bite stick and placed it in his mouth. “Bite down hard.” She lifted the man’s arm, and his entire body shook along with his scream. With all of her strength, she twisted the arm back and up until she heard the loud pop of the joint sliding back into the socket.
The bite stick fell from the man’s mouth as he blacked out, the rush of pain too much for his mind to handle. Kemena prodded the exposed meat and flesh with her fingers, getting a grasp for the amount of thread needed. “I’ll need a longer needle, and bring me some sterilizing alcohol.” Her better judgment told her just to hack the arm off now that the soldier was asleep. The likelihood of infection with a wound of this size was almost certain. It would be the silent killer that used the shoulder to creep into his heart and lungs, shutting him down. But she stubbornly took the needle and thread from the nurse’s hands and went to work.
Sporadic crisscross lines formed a semicircle over the bloodstained flesh, and bits of skin protruded through the threading. Kemena rinsed the wound with water and had one of the nurses wrap it. “Any other emergencies?”
“No, Doctor. Only those with a few minor afflictions now. The rest died from their injuries.” The nurse said it so matter-of-factly that Kemena could only nod in answer.
The fight with Rodion had been less like a battle and more akin to a massacre. The entire capital was evacuated, and what remained of their army helped keep watch for any of Rodion’s men that may have followed, although she was told by their scouts that more than likely his forces would stay in the capital to strategize their next move.
General Monaghan waited for her outside the tent, and she was surprised to see him. “Governess, I need to have a word with you in private.”
“Of course.” Whatever the general planned on telling her couldn’t be positive news. His face looked just as pale and defeated as those of the men she’d treated on the operating table. It was an expression that had run rampant like a plague through the entire camp. Fear and doubt had firmly gripped everyone’s minds and caused everyone to walk with a hunch or a limp. It was at least a three-minute walk to her quarters, and in that time she didn’t see one citizen cast their eyes up from the dirt.
Once beyond the range of the ears of the people, General Monaghan gestured for her to sit. “Kemena, we don’t have enough men or supplies to fend off another assault from Rodion’s army. We need to migrate everyone east and wait for Dean and Jason to return.”
“General, over half of our population is wounded,” Kemena replied. “Anyone who isn’t healthy will die before we reach the wastelands, and that’s if they survive the journey through the mountains.”
“I understand the difficult nature of this decision, but you have to hear me when I say that if we stay, it is the end. The wasteland clans are nowhere to be seen, and without a fresh supply of men and more weapons, there isn’t anything we can do.”
Kemena knew why the general was so hard pressed for her to stamp this decision with her blessing. With Lance now gone, she and her nephews were the only surviving Mars family left. And while she was neither a military genius nor the elected governor of the region, her word carried weight. The people would move if she told them to, and they would stay if she did. “Where is his body now?”
“Kemena, we need—”
“We need a miracle, General. Now, where is my brother-in-law’s body?”
Monaghan offered a sigh of defeat and scratched the thin white hairs on the back of his head. “What’s left of Lance’s crewmen set up his tent and placed him inside.”
“No one sees him before my husband and his brother. And do not let the boys see him. Especially Sam. He’s too young. And Kit will be too angry.” Kemena stood then removed the bloody apron. “Take me to him.”
Lance’s tent was engirded by dirtied and bloodied men, kneeling with their heads down. The scene before her looked as if a king had just died, their once-invincible shroud torn, exposing them to their own mortality.
Inside, Lance’s body lay flat and raised on top of a wooden table. Canice didn’t look up when Kemena stepped inside; she only kept hold of Lance’s hand, cupped between both of hers.
“Canice?” Kemena kept her words soft and quiet. She paced around to face Canice, and saw that the woman’s eyes were bloodshot, the flesh underneath puffy and swollen. Her arms and hands were covered in small cuts, but the knuckles on her right hand were the worst. Kemena reached out her hand. “You should let me look at that.”
Canice finally made eye contact and pulled her hand away, keeping Lance’s clutched tight. Her lip trembled, and she slowly slipped from her chair and fell to her knees, crying once she hit the floor.
Kemena rushed to catch her, gently removing Lance’s cold hand from Canice’s. The sobs were sile
nt at first then wanted between random shrieks. The two women sat on the floor until Canice’s grief ran dry.
“He didn’t see this coming,” Canice said, staring back up at the body on the table. “None of us saw this. It’s like… this was a punishment, for every terrible deed behind closed doors and the whispers down alleys. This wasn’t how it was supposed to end.”
“It’s not over yet,” Kemena replied, looking at Lance. His body lay naked, save for the stitches from the wounds that killed him.
Canice’s upper lip curled, her grief morphing into rage as she hardened her face. “Rodion will die for this. I will make him pay. One way or another.” She clenched her fists tight till they cracked and the cuts on her knuckles pumped fresh blood. She pulled something from her pocket, a pendulum dangling from a silver chain, just like the one she’d seen Dean wear for most of his life. She took Kemena’s hand and placed it in her palm.
“Lance gave this to you?” The silver of the pendulum was stained with dry blood. Kemena turned it over in her hands, the metal sphere warm from Canice’s touch. She’d never noticed Lance wear it before, although he spent most of his time on the ship. “Why?”
“He didn’t say.” Canice brushed the hair off of Lance’s forehead then leaned down and kissed his lips. Kemena blushed at the sight of such a private moment, and just before Canice was out of the tent, she reached out and grabbed her arm, but Canice twisted away.
Kemena understood how much she was hurting, but there were larger stakes than just her revenge. “If you want to honor Lance, then stay with us. It’s what he would have done.”
“Don’t!” Canice thrust her finger into Kemena’s face, the rage from earlier returning. “You don’t get to twist his death into something you can use. And I have no loyalty to you or the generals here, as do none of the crewmen from the Sani. The time for honor is done. I mean to seek revenge.” And with that she disappeared, leaving Kemena alone in the tent, clutching the bloody pendulum.
Kemena knew that Canice was sending herself on a suicide mission. And while she didn’t doubt Canice’s ability to fight, nor her stamina for fending off failure, she knew blindness when she saw it.
***
Women’s screams pierced the air sporadically through the night. Those that hadn’t fled quickly enough were passed around the camp greedily, every man eager for his turn. The cries of anguish brought a smile to Rodion’s face as he paced through the governor’s house in the Northwest capital. He knew he would burn the entire city eventually then rebuild his own, but for now the accommodations were to his liking.
Rodion enjoyed the fact that he was in Dean Mars’s home. He relished sleeping in his bed, drinking his ale, and eating his food. All that was left was to kill the man himself, and his occupation would be complete.
The battle had been a landslide. The swords and powdered rifles of their enemy did little against the AK-47s Rodion had provided his men. Fires still burned in the north, torching the dead in massive piles that dotted the battlefield. As much as Rodion enjoyed the cold, the warmth from that fire was better than any tundra he’d set foot on.
And the fires would continue to burn the farther Rodion marched his men south and then to the east, taking the entire continent, killing anyone that opposed him and enslaving any too craven to die by his hand. The foundation for his empire had been laid, and he would raise it higher, one corpse at a time.
“Lieutenant!” Rodion roared from inside the house, and a round-faced officer burst through the door, bringing with him louder screams from the women in the streets.
“Yes, General?”
“Send word to Delun. Tell him the Northwest is ours, and we require ships to keep the port.” Rodion had received no word from his ally for nearly a week. And he knew the Mars governors would return with the might of their fleet, and when they did he would be exposed on the coast.
The wooden floorboards creaked with every step of Rodion’s heavy boot. The house had been left in haste, clothes discarded, dishes dirtied on the tables and counters. A painting of the governor and his wife hung in the living room. Rodion picked it off the wall, nearly tearing the canvas in the process.
“General!” One of the officers hurried into the house, clutching his side as he caught his breath. “General, we’ve found one of the governor’s advisors.” Two soldiers dragged an elderly man into the living room and tossed him on the ground. His face was covered in soot and dust. He spread his liver-spotted hands across the floor and struggled to push himself up. The soldier kicked him in the ribs impatiently. “Up, you dog! You stand when facing the general.”
Rodion took a few steps forward while the man still lay on his back, gasping for breath and clutching the point where the soldier had kicked him. “You work for the governor?”
“I’m… a teacher.” The words left between wheezed breaths.
Rodion raised his brows, setting the picture down gently. “And what do you teach your governor?”
“History.” The old man pushed himself to sit upright but then collapsed once again after a quick gasp. He writhed on the floor, his face twisted in pain.
“Pick him up,” Rodion said, and the two soldiers lifted the professor onto a chair, where he hunched over, still unable to sit straight. Rodion towered over the old man and could see the aged skin where hair no longer covered his head. “What history have you taught the governor?” But the old man seemed to only be able to focus on controlling his own breath. Each wheezing gasp was accompanied by a light whine. “He left you behind to die. And he will not be able to come and save you. Tell us what you know, and I will promise you a quick death.”
The professor looked up, his eyes on the patch of sickle and stars on Rodion’s arm. He reached his hand up and pointed, his finger wobbling up and down. “Those symbols have been beaten before. They do not provide you with any immunity.” The finger dropped, and he leaned back in the chair.
Rodion snatched one of the rifles from his men and pressed the end of the barrel into the professor’s skull. “This will immunize me against defeat.” He placed his finger on the trigger. “You know about my people’s history? What have you told your governor about us? Hmm? Have you fed him lies of what happened in the Great War? My people have survived. The legend of the Mars family ends with me.”
The teacher’s head trembled from the pressure of the rifle against his skull. “Dean Mars will find a way to beat you.”
Rodion knocked the butt of the rifle across the teacher’s head, leaving a gash three inches long as the old man tumbled out of the chair and to the floor, where he lay there lifeless. The soldiers picked him up and went to drag him outside, but Rodion had another plan. “Wait!”
The two soldiers froze then set the body down. Rodion stepped along the faint trail of blood from the teacher’s wound. “If this is an advisor that Governor Mars listens to, then perhaps I should have him deliver a message.” Rodion pulled a knife from his belt and cut the old man’s shirt open. He pressed the tip of his blade into the teacher’s chest and carved downward.
Chapter 4
The Pacific fleet met Dean and the Atlantic fleet along the dead coast in the south. With it they brought the news of the capital’s fall, as well as their brother’s death. It was all Dean could do to act relieved that at least his wife and nephews had survived. And the baby.
Jason punched the wall in Dean’s cabin, cracking the wooden board in half and leaving a stain that resembled a bloodied version of his fist. “How could they let this happen?” Jason paced around the room, gently shaking his bloody hand, his eyes looking for another board to break. “How did Rodion get that type of weaponry?”
“Sit down, Jason.” Dean kept his cool demeanor, and his tone at the very least triggered Jason’s hands to release the tight clench they held. He turned his attention back to the messenger Monaghan had sent. “Where is Rodion’s army now?”
The soldier couldn’t have been older than Dean’s nephew, Kit, but the boy was significantl
y less confident than his own blood. Even when the young soldier stood at attention, he fidgeted. “They’ve made camp in the capital. They’ve sent out scouts along the coast and farther south, but he’s shown no movement over the past few days.”
Savoring the victory. “Anything else?”
The grunt shifted uncomfortably. “The governess requested a time for your brother’s funeral.”
Jason sat down, the rage falling with him. For Dean it was all too surreal. Having lost both Fred and Lance within the span of only a month had been the most Mars blood shed in nearly three years. “It will be discussed upon our return. For now, tell her to make what preparations she deems necessary. I have full confidence in her judgment. You’re dismissed.”
“Yes, sir!” The boy saluted and quickly left the room, the guard closing the door behind him and locking both Dean and Jason in the room alone.
Dean found the pendulum around his neck and cradled it gently. He looked over and saw Jason doing the same. The silver sphere felt smooth and cool against his fingertips. “We’ll have to decide who will go, and soon. We can’t afford to risk another one of us dying, and I won’t put such a burden on Kit to go in our stead if we perish.”
“I know,” Jason replied. He leaned forward, letting go of the necklace, and it dangled from his neck, swaying slightly with the rock of the boat. “How the hell did Rodion get those weapons?”
“Hawthorne.” The name left Dean’s mouth involuntarily, and Jason eyed him, confused. “The professor tried talking to me before I departed to Brazil, telling me about the symbols he saw and the letter we received from Lance about the modern weapons being traded on Australia’s black market. He warned me that the Russians could have found an old factory and started producing the weapons on a large scale. I wasn’t sure if I didn’t believe him because of his proof or because I was afraid of what it would mean if it was true.”