Malcolm had watched as entire blocks of the town had been razed by his marauding horde. Anything that moved was shot down and killed—women raped, entire families eradicated. His people showed no mercy as they’d been shown none at the bridge.
The pent-up frustration of having been shunned and feared the entire trip south had finally manifested itself in unadulterated violence. He knew his people to be truly peaceful and wanting nothing more than to be left alone, to live their lives with the same opportunities and freedoms that the Man gave to first-class citizens. He knew by allowing his people to run roughshod over Dunham, he'd fed into the stereotypes that enabled them.
In doing so, Malcolm feared he had betrayed his people worse than even the Man.
There was no turning back—the only thing he had left was the deal made with President Jones. Get to Florida, remove the invaders, and take control of the state. It would be their promised land, a haven for all those who'd been oppressed. He envisioned a raceless utopia, populated by all who wanted safety. He wanted to build a place where equal opportunity meant just that.
The only thing standing in his way was the Russian army who’s commander now claimed he wanted peace. The Russian major wanted his help in defeating Stapleton. He wanted help putting down the Bigby uprising before it spread too far across the state to contain.
Americans were rising up in rebellion against the invaders. Americans who might otherwise have risen up in rebellion and joined his own people. The Russians had no knowledge of his pact with President Jones, of course, but Malcolm's suspicions had been raised, nonetheless.
He found it a little too convenient the Russians would come to him so readily with offers of truce and partnership. But if the Americans outside the town of Bigby were having that much of an impact, would it not be wise to take up their offer?
"I think we should agree," said Samir once more, adjusting his glasses. "The more we can kill with the help of the Russians, the less we will have to face when we're on our own."
"So much killing. When does it stop?" asked Malcolm. He waved off a protein bar held out by one of the guards. He would not partake of the Man's food.
Samir glanced nervously at the bodyguards around them and ushered them back. When the two of them were alone, he glanced at Malcolm and whispered, "Please do not say such things so loud, Malcolm. Our people are stressed to the breaking point as it is. You know as well as I do these people hiding in the swamps will be just as big a thorn in our side as they are for the Russians. Why not use the Russians to our advantage?"
"Because they intend to do the same with us." Malcolm sighed. "Again and again, the cycle repeats itself. Everyone wishes to use us. No one wishes to leave us alone. I grow weary of it all. I want to rest, Samir," Malcolm said, looking at his friend. "I want peace."
Samir blinked. "I cannot imagine the pressure you bear. You have held us together now for the past six months. What you have accomplished is beyond a miracle—"
"What I have accomplished has been through Allah," Malcolm said solemnly. "If it be His will that we prevail here, we will know."
"I do not question Allah's will, nor do I question His power, but—"
Malcolm looked at him. "What is it you question then, Samir?" He placed a hand on his own chest. "Me?"
Samir bobbed his head and looked away. "Of course not! You know I am your most loyal servant—"
"We all serve Allah, Samir. I have no servants," he said putting his hand on Samir's shoulder. "Only friends."
And enemies. Enemies all around me.
"If we do not do something, Stapleton will be upon us in less than a day," Samir noted.
He is relentless, Malcolm thought. Like a hound chasing slaves in the woods, he will never give up—never let us be free. "We must make a decision—I know this. Our people are running dangerously low on food and water—"
His radio chirped. "Malcolm! The Russians are hiding troops in some of the houses nearby. I spotted one just now!"
Malcolm looked from Samir toward the deserted houses. The Russians had assured him they had cleared out the civilians in preparation for taking on Stapleton. He brought the radio to his lips. "Are you certain?"
The voice that responded was strong and clear. "As certain as the sun will rise—I saw a rifle. My scouts say others have been spotted as well, all wearing strange camouflage. They are not Americans!"
"Another betrayal," Malcolm sighed. He keyed the radio. "Do any of your scouts report tanks, trucks, or any other large equipment?"
"No—other than the helicopter we spotted early this morning. Nothing but these troops in the houses."
"How many soldiers do you think your friend the Russian could pack into these houses?" he asked Samir.
Samir pushed his glasses up his nose and squinted at the line of houses across the street. He glanced nervously to the left and right. "I do not feel safe here anymore," he muttered.
Malcolm put his hands on his hips and glared at the houses. "Nor do I, but this is a sign from Allah. He has shown us the way forward—the Russians are preparing for the Americans. They fully expect us to join their ranks." He gestured down the off-ramp at the houses in the distance.
"Did you see how confident that soldier was? He was not nervous or sweating. He has a small force here and is truly relieved to find us and not General Stapleton's army before him."
Malcolm squinted at the houses. A man wearing camouflage darted between two houses. He had a large pack on his back and a rifle. "The Russians are setting up their defensive positions. I can feel it. Now is the time to strike."
"You mean to attack the Russians?" asked Samir, his eyes almost as large as his glasses.
"I did not when this day dawned, but Allah has finally made clear His will.” He bowed his head and touched his chest in reverence. “Think of it, Samir," Malcolm said grabbing his friend by the shoulders. "These insurgents that give the Russians so much trouble, they want what we want: land, freedom from invaders, freedom from tyranny and oppression."
"Yes, but…what about…"
Malcolm waved off Samir's objections as he would a bothersome gnat. "In the past. All of it, in the past!" Malcolm turned and faced the houses again. "Over there, is the Man. An outsider, someone bent on enforcing his rule, his law. Behind him, trapped by invading forces are other Americans, some brothers and sisters too—all yearning for freedom! We can give them that. I can give them that!"
"But…how?" Samir stammered.
"Before us stands but a small force. Who are they compared to the teeming thousands we have at our back?" Malcolm said gesturing over his shoulder. "You saw what happened to Dunham! Once I unleash our people, this token Russian force will not be able to stop us," Malcolm said.
"But they're soldiers—trained in war. We will lose too many—"
"How many hundreds have we lost already?" snapped Malcolm. "Just through traveling? Not even fighting—we lost many tens and hundreds through starvation, thirst, and injuries on the road. Would it not be a greater death to sacrifice oneself in battle against infidels than to die of hunger or thirst, abandoned on the side of a road? Would not Allah's glory be greater if we perish in holy battle?"
Malcolm ignored Samir's response. He saw it all so clear now. Sweep the Russians from the field. March his people successfully across the state line and pour south into Florida. Disappear into the swamps and send scouts further south to link up with the insurrection based in Bigby. It would be another long, dangerous extension of their already treacherous journey, but after escaping New York and fleeing Stapleton's army, Malcolm felt his people up to the task.
Everything had at last been revealed with crystal clarity. Malcolm finally understood Allah's will—he was not meant to be a conqueror or a divider. He was meant to liberate the people of Florida, to unite his people with all those yearning for freedom into one glorious tribe. It did not matter what skin color they were—what mattered was freedom.
Malcolm fell to his knees with his arms raised h
igh. "I am not worthy of Your grace, Allah!" He bowed down, touching his head to the ground with his hands before him. "But if it is I You choose, then let me be victorious in Your name! Allah-hu-akbar!" He sat up on his knees and stared at Hale’s Corners for a moment.
"Samir," he said at last.
"I am here."
Malcolm stood and turned his back on the houses. "Signal our fastest fighters. Send them forth. If we need to destroy this town like Dunham, so be it. We shall eradicate the Russian stain upon the earth, starting right here."
"Here?" Samir asked, pushing his glasses up his nose
"Here. It is time we unleash Allah's wrath upon these infidels."
Chapter 51
Defense
THE STORM BROKE AND shrouded the visitor's center in darkness, broken only by the occasional flash of lightning. Erik peered through the downstairs window, waiting. He gripped a galvanized pipe found in the basement. He took a practice swing and tested its weight one more time. It was almost the length of his katana, but weighed three times as much. That would certainly hinder his endurance, but he felt confident enough to make good use of the pipe as an improvised sword.
"Anything?" called out Ted's voice from the top of the stairs.
"Nope. All quiet."
The Professor had recalled his people back inside the safety of the larger dorms at the center of campus. Roger stayed with Ted, Erik, and Brin.
"I don't like this, man."
Erik looked at Roger. "Why? I thought you said you didn't have to worry much about the Jocks?"
Roger shifted in his chair. He glanced toward the rear door. "I don't imagine they'll look kindly on me—you know, because I escaped and all? They'll probably take it personally."
Erik grunted and looked back out the window. Movement caught his eye across street. "Hey! I got somebody moving on the other side of the library wall."
"Copy that—I see them too," called out Ted. "Okay, get ready everyone! There's two more running down the street."
Erik moved back from the window and pulled the curtain shut. His task was to protect the rear of the building. The front door had sealed itself long ago with an electronic lock that no one could figure out how to open. Short of tearing the door off its hinges, the front door would not open until the power came back on.
Roger got up from the chair and moved to the farthest corner at the front of the building. "Shit, shit, shit! Why did he have to make me stay behind?"
"Settle down," muttered Erik, eyes still focused on the door. A shadow passed by the small window set into the steel exit.
"Movement out back," hissed Erik.
“Coy that, holler if you need me. I’m watching the roof access,” replied Ted. “I got someone climbing on the roof of the building next door.” Footsteps above signaled Ted shifting position to counter the new threat.
"I'll be at the top of the stairs. Anyone needs help, let me know," Brin announced.
Erik stood calmly in the center of the room, the pipe resting at his side, feet spread shoulder width apart, his stance loose but ready. He focused on his breathing, maintaining an even heart rate, and preparing himself to spring into action.
This is just like back at the Freehold. Breathe in, breathe out. Step, swing, counter swing. No different. You can do this.
The door rattled as someone tried to open the lock. "They're here," Erik muttered up the stairs. He rolled his shoulders and cracked his knuckles.
“Oh shit…they’re coming…” whined Roger.
“Shut up,” Erik said calmly.
Someone kicked the door, and the wall shuddered. A picture frame hanging on the wall, depicting the university in winter fell to the floor and shattered. Erik heard more than one voice outside, muffled through the door. The shadow moved past the window next to the door.
"Get ready," Erik said. "Ted, there's multiple contacts out back."
"Copy!" he replied.
"Oh, my God…" muttered Roger as he scrambled around behind Erik somewhere in the back of the room. He moved next to the window at the corner and peeled back the curtain. “I don’t see anything…maybe they left?”
"Hey!” Erik said. “Get the fuck away from those windows—they're gonna see—”
A rock smashed the window Roger had just passed. He screamed and dropped to the floor.
Voices outside shouted in triumph. "There's somebody in there!"
“We got a live one!”
The pounding returned to the rear door. Erik focused his attention on it, dropped back into a swordsman's low stance and brought the pipe up in front of him with both hands. He knew the door wouldn't last long. It was designed for aesthetics, not security like the front door.
Two more kicks buffeted the door before the jam splintered and the lock disengaged. The door swung open, revealing two athletic young men—one black, one white—who rushed into the room and froze at the sight of Erik standing calmly with a 30 inch piece of pipe in his hand.
"I'm only going to say this one time, so listen carefully," he said quietly. "Leave now or face the consequences."
The two students looked at each other and laughed. "Leave? This is our building now why would we want to leave? You're the one who needs to leave, bro."
The bigger of the two students stepped forward but his shorter companion put out a well-muscled arm and stopped him. "Yo, I got this. Watch and learn, bitch."
The taller one laughed and stepped back, bowing graciously. "Show me how it's done, oh wise master."
Shorty, who appeared older due to his facial hair, stepped forward and regarded Erik with cool, predatory eyes. Before him, Erik saw a young man who'd thrived in the chaotic environment after the collapse of the electric grid.
"I tell you what, my man, I'm gonna give you one chance to put that fuckin’ pipe down and walk on out of here. You don't leave and give me everything you got, I'm gonna take it out of your ass."
Erik smiled. "Molon labe."
The smile faded from the shorter man's face. “The fuck you just call me?”
“It’s Greek,” Erik said, still smiling. “It means come and take it.”
“Ooooh no you didn’t,” chuckled the tall one.
Shorty’s eyes flashed and his nostrils flared. He tensed his muscles, the cords in his neck standing out. He paced back and forth in front of Erik waving his arms and jumping, throwing practice punches in the air.
Erik remained still, only his eyes moving, watching Shorty pump himself up for a fight. He tightened his grip on the pipe and exhaled.
"Fuck 'im up!" called out the tall one.
"You gonna do something or are you gonna dance for me all day?" asked Erik. He hoped his voice was steadier than his nerves.
"Erik! What's going on down there?" called Brin's voice from the top of the stairs.
Dammit.
Both men in front of him pivoted to look at the stairs. "Yo, they got bitches in here!" Shorty said breathlessly.
"Hell yes— jackpot!" said his partner. They high-fived.
"Now this changes everything, my man," said Shorty suddenly calm. "Look here—I’ll give you a new deal." He pursed his lips and clasped his hands in front of him, striking quite the magnanimous pose. "I tell you what—you keep everything in here, including that fucking pipe of yours, but we take the bitches. Got it?"
Erik gripped the pipe tighter. "No deal." He pointed the pipe with one arm at Shorty. "You've been warned." He took a step forward. The larger man ironically stepped back. Shorty, clearly the leader, held his ground and Erik's eyes with his own steely gray gaze.
"Oh, we got us a tough guy,” he said over his shoulder. “You remember the last one?"
The taller student chuckled nervously from the doorway. "Yeah, that was a mess."
"Better get some cleaning supplies, Leo, I’m about to fuck this white boy up."
Erik took one half step back, dropped his sword arm and swiveled the pipe in a long, slow circle around his wrists. The open-ended pipe whistled as he stretch
ed his arm above his head and brought the sword into an offensive position. The smooth, practiced movement had the desired effect. Shorty stepped back, his eyes growing wider. Leo’s mouth hung open from the doorway.
"Last chance. Leo, right?" Erik asked, directing his question toward the younger student in the doorway. "You might want to follow your friend’s advice and go get some cleaning supplies. You’re gonna be pickin' brains out of the carpet in a minute."
"I don't think so," growled Shorty. He whipped out a six-inch knife from his baggy basketball shorts.
Without another word, Erik stepped forward and brought the pipe down in a vicious swing from overhead. It whistled as it cut through the air but missed Shorty’s arm by millimeters. He was fast—far faster than Erik had expected—and the weight of the pipe threw him off balance.
“Erik?” called Ted.
“Engaging!” he yelled over his shoulder. Lightning flashed, throwing the room into supernatural clarity for a split second.
"Damn how many people they got in here?" asked Leo.
Using size and strength to his advantage, Erik muscled the pipe around in a gray blur to force Shorty back while he reloaded his swing. He pivoted on his right foot, slung the pipe around his head in an arc and felt a satisfying crunch as the pipe connected with Shorty’s knife hand.
Shorty screamed, and the knife went twirling away to embed itself into the far wall. "Motherfucker! I'm gonna cut your fucking head off for that!" He clutched his wounded hand in the other. "That was my glove hand!"
Leo stepped out of the doorway and the two of them rushed Erik at once. Erik took note of their positions: Shorty on the left, Leo on his right. It looked like a well-practiced bum rush.
Erik fainted toward the leader and then snapped the open end of the pipe directly into Leo’s face. Blood gushed down Leo's face as he gurgled a scream and stepped back.
Erik turned and exposed his back to Shorty’s punch. He grunted in pain as the black man's fist connected with his spine. He knew by the sound of cracking bones and another howl of pain that Shorty had broken a finger in exchange for giving Erik a nasty bruise. Erik dropped his shoulders while thrusting out with his hips, causing the shorter man to launch up and over his back like a sack of laundry.
Dux Bellorum (Future History of America Book 3) Page 32