A woman screamed. Spike paused. Erik jumped sideways and used the space he gained to search the small crowd of people cautiously entering the fort. Great, I have an audience. Where the hell is Ted? Why doesn't he just shoot this big bastard?
"Erik!" called out Brin. Her voice echoed through the cluttered parade ground.
Erik and Spike paused, both seeking the source of the interruption. Spike saw her first. "Who's that? Your woman?"
"Don't do this!" Brin yelled.
"Nice. I ain't split me a Chinese Elm before."
The blood rushed through Erik's and he charged, ignoring the pain in his right arm. "She's Japanese!" he yelled as he ducked Spike's clumsy swing and landed a solid left uppercut to the bigger man's gut.
Erik's knuckles cracked—Spike's abdomen was solid as iron. The force of his punch and the speed of his attack was enough to surprise the larger man and send him reeling backward, but Erik knew he'd done no real harm.
Spike's laugh confirmed Erik's fear. He wasn't going to go down by punches and kicks alone. He was too strong, too big, too fast.
Erik ignored the screams and shouts of encouragement from the crowd. Brin had disappeared. Erik hoped she'd gone to get Ted. Gunfire still crackled off and on from the other side of the fort's walls. The M4's distinctive pop-pop-pop rang out again. Whatever was going on, Ted appeared to be otherwise engaged.
Erik desperately swept the parade ground with his eyes again, looking for anything he could use as a weapon. How could there be so much crap piled around and no weapons?
He could always make a break for the shotgun, but Spike seemed to know what he was thinking and placed himself conveniently between Erik and the discarded firearm.
As they circled each other again, Erik worked his way closer to the crowd. He saw a mixture of hope and defeat on the faces that stared back at him. He half-worried they might try to attack him to gain favor with Spike, assuming their savage master would win.
The woman with the black eye and the blanket—one arm around his mother—stepped forward and yelled to get Erik's attention. "There!" she said, pointing at a rusted old pitchfork leaning against a kayak.
Erik darted forward and snatched the ancient tool from the pile. He held the thick tines pointed toward his opponent. Spike laughed.
"Really, Kelly?" asked Spike. "I thought we had something." He turned to Erik with a sneer on his face. "Swing that thing at me and I'll shove it up your ass. Then I'll shove it up hers."
"Kill him!" Kelly shrieked.
Erik held his ground as Spike rushed him and quickly slid to the left, avoiding the skull-crushing swing of the crampon that would have ended his life if he'd stood still. As Spike moved past to recover his balance, Erik slashed at his exposed side with the rusted farm tool. He felt the thick tines bite clothing and flesh but knew any wounds he left as he spun away would be superficial at best. He needed a chance to stab but Spike wouldn't hold still.
"You're going to pay for that," growled Spike as he gingerly touched his ribs, fingering the torn uniform.
Erik swallowed. He saw the hard packed muscles ripple through the jagged tear in Spike's shirt. The man must lift weights twenty hours a day.
Spike rushed again and parried Erik's pitchfork with his crampon. He grappled the oak handle with his other hand and tried to rip the pitchfork free like the shotgun. Erik was ready though and twisted in the opposite direction, catching Spike's shoulder with the tines. The convict howled and smashed his hand down on the handle, severing the metal portion of the pitchfork from the handle.
Erik staggered back from the blow and held the splintered piece of oak, now reduced to a little over three feet long. He easily dodged the rest of the thrown pitchfork as it sailed toward him. Spike laughed again.
"I told you I'm gonna shove that thing up your ass. And I ain't starting with the smooth end."
The crowd screamed as a gunshot went off just outside the gates, but Spike didn't seem to notice. He walked forward casually, arms outstretched, offering Erik a clear shot at his wide torso.
"Go ahead. Free shot. I should at least let you get a good hit in before you die." His hand twirled the crampon. "Then it's my turn."
The crowd hollered and moaned. People started to flee. The chaos outside the fort threatened to push in through the throng gathered to watch Spike and Erik duel to the death. Somewhere out there, Erik knew Brin was still alive. If anything, he had to keep Spike occupied long enough for her to escape.
He figured if Ted hadn't shown up by now to put Spike down like a rabid dog, their attack must have failed. They'd made a good show of it, though—judging by the half dozen bodies in the dirt of the parade ground. Spike's guards had been decimated, but it didn't seem to be enough.
A peace settled over Erik. He realized his fate had been sealed. The dozen or so people still blocking the gatehouse now had the look of serious religious zealots—eyes wide, rapid breathing, hands clenched. Just glancing at them, Erik knew they were betting on him losing. He made a mental note to steer well clear of them.
That left Spike. The hulking convict continued his slow, deliberate advance, still smiling. Erik settled into his low stance and held the rake handle up in front of him as if it were his practice bokken. It was about the same length though the shattered oak handle hardly had any balance at all. He'd have to compensate with sheer muscle, but the handle would make a fine sword.
At least I'll go out on my feet. Erik held his breath and sent a brief prayer heavenward, seeking forgiveness and asking for someone to watch over Brin and his unborn child. He let the breath out and lowered his shoulders, feeling himself more centered and calm than he'd been in months.
It was time.
Erik shifted the handle to a high ready position, his arms to the side of his head, the handle forward in what looked like an awkward pose. In reality, Erik had struck the samurai version of a batter waiting for the perfect pitch. In a split second, he could drive the impromptu sword down with tremendous force using the long muscles of his back to swing his arms. He hoped the deceptive stance would give Spike pause.
It did. The big convict stopped his advance and stared at Erik, the sickening smile fading from his face for the first time. "What the fuck is this? Ballet?"
"Watashi no ban," Erik said quietly in Japanese. My turn.
Spike grunted and lunged, closing the final five feet with alarming speed.
Erik slipped his mind into auto-pilot and allowed muscle memory to take over. This was nothing more than a high-stakes kata, after all. He stepped into Spike's attack and brought the oak handle down in a blur. The stout wood snapped against Spike's right arm with a loud crack. Spike howled and jumped back, rubbing his forearm.
Erik didn't pause. He spun in the opposite direction, swinging the rake handle in a wide circle. The jagged tip grazed Spike's left arm, causing him to lunge off balance to mitigate the damage. He stepped away cursing as he examined the new tear in his uniform.
He never got a chance to quip something witty as Erik pressed the attack, whirling his 'blade' above his hand and slashing down and to the side, driving Spike back through the dust. The convict grunted with each impact.
Erik stepped forward, parrying Spike's increasingly desperate attacks and ignoring the ones that actually landed on his arms and shoulders. As long as he continued to advance and kept the handle slashing through the air, the massive convict's size and strength were negated. The oak cracked against his ribs and shoulders, slapped his forearms and even grazed his sweating, bald head. Each impact spun and pushed Spike back and back again.
At length, Erik paused to catch his breath. Spike doubled over, gasping for air. He limped back, adjusting the grip on his crampon. His body looked damaged and weakened, but his eyes blazed with a fury that sought only blood. He was far from beaten.
Good. I'm not done with you yet either.
He stepped forward and drove the jagged point of his 'blade' at Spike's exposed throat. The big man swatted the tip away a
gain and again, growing more irate the more Erik stabbed at him. Every time he struck out at Erik's weapon, he winced when his bruised and battered arms made contact. The crowd grew more vocal as Erik took the upper hand.
Erik blocked all the extraneous noise and commotion out, focusing the entirety of his anger and determination on ending the life of the man in front of him. He thought of his father and pulled the handle in a vicious backhanded swing. The crack of the wood against Spike's jaw sent the larger man reeling. Erik thought of his mother, dragged screaming from her house as her husband died at her feet. He pummeled Spike's back when he turned to move away. The oak staff in his hands shuddered with the impact of wood on bone. Spike cursed and Erik pressed his attack further.
He thought of his family home, burned to the ground by Spike's friends, likely at his order. He swung the handle in two wide arcs, impacting either side of Spike's left knee, one after the other. The man was defenseless to stop him now.
Erik felt a surge of power course through him. He swung faster and harder, ignoring the burn from his muscles. Each impact sent a jolt up his tired arms that renewed his strength. Spike sank lower and lower into a crouch, trying to present the smallest target possible—hardly easy given his size.
Then it happened—Erik stepped forward to deliver a crushing blow to Spike's head, but the bigger man struck with the speed of a rattlesnake. The crampon flashed through the air and Erik staggered back, fire searing the left side of his face. It had happened so fast, he wasn't sure what hurt more, the ragged tear in his cheek from the tip of Spike's weapon, or the dull ache from his mouth where the massive head of the crampon had impacted his jaw.
He gingerly felt his teeth with his tongue. A molar was loose. The smell of iron filled his nose and blood coated his tongue. Erik stepped out of Spike's reach and raised the tip of his bokken out of the dirt. Spike, half-beaten to a pulp, laughed, a ragged, hollow sound.
"I ain't done with you yet, boy. When this is over," he said, gasping for air, "I'm gonna throw your mama to the boys and take your woman my self. Before you die, I'm going to make you watch—"
Something snapped inside Erik. Time slowed to a crawl. In an instant, he was transported back in time to the Freehold, when the two men had attacked Brin and Susan on a warm sunny day in June. He and Ted had raced out of his darkened apartment to find Susan unconscious on the ground and the would-be rapist closing on Brin.
Erik remembered the flash of steel in the sunlight as he drew Grandfather Hideyo's katana. He remembered how the ancient steel shuddered as it had severed tendon and muscle with ease. He remembered how the body fell out of his way as he rushed to his wife's side. He remembered the anger that drove him forward like some kind of berserker, uncaring for his own safety, seeking only to destroy his enemy.
He felt that same anger flow through him now. His vision narrowed to a red-rimmed tunnel. The sounds of the world faded to a distant buzz. His heart thudded in his chest, his arms burned with the effort of beating Spike to death, and his face throbbed. He charged.
Erik released his fury on Spike's bent form. He rained blows down with reckless abandon, picking his targets as they appeared—back, shoulder, the exposed neck, a hand, a knee—it didn't matter, he struck out at any part of Spike within range. The image of Spike laying on the ground, a quivering, broken shell of a man drove him forward. He knew he couldn't keep the frenetic pace up for long and poured all his strength into the crushing attack. Swing after swing after stab he pushed his own body to the limit, pummeling Spike.
In a desperate attempt to gain space, Spike spun after taking a strong blow to the back of his neck—a strike that would have killed a normal man. He ignored the next attack on his shoulder and struck out with the crampon as Erik landed the hit.
In the split second before he could pull his pitchfork handle back, Erik felt a jolt of fire flare in his hip. Knocked sideways, Erik staggered a step and cried out in pain, falling to one knee. A quick glance told him Spike had landed a solid hit with the crampon. He didn't see any blood. A glance at Spike explained it all—in his desperation, the convict hadn't reversed his grip. He'd hit Erik with the flat head of the railroad spike, not the tip.
Spike bellowed and charged him. One clawing hand reached for Erik's throat, the other brought the dull, glistening crampon in for another stab. This time, the point was facing the right way to do serious damage.
Erik was having none of it. It was time to finish things. He lurched to his feet.
He brought the makeshift sword down with all his remaining strength square in the middle of Spike's forehead. The impact jarred his arms and with an air-rending crack, the oak handle exploded. Not missing a step, he moved forward as Spike fell back, stunned. Before the convict could fully recover, Erik lunged, thrusting the stump of his sword as hard as he could, straight at Spikes neck.
The big man saw the attack at the last second and flinched, the jagged end of Erik's weapon merely grazing his neck. Erik cursed and spun clockwise, bringing the end of the handle around in a hammer-fist strike. The blunt end of the handle connected with the side of Spike's bloodied head. Erik felt a sickening crunch as bone yielded to wood.
They both collapsed to the gravel in a heap of bloody arms and legs.
Erik rose to his knees. Spike didn't.
That was all the invitation the onlookers needed. They shoved Erik back and pounced on the inert form of the man who had lorded over them and turned their lives into a living hell.
They tore at Spike's flesh with their hands and teeth—some used broken rocks or bits of trash, whatever they could find. He turned away from the macabre scene and tried to ignore the screams and curses.
As he looked up from the ground, Erik spotted Brin standing in the middle of Fort Ticonderoga's gate. Her hands flew to her mouth as she ran to him through the river of tortured humanity struggling to get at Spike. Erik wrapped his aching arms around her and buried his face in her hair, ignoring the shouts of triumph that exploded around him. He let her half-drag him through the refugees, heading out the gate.
"It's over," Erik muttered, more for himself than Brin.
Chapter 79
EMP
PO SIN STARED OUT his floor-to-ceiling office window, overlooking the Beijing skyline. Americans were such a contradictory people—always talking of freedom but treating their citizens like slaves.
Who would have thought they'd launch a military coup in their own country?
That was never something anyone had predicted, even in the old documents and plans from the Cold War he'd used to create the current operation. It just wasn't something Americans did. They were the ones in the business of rescuing other countries after a coup. He stared out at the glittering lights of Beijing. It didn't matter anymore, he supposed.
In the morning, he'd receive word Shin Ho had been removed from office—most likely permanently. The Supreme Leader was not pleased with the way things in America had devolved. The Americans' successful campaign to expel the Russians had freed up most of their southern home guard units. They'd focus on what was left of the Chinese force in California now.
We failed to link up with that resupply mission on the coast and the second wave is in jeopardy of being destroyed upon arrival. The American surface fleet is encroaching dangerously on the secret locations of our submarines. He clasped his hands behind his back. He'd gone over everything in his mind a hundred times and the result was still the same. The situation had become very dangerous.
America was positioning her forces for a counterattack. Beijing sent a steady stream of diplomatic wishes of goodwill and offers of support—anything to keep Washington occupied until they could get within striking range of the American mainland. Their last chance was to get Chinese missile subs off the coast of California and threaten retaliation if any action was taken against Beijing.
Po Sin lit another cigarette and smiled, staring out the window at the cityscape. "You see old friend?" he said, speaking the words he wished he could s
ay to Shin Ho's face. "You stole my thunder—you took everything from me. You claimed credit for the idea, you got yourself a promotion by presenting it to the Supreme Leader, and you pushed me aside." He exhaled smoke and frowned.
"You kept me in the background, using my genius—my plan—and my men. This is what you deserve." He inhaled slowly, letting the luxurious blue-gray smoke fill his lungs with warmth.
In the morning Po Sin would be proclaimed the new Minister of the Interior and take his rightful place in the upper echelon of Chinese politics. He already had an idea of what he wanted to do to remodel Shin Ho's office. The man had no taste—but he did have an excellent side chamber which could be used to entertain Po Sin's girls.
He fairly salivated over the party he would throw to honor himself. He'd have to find an excuse to ship his wife out of town for a few days. Maybe a week. This one will go down in the history books! It's a shame you won't be there to see it, old friend.
Po Sin laughed, watching the glittering city out his window. Somewhere downtown an air-raid siren sounded, muffled and eerie on the edge of his hearing.
A storm drill? Now? He glanced up at the sky. The bright lights of the city effectively canceled any view of the stars but one of the planets—Venus maybe—glared at him from the heavens. Clear skies then. Another drill. The failure of the Russians must have someone on edge.
He rolled his eyes and continued to smoke. Let them practice their drills. I will not be afraid…
He spotted a white point of light far out to the east. It seemed terribly low for an airplane. There were no blinking navigational lights, either. He stared at the low flying object as it quickly approached—much faster than any airplane he'd ever seen. It was then he noticed the first spotlight slicing across the night sky. Then another…and another.
His curiosity piqued, Po Sin stared at the light, the cigarette absently burning away between his fingers. Without warning, the light made an abrupt turn and shot straight up into the sky. More spotlights flickered on and lanced up into the sky like white fingers seeking out the unidentified target. The civil defense brigades had been activated.
Dux Bellorum (Future History of America Book 3) Page 48