A Brave New World: War's End, #2

by Christine D. Shuck

  “Christ, Kerwin, stop being such a pansy. He’s tied up like some damn Christmas goose; he can’t hurt you.” She rolled Cooper over on his back, “Now, say that again?”

  “I said I ’afur nives,” Cooper’s mouth wouldn’t stretch the right way. He could feel the crusted goo, and the grinding of the bones that obviously had not set right. Eating had been agony, and he hadn’t had the need to talk to anyone in weeks...obviously, he needed practice.

  “What the hell’s he sayin?” Heim asked.

  “He’s saying he prefers knives,” Delwen half-smiled at Scott, a bit of a thrill twisted through her. “My kind of guy, ’ceptin he’s uglier than Camelia.”

  Camelia was their resident slave, as many of the Amerika Reborn members thought of her. She was Hispanic, one of the ‘coloreds’ they had picked out of a small group holed up miles from here. The rest they had shot or let burn to death in the fire the AR had set to the buildings during the fighting. Camelia had a jagged scar that cut across her face and down one arm. She couldn’t walk right either. She had survived the Amtrak Train Bombings, but not without losing her looks in the process. Before the Collapse she had been a nurse. Medical knowledge, even packaged in the wrong-colored skin, was a benefit the AR couldn’t afford to discard. So they had tied her up and dragged her out of that house of death well over a year ago now, and kept her busy cleaning wounds and patching everyone up ever since.

  “Let’s get him out of here and on back to Sul,” Delwen said, “he’s definitely gonna be interested in this guy.”

  Half an hour later, with Cooper fevered and close to collapse, the group of child-soldiers had dragged him into the main AR camp. As soon as they had come into the clearing, within sight of a small assembly of cottages and low, dark buildings, a crowd of at least twenty adults had gathered immediately, all of them armed. Many sported tattoos that curled from under their heavy shirtsleeves and collars to wrap around necks and hands. Swastikas, skulls, and SS bolts adorned several of the men’s shirts and coats as well.

  The colors of the Western Front started a flurry of angry muttering among the adults, and two burly men stepped forward to help drag Cooper to a building near the center of the clearing. It was much larger than the rest, and the area had obviously been a popular campground pre-Collapse. The buildings were arranged in straight lines with neatly laid gravel paths winding between them, expanding as they approached what had most likely been a communal kitchen and social area. There were other buildings, of newer construction, scattered about—as well as several yurts and large tents. Through another stand of trees there were several fenced areas, one filled with horses, another held sheep, and Cooper could make out a cultivated field beyond that.

  This camp was obviously organized and well-established. A wonderful aroma of cooking food wafted out of the building and into the clearing. If Cooper had felt even half-human, and not consumed with fever and exhaustion, his stomach would have rumbled in response. As it was, he was having difficulty maintaining consciousness.

  A few moments later, Cooper’s eyes focused blearily on a tall, bearded man. Sulwyn Kingmaker had gray hair and piercing blue eyes. He looked to be in his late 50s and had the appearance of a kind father. At one time, Sulwyn had had a different name, a rather mundane one at that. But that was before the Collapse, before Amerika Reborn had risen like a phoenix from the ashes of the broken fragments of the American Nazi Party.

  “A soldier? And from the Western Front, I see.” Sulwyn’s eyes narrowed as he took in Cooper’s appearance, and turned to Delwen, “Any sign of others?”

  “No, Pops...I mean ... no sir. No one,” Delwen stumbled over her words.

  “Hmmm. Well, take him to Camelia and have her patch him up.” He started to turn away, and then turned back and added, “And tell that colored woman I don’t want her wasting any of the remaining antibiotics on him. I’ve yet to see if he is of any use to us. Might be some cowardly deserter. Enemy or not, we don’t need deserters.”

  Cooper soon found himself in a dim room, hoisted onto a hard metal table, with a scarred Hispanic woman bending over him, examining his face wounds in great detail.

  “He’s running a fever,” she said out loud, mostly to herself.

  “I can tell that, Spic,” Delwen sneered, “anything else?”

  Camelia didn’t react to Delwen’s insult; she was focused on her patient. “Yes. His jaw is badly infected and he needs it reset and wired shut so it can heal right. He will need a good dose of antibiotics.”

  There was a pause as Delwen turned and met Heim’s eyes. She stared at him, never breaking the gaze as she said, “Sul said to get him patched up and give him whatever he needs.” As Camelia opened a large metal cabinet and began selecting instruments and some of the last of the antibiotic packs, Delwen closed the distance between her and Heim, “I know what Sul said, but I got a feeling about this guy.” She said it in a whisper, brushing her lips against the older boy’s ear. “You...won’t tell...will you?”

  She felt Heim shudder a bit in response, and he shook his head silently. Heim had been following her around like a puppy dog ever since she had started to fill out, and she used this obsession with her to full advantage whenever possible, teasing him, and then pushing him away. Little Eric Brown, now known as Heimdall Stonekiller, was nothing better than a tool. But he was her tool, and she liked it that way.

  The chain around Camelia’s ankle clanked as she moved back to Cooper, who had passed out by this point, and Delwen couldn’t help but snicker. If the stupid Spic hadn’t kept trying to escape, they would have left her unchained.

  Sulwyn, Delwen’s father and leader of Amerika Reborn, had explained to Delwen that some coloreds were worth keeping alive, although it was never acceptable to breed with them. “Their blood is full of disease, the muddy bastards. Never, ever allow a colored to touch you, Del,” he had grasped her shoulder, bruising flesh and continued, “the only reason we keep that colored Spic around is for her stolen medical knowledge. We must keep looking for a better replacement so that we aren’t exposed to her filthy diseases any longer than necessary.”

  Sulwyn had led the fight on the Spic compound over a year ago now. The Spics had been overwhelmed by the AR’s superior firepower and guerrilla fighting tactics. Sul had ordered everyone killed. No point in keeping around some screaming brown babies, or helpless women. The Spic women weren’t anything like the Amerika Reborn women—they were soft, helpless, and useless for anything except spreading their legs and giving the white man diseases, Sulwyn had explained to his group.

  But when they had set it all on fire, they found Camelia in one of the back rooms, performing surgery on a mortally wounded boy. Sulwyn had recognized her abilities immediately and stopped one of the men from blowing her head off. They had dragged her away, fighting and kicking, screaming until one of the men had cuffed her hard, sending her head flying back, cracking the glass of the side window in the lead truck and knocking her unconscious.

  When she had woken up, she had caught on pretty quick to keep her fool mouth shut, Delwen mused. She had focused her efforts on trying to get away until Sul had her chained and told her if she tried again he’d cut through the tendons in her ankles, laming her permanently. Delwen wasn’t sure if it was the threat of never walking again, or the strength of the chain that had kept Camelia from trying again. But sure enough, she stayed put from then on.

  It would take nearly a week before Cooper was able to stand unassisted. Camelia had managed to repair the half-healed wreck that was his jaw, but there was no hope he would ever be good-looking again. A large dimpled scar ran along his right jawline, jagged thick white scar tissue buckling and twisting the skin. It would be another month until he could eat any solid food.

  As soon as he was fit to stand, however, Delwen dragged him back into the headquarters. Her father was sitting at a large, ornate desk, reviewing an almost illegible report from the man in charge of the barnyard animals. It looked as though they would need to
raid if they wanted enough sheep and goats for breeding stock and plenty of meat. He paused, frustrated by the man’s illiterate scrawl, and removed his reading glasses. Scott stood before him in the same stinking clothes he had been in when they found him, but he stood straight, and waited for Sulwyn to address him.

  “Name?” he asked Scott.

  “Cooper. Scott Cooper.”

  “So...deserter or spy?” he asked Cooper.

  “Independent agent...sir.” Cooper managed to delay on the ‘sir’ just a fraction longer than was respectful.

  “I see, and how does one become an independent agent?”

  “One does the best with what he’s got, sir. The Western Front collapsed, due to an improper mixing of color, sir.” Cooper wasn’t stupid; he had listened carefully, and seen the tattoos. He figured it was the most expedient way to save his life, and possibly, just possibly, regain some of what he had lost in that raid.

  “And I’m to believe that you share our values?” Sulwyn asked, raising an eyebrow in mock disbelief.

  “Believe what you like, sir. I’m in need of a bath,” Cooper said calmly, “That Spic medic you have, I wouldn’t doubt that she has lice; more than likely scabies as well.” Delwen sniggered quietly behind him.

  Sulwyn Kingmaker, formerly John Stump, a former television repairman from Southie, smiled, “A bath then.” He turned to Delwen, “Have Kerwin take care of it and keep watch over him.” He turned back to the reports and slid on his reading glasses, quite obviously dismissing him.

  “My knives, sir.”

  Sulwyn glanced at Cooper, “You have not proven yourself to me, Cooper. When you do, we will discuss it further.” He turned away, again dismissing the young man in front of him.

  Cooper turned, as if he were capitulating, and then moved stunningly fast, his arms and legs a blur as he ruthlessly attacked the large guard standing at attention behind him. Within seconds the burly man was dead on the floor and Scott Cooper stood there, the guard’s knife in his right hand, covered in gore. Cooper slowly set the weapon on the floor next to his victim.

  Delwen had an AK-47 aimed at his belly and the two other guards from outside the office were pointing their weapons at Cooper as well. He stood there, smiling. “Is that the proof you were looking for, sir?” He didn’t move any closer to the leader, didn’t move at all, which was for the best—he had three people within a hair trigger of killing him. Despite this, he was as calm and cool as ice.

  Sulwyn spared a glance at the piece of dead meat currently covering his office floor with a spreading pool of blood and turned to Delwen, “Make sure he gets his knives back.” Then he turned back to Cooper, “Stay within the boundaries of the clearing, and out of the armory, or I’ll have my men shoot you on sight.”

  By the time he could eat solid food a few weeks later, Cooper had quietly carved out a comfortable niche for himself within the Amerika Reborn group. He refused to change his name, however, which had been a tradition among the AR since the Collapse. He quickly rose within the ranks, leading devastatingly brutal raids and bringing vast stores of food, ammunition, and other supplies, along with able-bodied men and women to swell the numbers of the neo-Nazi group.

  Scott Cooper had found a new home.

  First Summer

  “I figured I would eventually get used to it. And we make do, because really, what other choice do we have? But I miss air conditioning, I mean I really, really miss it. It’s been, what, over ten years now? And when that crazy hot, muggy summer heat hits I just sit around like a limp noodle. Ugh. It’s hard to believe that my grandparents grew up without it and all the generations before that. Of all the things I miss...having that ice-cold air conditioner is near the top of my list.” – Jess’s Journal

  Sweat trickled down Jess’s face. The sun beat mercilessly down on her as she moved through the backyard. On the back porch, the solar oven had two loaves of bread inside and they had been baking for over two hours. The heavenly smell she kept getting whiffs of indicated it would soon be time to take them out. For now she ignored the smell of the bread, and the heat of the sun, and continued tying the tomato plants up. The heat had spiked a few weeks ago and invaded every corner of the house and the yard. The tomatoes seemed to be the only living thing that thrived.

  Jess and the others had all moved down to the basement; the slightly cooler temperatures were a relief from the unending heat and they slept, windows open at night, desperate for a breeze.

  Thankfully, the screens on the two tiny windows were intact. This prevented a majority of the voracious swarms of mosquitoes from feasting on them. Some still made it through, as the itchy red lumps on Jess’s arms and legs could attest to.

  The unrelenting heat was hardest on Jacob, since he was only a baby and unable to regulate his internal temperature as easily as Jess and David. Even Tina struggled with the heat, turning red quickly and losing her appetite. She got her wish to hold Jacob more, the two of them relegated to the basement while Jess and David handled what they could of the gardening and chores.

  Jess was worn out from struggling to pull a cart loaded with water from the creek. The only nice part about this duty was the messiness of it. They would pull a handcart loaded with one or two large rain barrels to the creek, then use buckets to fill them, which meant she was soaked down the front of her shirt and pants within minutes. When the barrels were full, they would turn the cart around and slowly pull it the three blocks back home, taking care to navigate the chewed up blacktop and various obstacles—mainly bricks and wood from the collapsed and burnt houses—strewn about. It was hard work pulling the cart back, the slightest incline involved muscles she hadn’t known she had.

  Once back, they would hook up a short hose to the spigot near the bottom of the barrel, letting a barrel drain slowly into one or two of the raised beds. When the barrel was empty, they would switch to the other one and drain it as well. One trip in the early morning to water selected beds in the backyard and one trip in the evening, to water the backyard—thus avoiding direct sunlight. Until they could dig a well, it was their only option for keeping the plants alive. They had also decided to allow their new flock of chickens to run free of the confines of their protected chicken coop and yard during the day after two of the younger hens, who had just begun laying, died from overheating.

  The odd little flock of nine laying hens and one rooster had been cobbled together from donations by townspeople. For a few weeks, after they had help from Thurman Banks repairing the chicken house and coop, which was intact except for one smashed window, Jess and David received a bird here and a bird there. A neighbor would show up at their door, squawking chicken in one hand, a packet of seeds or some bread in another. One or two of the hens looked a lot like the Ameraucana birds that Jess’s mom, Julie, had owned. Jess later concluded that they must be Ameraucanas when they found a stash of medium-sized pale green eggs. Others were larger breeds that lay large brown eggs. With a rooster to fertilize the eggs, it was possible that they could enlarge their flock quickly if they continued to have broody hens.

  “If we just lock them up at night, so the ’possums and ’coons don’t get ’em, then let them out in the morning they can be free to find the coolest part of the yard,” David had suggested. It had proven to be the perfect solution and the chickens could often be found resting under the shade of tomato plants in the cool dirt, or in a dark corner of the fence under the grapevines. It had its drawbacks, though; they tended to nibble on the tomatoes and had completely demolished the grapes before Jess and David devised a barrier with chicken wire.

  A tiny warble at her elbow startled Jess. One of the hens was eyeing her curiously. She was one of the Ameraucana, one that looked distinctive enough from the rest to be named. Tina had decided to call her Little Miss Crankyfoot, or Cranky for short, but the young hen was anything but cranky. The rest would run from Jess and the others, but not Cranky. Jess figured Cranky’s brain had to be just a tad bigger than the rest—she stayed close to
Jess and David, watching as they dug into the earth, and was rewarded with tasty grubs, fat green tomato hornworms, and now, as the summer progressed, juicy grasshoppers. Jess spied one now and tossed it to Cranky, who devoured it quickly.

  Work on the house was moving slowly now. Everything moved slowly in this oppressive heat. The rooms had slowly been cleaned out. Furniture, dishes, books, and more, some of it quite familiar, often appeared overnight on the front stoop. Old Mr. Banks had explained it kindly one evening when he showed up with a butchered goat for the family and then stayed for supper.

  “Folks did what they had to survive, Jessie. Along the way, they maybe saw stuff that was nice, or made ’em smile, and they picked that up too. After all, someone who is gone, they don’t need that stuff anymore, right? It wasn’t stealing, per se, just filling a tiny desire. You understand, right, Jessie?” His eyes had pleaded with her to accept that what was taken would find its way back in due time. And Jess shrugged and nodded. Hadn’t she done much the same thing in countless other places along the way? The day her mother’s cameo, handed down through three generations of women before her, returned, still nestled in its worn, velvet-lined box, she sat down on the front stoop and cried. It made her miss her mom even more.

  The remnants of the once-thriving town of over 20,000 souls was tattered and threadbare, a mere one in thirty had survived. Despite this, or perhaps because of the loss of so many, those left pulled together wherever and whenever possible. Jess could count on one hand the number of meals she and her family had missed since their arrival in March. It was hard for her, though, to ask for help.

  Sarah Turner had given Jess a stern talking to a few weeks before when she learned that there was a gaping hole in the roof, which poured rain straight into the master bedroom. “Don’t be a fool, Jessie,” she had said to her as she surveyed the damage. The floor had buckled and part of the drywall had collapsed. Soon it would affect their nest down in the basement. “This isn’t safe for the baby, or any of you; the rain will lead to mold, and then you will have some real problems on your hands. If we can’t find someone to help you fix it you’ll have to move into the dorms they’ve set up at Research. But that’s been a hotbed for some bad strains of flu through the winter—I’d hate to see you or the kids get that.”