Lord of Order

by Brett Riley

  Most of the Troublers still watched him as if he might at any moment reach into his back pocket and pull out a fully armed column of raiders.

  Ragtag, dirty, and courageous, they saw themselves as freedom fighters. Yet they had more in common with the typical Crusader than either side would have admitted. Except for the Crusade’s higher-ups, who lived in the rarified air of their privilege, folks on both sides went to work and helped their neighbors and tried to make it through the day without getting shot. Many of these Troublers even followed a kind of Christianity, just as Stransky and Sister Sarah had claimed. They did not believe in the righteousness of Jonas Strickland or Matthew Rook or any of the Crusade leaders in between, but most believed in God and followed a code. Their long generations had lived with the kind of contradictions Troy and his people had only recently discovered. Still, it was hard not to think of them as enemies, especially the more sardonic, haughty ones who spat when they saw him. Stransky had tried to mend fences, but even she could only do so much. After all, Troy had been stalking, imprisoning, and killing Troublers for years.

  Today, he and Stransky were scheduled to sneak into the city near the old St. John the Baptist airport, where some of the buildings, smashed flat or burned to cinders in the Crusade’s great origin, had never been rebuilt. The streets were still pockmarked with craters, though the wrecks themselves had long since been dismantled and melted down, the burnable refuse torched. Those grounds served as the city dump, with a crumbling tower overlooking a landscape ruled by rats and carrion birds. Its circumference bulged like a glutton’s waistline. Troy had planned to shift the dump into parts of the wetlands known for the heaviest Troubler activity. Poison the land, kill the vermin. He had wanted to raze the airfield and sod it and plant trees that would eventually shelter game. Now he wondered at his folly. As if every spot on God’s Earth wanted only the right man to defile it. As if killing one’s enemies somehow negated the ruination of what should be sacral and pure.

  After reaching the cabin that day, Stransky had told him of underground caches near the dump, food and water and weapons, even a few well-stocked shelters. They needed to inspect those caches. Plus, Troubler scouts estimated the wall’s builders would meet near the dump. The territory had to be scouted, a strategy hatched, yet he did not want to leave. It was peaceful here, more than anywhere he had ever been. In a place like this, a man might repudiate the life he inherited with his office. He might wash the blood from his eyes and turn them back to the Lord.

  I didn’t even realize how tired I was until I stopped movin.

  Stransky was late. Perhaps she had decided to reschedule their inspection in favor of more training. The Troublers had always been guerillas, used to fighting from ambush in small pockets, and while those skills would be useful, only a larger, organized force could march on the Crusade’s positions. Troy had been instructing Troubler companies and regiments on military strategy while they glared at him or looked at him in awe, their enemy standing before them in the flesh and offering his open hand. Meanwhile, Stransky had taught him more about insurgent techniques than he had ever cared to learn.

  It all seemed like a dream from which he would wake at any moment, safe in his bed.

  He dozed on the porch for an hour. When he awoke, he was starving, but it was too hot to stoke the fire, and he did not want cold gumbo. Besides, from the movement down by the water, he would have little time. The gators were gone, but three canoes paddled toward the little dock. Stransky sat in the lead boat. Two people rode in each canoe, the middle one paddled by the giant Stransky called Bushrod. A hooded, bound man rode behind him.

  By the time Troy limped to the dock, praying he would not slip and break his neck, Stransky and her companion—a thin, dirty woman with stringy blond hair and a faded, soiled sundress—had forced their way through the low-hanging tree limbs and thick vegetation providing the dock with natural cover. As the woman tied off Stransky’s boat, Bushrod plowed through the foliage by sheer force. He secured his boat and stepped onto the dock. Then he reached down and grabbed the hooded man by the arm, practically lifting him out with one hand. The third canoe was still docking as the rest of them climbed the hill.

  What’s this all about? asked Troy.

  Stransky nodded toward the prisoner. Some of my people brung him to me last night. Found him pokin around the edge of the Refuge, lookin for any Troubler he could find. She turned to the hooded man, raising her voice. And he’s goddam lucky they didn’t just blow his fuckin head off.

  Troy pulled off the man’s hood. Norville Unger blinked in the sunlight, his hair askew, an old cloth shoved in his mouth. Troy would have been only a little more surprised if it had been Jonas Strickland himself. Seeing Unger in the bayou was like spotting a wild hog wearing a coat and necktie. Troy looked at Stransky and Bushrod and the others. When no one said anything, he removed Unger’s gag.

  Still squinting, Unger worked his tongue around his mouth and spat out a white effluvium that was almost solid. Lord Troy, he croaked. Is it really you?

  It’s me, Troy said, brushing hair from the old man’s face. What are you doin here?

  Unger burst into tears. Oh, praise God. We dragged the river for three days. Everybody thought you was dead.

  Troy squeezed his shoulder. Well, I ain’t. And I’m right glad to see you. He turned to Stransky. Untie him. Where would he run?

  Stransky nodded at Bushrod, who removed Unger’s bonds. The sergeant fell to his knees and grasped Troy around the legs. I can’t believe it. You’re really here.

  Troy grimaced as Unger jostled his bad knee. Two wiry men with bad teeth and sidearms walked off the dock, the last mariners. Troy pulled Unger to his feet. Don’t genuflect. I ain’t God. Unger hugged him so hard that Troy thought his ribs would break.

  Jesus. I think that old fella’s in love, whispered one of the new arrivals.

  Troy broke free of Unger and pushed through Stransky and Bushrod, ignoring the protests from his bum knee. He drew one of his pistols and struck the man across the head with the grip. The Troubler collapsed even as the other one tried to draw. Troy cocked his gun and stuck it in the man’s face, mashing his nose down like putty.

  Norville Unger risked his life comin here, Troy said. Show him the respect he deserves, or I’ll make sure the gators eat good tonight.

  The Troubler winced but said nothing. Stransky, her unnamed companion, and Bushrod had all drawn their weapons. Troy did not even look at them.

  Lower that weapon, Stransky said. You done executed enough of us.

  Troy increased the pressure on the man’s nose and spat. Fine, he said.

  But then the Troubler grinned at him, showing blackened stumps of teeth, so Troy backhanded him across the nose with the pistol barrel. A sound like a thick twig snapping. The Troubler collapsed.

  Bushrod jammed his pistol into Troy’s back, his voice deep and rasping. You heard what she said. Holster your weapon.

  Troy gritted his teeth. Norville’s been true, and he ain’t never fired a shot at anybody. Does makin fun of an old-timer give all you big, bad outlaws a thrill?

  Stransky grinned. Shit, Gabe. You’re full of kinky notions. Spend much more time out here and you’ll be talkin like me.

  God forbid.

  She cackled. Let’s get under that net. These skeeters are eatin me alive.

  Troy holstered the gun. Bushrod holstered his. Then Troy helped the old man up the hill, both of them limping and huffing in the heat. Troy’s stomach grumbled.

  As Unger eased into the good chair on the porch, Troy turned to Bushrod. I know it might be too much to ask of a man that needs to hogtie an elder just to keep him from jumpin out of a canoe, but you reckon you can start a cookfire and heat up that pot of gumbo?

  The big man glanced at Stransky. She nodded, and he left without looking at Troy.

  There’s another problem. I can’t lead this
rabble if every order or request needs Stransky’s approval, and I can’t just shoot all these ornery knuckleheads.

  Troy knelt in front of Unger, grunting as his stiff knee flexed. Unger looked alarmed. You all right?

  I’ll live. We got some gumbo comin. But I need you to talk. Can you do that for me?

  Unger nodded, his face reddened and dripping sweat. He kept looking at the gathered Troublers as if they were black bears and he had just stumbled on their cubs. But when he spoke, his voice was steady.

  It’s all bad. Ever last lick.

  Bad how?

  Unger grimaced. That godforsaken wall’s almost finished, and the whole city is paved in Troubler flesh. They’re lined up from south of the river almost to the lake. They stopped at places like Robert E. Lee and Morrison. Just enough room left for the guards and the builders to move about without tramplin folks. I like to never got past em. Santonio’s gotta wade hip deep in miserable wretches just to check his crops, and the wildlife that got stuck in our parks is scared half to death. Not three days ago, a handful of deer trampled three chained-up Troublers and turned about and plowed back into the forest.

  So we got even less time than we thought.

  A week or ten days at most. I heard that Clemens fella talkin about how there ain’t but a few parties still on the way and how the wall ought to be done right after they’re settled.

  Troy mopped his brow with his shirtsleeve. Lord help us.

  That ain’t all. They house-arrested Jack Hobbes and Ernie Tetweiller. Ain’t seem em since, but Santonio says they’re alive. Not that I asked him. After what he done to you, I wanted to cut his throat.

  Troy’s flesh wounds still ached. Ford’s bullets had shaved him closer than a well-stropped razor. He had tried to reflect on that day, but sometimes it was hard to think with the bugs whining all night, giving voice to the tumult in their own Troubler souls.

  I reckon Santonio did what he had to do, he said. What about LaShanda?

  Unger scowled again and spat. They made her the new lord. Didn’t give her your office, and they don’t even let her say the lord of order’s prayer on Sundays. Royster does it. Attendance looks like it’s gone down by half since you left. Don’t know if that’s because people can’t stand the envoys. Maybe the outlanders put em in chains somewhere, or killed em all. Nobody tells me nothin.

  Lord above. So LaShanda’s doin what?

  Runnin about the city supervisin Troubler transfers and tellin folks to go along, do what the outlanders say, kiss their hindquarters.

  Don’t be too hard on her. If she had really turned, Jack and Ernie would be dead, and so would a lot of other folks. What about Gordy?

  Unger picked at a splinter on the chair, his mouth working as if the words had stuck in his throat. A tear carved a swath through the grime and dust on his face. Gordy’s changed, he muttered.

  Changed how?

  Unger told Troy about Boudreaux’s recruitment, about the trips across the river, about how the young deputy’s eyes had emptied, his once expressive face frozen into a stoicism as plain as a white wall. By the time Unger finished and Bushrod appeared with a steaming bowl of gumbo, Troy feared more for Boudreaux than anyone or anything else, even the city. Buildings could be reconstructed. Gardens could be salvaged. But where lay the soil in which you could replant a good man’s essence?

  Unger ate the gumbo, his graying hair corkscrewing from his scalp like steam, wrinkles road-mapping his face and hands. Bushrod and the others stood around, watching the area for movement, as vigilant as any Crusader Troy had ever seen. If only discipline and vigilance were enough.

  He pulled Stransky into the cabin proper. You heard Norville. We need to be ready to move in a week. Or less.

  She smiled. We’re good at movin fast.

  I wouldn’t put it past Royster to up and execute Ernie and Jack. We gotta spring em.

  She was shaking her head before he finished speaking. I don’t think that’s a good idea.

  Anger rose inside him like vomit. He scowled. They risked their necks to bust you outta the towers. Jack Hobbes took a bullet just to make it look good.

  Stransky laughed. Yeah, and they did it just for me, outta the goodness of their hearts. Right?

  Troy grabbed her by the throat and shoved her against the wall. I ain’t negotiatin. I want my people alive and free.

  There was no fear in her eyes. That’s all any of us ever wanted too, and look how often you assholes gave it to us. Besides, Gabe, this act’s gettin old. Grabbin my neck and talkin tough. Remember where you are? Hurt a hair on my head, and you’ll never make it outta the bayou alive. Neither will that old fart. Now get your goddam hand off me before them boys out yonder pile in and gut you.

  Troy squeezed her throat even tighter. She sounded like she was breathing through a tube the size of a pine needle. Her face turned red, then purple. But she never stopped smiling because she was right.

  He let her go and stalked away, clenching and unclenching his fists. His knee fired bolts of red pain up his leg.

  My friends are deep in the desert, he said, and I can’t lead em out.

  Look, Stransky rasped, rubbing her neck. You might not believe this, but I want them boys free too. Hobbes is cuter than a fuckin puppy dog, and Tetweiller’s the only one of y’all without a goddam cypress trunk up his ass. Right now, though, Royster’s got every reason to believe he can relax. You’re dead. He’s arrested your people or turned em. But if we do one damn thing before the big day, he’ll know we’re comin. And if we ain’t got surprise, we might as well run.

  Troy punched the wall. Splinters barely more than powder cascaded through the air. And what if they kill Jack before then? Or Ernie?

  Better to lose two people than to paint Royster a goddam sign sayin, Please shoot here.

  Troy sat in a decaying easy chair and leaned his head against the cushions and closed his eyes. If only he could open them in the past, back in the days when he had never heard of Jevan Dwyer and Royster had been just another name on the Crusade organizational charts and Lynn Stransky had been a ghost, a rumor, a shape in the distance about which even McClure could only hypothesize. All of them in their proper places playing their assigned roles. But time marched ever forward, the most implacable soldier in the army of some unknowable general. The decisions you made today echoed in your tomorrows and in all the days of those you loved.

  He opened his eyes again. Fine, he said. We leave Ernie and Jack where they are.

  Stransky laid a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it as if they were old friends, as if all the years and all the bullets between them existed in some other when, some other where.

  Bushrod stuck his head in the door. He saw them touching but said nothing, and Stransky did not remove her hand. She feared nothing and apologized for less.

  We got incoming, Bushrod said. One of our canoes. Three men. One bound.

  Troy looked at Stransky. Now what?

  She shrugged. Let’s go see.

  Except for the apparently famished Unger, who kept downing gumbo, everyone waited near the dock as a skinny red-haired Troubler secured the boat. Her prisoner, hooded and bound, bore on his shirt the Crusade insignia. He sat bolt upright and silent, still except for the rise and fall of his chest inside the bloodstained linsey-woolsey shirt. Behind him, a threadbare, scurvy male Troubler covered him with a rusty pistol.

  They hauled the prisoner out of the boat and dragged him before Stransky. The male guard kicked the Crusader behind the knee, forcing him to kneel. Then the woman yanked the burlap hood off his head. The guard squinted.

  Troy exhaled. An outlander. I ought to be ashamed, but I’m glad he ain’t somebody I know.

  Stransky crouched so she could look the guard in the eye. She reached out and smoothed his brown hair as he tried to maneuver away from her. Howdy, she said, her voice still raw. Know who
I am?

  The guard looked her up and down, his brown eyes defiant. Then he glanced at Troy, the others, the cabin on the hill. I’d guess you’re Lynn Stransky, and the rest of you are a bunch of no-name heathens. Except for you, Troy. Everyone knows your face and your name. Aren’t you supposed to be dead?

  Troy shrugged. I reckon I got better.

  The Crusader spat. You’re going to hell with the rest of this scum, and that right soon.

  Troy said nothing.

  Stransky laughed. You got balls. I’ll give you that. But unless you wanna know what they taste like, you’re gonna tell me how the guards are deployed. And you’re gonna tell me the truth.

  The guard said nothing. His lips pressed into a thin line.

  Bushrod cuffed him on the back of the skull. Speak when you’re spoken to, boy. You wouldn’t be the first Cultist we’ve fed to the gators a piece at a time.

  That word again, cult, spat out like a curse. Time was I would have killed Bushrod just for that. He’s got all Stransky’s venom and none of her better qualities. Wouldn’t be the worst thing if he caught a stray bullet once the fightin starts.

  Bushrod cuffed the guard again. Still the man said nothing. The female Troubler stepped forward, drew her pistol, and smashed him across the temple. He fell to the ground, his eyes rolling white, half his face in the dirt.

  Now the torture would start. Troy had used it as a last resort, knowing the information it produced would always be suspect. After a while, a person would say anything to stop the pain. Besides, it had always made him feel indecent, even devilish.