Draconian Measures

by Chris Lowry

  “I have heard rumors of you.”

  “I can’t say the same.”

  “One man destroying entire communities just to find his children.”

  “When you say it like that, it sounds bad.”

  “Now here you are.”

  Cotton shoved the bottom of the cage with the tip of his gleaming cowboy boot. It swung back and forth over the concrete floor, rotating in a slow circle that made balancing on the thin cross bar tough. The muscles in my thighs were on fire.

  “What ever will we do with you?” Cotton drawled.

  I gripped the pipes of the cage as the room spun around me. The fat man in the white suit twirled into view and out.

  “Are you here to destroy my home?” he shoved out a boot and stopped the spinning.

  “Isn't Krew a plural?”

  “It is. And I am. A self-declared Krew of one. This is my crew of many. My Crew. See the difference?”

  I shook my head.

  “One is a K, one is a C. Krew versus Crew.”

  It's the same thing, I wanted to say. A kid in kindergarten would make the spelling mistake. But he was from New Orleans. I knew people in NOLA and they love the Krew, a Mardi Gras tradition. There were Kings and Queens, belles and beaus, and more trombones than anyone would ever see outside of on orchestra or high school band.

  The Krew watched my face. His cheeky jowls quivered as he chuckled.

  "You'll spend too much time trying to figure it out, so just let me clue you in on it. I am the HMFIC around here. Do you know that that means?"

  I did.

  "Then we won't have any problems. If you need to think of it a different way, this is a kingdom and I am the absolute ruler."

  "I got it."

  "Then we won't have a problem, will we? Why are you here?"

  Part of me wanted to say "Because I passed out on the river and my panicked kids pulled into your port."

  Another part wanted to say, "Because I want my kids to be safe."

  But he thought I came to destroy his world, which had my brain spinning like the cage I was suspended in.

  He paced in the opposite direction of the twirl.

  "I've worked very hard to build up these walls, to keep the riff raff out, as it were. The undead, the people who would destroy our world. Those who relish in the misfortune of others."

  "I'm not any of those," I pointed out.

  He chuckled.

  A chuckle was good. It meant we were finding common ground. That's what they teach you in any speech class. Get the audience laughing with you and you win them over.

  "No," he grabbed a bar and stopped the cage.

  Warren put his face close to the bar, within my reach if I chose to lunge.

  "You are something else entirely."

  It was a test.

  I recognized it and stayed in the corner, legs trembling from being in a squat for so long, arms clenched against the metal.

  He nodded and smiled.

  "You know, don't you."

  I wasn't sure what I knew, but I nodded anyway. Better to have the King of Mardi Gras give me credit than open my mouth and prove I was a fool.

  "You passed the test."

  He let go of the bar, and the cage did a slow turn. Guard stepped through the closed door, one with a shotgun, not necessarily aimed at me, but in my general direction.

  The second marched to the cave and unlocked the door. He held it steady as I climbed out.

  Warren waited by the door.

  "I think you will find I am a reasonable man," he drawled. "I like to dine while I think, it aids the digestion. I'd like you to join me."

  He motioned to the door with an out swept hand.

  The guard with the shotgun stepped to one side and moved the weapon my way. Not at me.

  But a threat.

  What choice did I have?

  "I'd be delighted," I said and stood up straight.

  Mr. Mardi Gras might think me a monster, but in another life, I had manners. He would learn that too.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The Krew was a history teacher.

  “This is the new dark ages,” he took a bottle of wine and poured another glass of the blood red liquid.

  “Do you know how people survived back then? Fiefdoms. They gathered around a common safe space, and worked their little farms to pay tribute to a leader who protected them. Around here, people built little compounds at their deer camps or churches. One only needed to study history to see where we were going to end up. I invited them inside.”

  “There were zombies in history?”

  I was shackled to the table, a chain running under the wood to limit the movements of my hands and to keep me low to the seat. The chains jangled as I reached across the tabletop for the goblet he set in front of me.

  “Not recorded, no,” another sip flushed his cheeks. “But then a plague like this wouldn’t be. They would keep it from the historical record.”

  “Who are they?” I wondered aloud.

  He ignored me and ripped the leg off a roast chicken, tore the meat from the bone with fat thick fingers and sucked it through full lips.

  “I saw the road we were on and knew it would take a strong man to steer us from that course.”

  He tapped a greasy finger to his temple.

  “Strong in mind,” the finger shifted to the folds of flesh that strained the seams of his oxford shirt. “Not so much here.”

  “This world is more fit for the latter.”

  “My exact line of thinking as well. That’s why I created my emissaries.”

  He pointed to the men in riot gear standing next to the walls of the banquet hall.

  “I sent delegates to each of the camps. To every compound we could find and I invited all here to live in safety and peace.”

  “It worked.”

  “Well of course it worked. Building empires are what kings do. Destroying them is left to raiders and Vikings. The question I am asking myself,” both eyes drilled into me. “Which one are you?”

  I leaned back in my seat and tried to spread my hands wide, but couldn’t. The chains prevented it. Instead I showed him my palms.

  “I was just passing through.”

  “Hardly likely,” he said. “How many communities have you destroyed on your rampage across the South? Two? Three? It’s not quite the Mongolian horde, but you are a barbarian at my gate.”

  “I’m inside the gate.”

  His jowly cheeks spread into a slow smile.

  “Yes. You are. Now what to do with you.”

  “Put me back outside,” I told him. “I have no problem with you. I have no problem with your people. Like I said, we were just passing through. I’m going to push down to New Orleans, grab a boat and sail across the Gulf back to Florida.”

  “A pirate then,” he lit up. “You plan to raid the survivors along the coastline.”

  I shook my head.

  “I don’t plan to raid anyone.”

  I wondered what rumors of me he was talking about. No one knew me, certainly knew of me. It was true I had killed dozens of people, but I don’t remember salting the earth.

  “I’ve worked hard to build what we have here. We’ve planted crops. We’ve got a fish farm by the river. We have enough here that we’re going to survive and rebuild.”

  “I think that’s great,” I said. “I don’t want to be a part of it. Like I said, you just show us the gate and we’re out of your hair.”

  He studied me then, for several long moments. The silence dragged on, the only sound was the tapping of his knife against the edge of his plate as he contemplated.

  “I’m surprised at your response,” he said. “I expected something different. Most people don’t want to leave, and I was told you would play a part.”

  “I didn’t get the script.”

  A smile cracked his visage.

  “Yes, I suppose that would have helped. Perhaps we’ll just meet the author of your role.”

  He turn
ed and motioned to the guard at the door. The man disappeared through it, returning a moment later and held it wide.

  I took a breath and waited.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The General rolled through the door.

  Remember that scene in Empire where Han Solo and Princess Leia meet up with Lando in Cloud City and he invites them to dinner? The doors open up and Darth Vader is standing at the head of the table. It’s then we learn just how fast Han Solo is on the draw. A real artist.

  Sure, we knew he was a bad ass when he shot Greedo in the Cantina in the original film, but fast on the trigger too.

  It did the smuggler about as much good as it did me.

  I jumped back from the table, knocked the chair over, and pawed for my weapon. The shackles stopped me. And I didn’t have a gun.

  He did.

  And laughed.

  I couldn’t run, couldn’t duck. The chains trapped me to the table, locked me in place. I thought about flipping it over, but that would be worse for me than just standing there.

  “Stop,” said Warren.

  The General aimed his pistol at me.

  A shotgun racking is one of the scariest sounds on earth. Except when the shell being jacked into a chamber isn’t for you.

  It stopped his gun.

  “Please,” Warren added.

  The General slowly laid the pistol back in his lap, and tried to kill me with a look.

  “Join us,” said the King.

  He wheeled up to the table. A second guard I hadn’t seen before stepped from behind me and set a plate on the table along with silverware.

  “I’m trying to decide why the stories don’t match up,” said Warren. “He arrived a few days ago, with warnings of your rampage to come. Imagine my surprise when you showed up.”

  “No one was more surprised than me.”

  “With children, even. Not what I expected.”

  Damn it.

  I hadn’t stopped staring at the General since he rolled up to the side of the table. I saw his eyes shift when Warren talked about my kids.

  Leverage.

  I could see his wheels turning. Or revenge.

  If my hands had been free, I would have shoved a knife in the eye closest to me, and dealt with the guards. Preemptively keeping my kids safe.

  But the shackles stopped that.

  He smirked as the chains rattled.

  “One of my rules is no killing,” Warren interrupted us. “As much as I like a good fight, and believe me, I know the role combat has played in the outcomes of history, I won’t tolerate it within my walls.”

  “He’s a killer,” the General sputtered. “He won’t follow rules.”

  “I’ll let you live if you walk away now.”

  No one laughed.

  “Come on, that was funny,” I told him. “Too soon.”

  He slapped his hand into his lap trying for the pistol.

  I used the chain to lift the table, slipped it over the bars of his wheelchair and pinned his arms underneath.

  It wouldn’t hold him forever, but it bought time.

  Time enough for the guard with the shotgun to step up and place the barrel against the back of his neck.

  Warren watched.

  He had set this up, I could see, to gauge our reactions. He was pretending at something, but I couldn’t figure out what. The king reached forward and lifted his glass of wine to his lips.

  “Even chained he’s formidable.”

  “I told you.”

  “You told me many things. I am trying to determine which ones to believe.”

  “I didn’t lie,” the General snapped. “He killed my men. He put me in this wheelchair. If you let him go, he’ll destroy this place and everything you’ve done here to keep your people safe.”

  “He’s told me he will leave. I just have to show him the gate.”

  The General nodded.

  “My men and I can escort him out.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” said Warren. “Not yet.”

  He turned to the guard.

  “Take the General to his home.”

  The guard grabbed the back of his wheelchair and scraped the bars on the underside of the table as he shifted it loose. The General sputtered and cursed as he was wheeled from the room, but it was cut off as the guard pulled the door closed behind him.

  “But what should I do with you?”

  I rattled the chains.

  “Let me go. Give me a head start. He’s going to come after me, and he’s going to try to hurt my kids. I can’t let that happen.”

  “No one will hurt anyone inside these walls.”

  “You don’t know that. You can’t protect them,” I rattled the chains again. “Let me go and you’ll never see us again.”

  “The problem with the people in this new world is they still believe in democracy. Democracy didn’t work. It got us to where we are in this current state. You need to understand something. This is not a democracy. This is a monarchy. You don’t tell me what to do. I decide. I take in the facts and I decide.”

  “I’m not telling you,” I said. “I’m begging you.”

  He sat back in his chair and drank wine.

  I could feel the clock ticking. I didn’t know where the General’s home was, but once there, he could dispatch his men to find my kids. The walled compound wasn’t that big. It wouldn’t take long.

  I shook the chains again.

  “That’s a waste of your energy,” said Warren. “You’re not going anywhere until I decide.”

  “Call the guard,” I told him.

  “Why?”

  “The one behind me. Call him.”

  “You don’t get to call the shots in here. I’m beginning to think the General was right about you.”

  Time.

  I had to get free and find my kids. The General’s men might find them before me. He might hurt them and try to cloud my mind, try for revenge.

  That couldn’t happen.

  I grabbed the table with one hand and tilted it up on a leg. The plates and glasses slid off the side and smashed on the floor.

  Warren screamed, but I ignored him.

  I flipped the table over, and spun around on my heels. The chain holding me down swung free and out in an arc.

  It cracked across the riot helmet of the guard as he rushed to stop me.

  Even with the protective gear, the speed of the chain sent him stumbling. I kicked for his most vulnerable part I could see, his chin where the helmet was strapped.

  Not hard enough to kill, but it knocked him out.

  I dropped to my knees, fumbled up the shotgun and twisted toward the king. He sat in his chair, mouth open.

  “Keys.”

  “Other guard,” he waved at the door. “For just such an occasion.”

  “Then you’re good at planning ahead.”

  He nodded.

  “I am.”

  “Then what’s your plan to get me out of here.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “Then what?” Warren asked and waited.

  He was calm under pressure, after the first scream. I wouldn’t quite call him composed. He had a tic under his left eye, a muscle spasm from stress. The twitch made him look vulnerable, so despite the face he put on, the stoic look he adopted to mask his fear, he was afraid of something.

  Of me.

  “Then I’m leaving,” I told him.

  I tried to keep my voice level, even. To let him know I wasn’t planning on killing anyone. That I just wanted to get out beyond the gates and take my kids and disappear.

  “I can allow that.”

  It was tough not to admire him. I had a gun. I had the upper hand. He had heard whatever stories the General made up about me to turn me into a roving boogieman, and he still acted like a man in charge.

  “Head Man in Charge,” I snickered.

  “The M stands for something else.”

  “I know, I was trying to be polite for our dinner conversation.” />
  That made him smile, a real smile, or he was damn good at pretending.

  “I hate that we wasted almost a whole chicken.”

  This time the hand waved at the floor.

  “You can strip the meat and make a soup. It hasn’t been on the floor that long. And if you weren’t behind these walls, you might eat worse.”

  I hadn’t yet, but once we were done with the canned food, I suspected we might go to dog food, or cat food in cans. If we were hungry enough, we could pretend it was pate.

  “I’ll have my men escort you to the gate.”

  I sighed.

  “No dice, Warren. What we have here is considered an impasse. A catch 22 if you will. I don’t trust you.”

  He leaned back in his chair and put his pudgy fingers on the tip of his nose in a steeple.

  I’d read an article about leadership that said people did that to look smart. It was a way for con men to convince people that they were really listening.

  I indulged him.

  “You could decide to have your men jump me,” I rattled my wrists. “I’m still chained.”

  “I’ll have them escort your children first so you know they’re free. I’ll have them radio us.”

  Was he really trying?

  Or buying time?

  “Again, you could have one of your men press a gun to my son’s head and tell him to say something that wasn’t true just to get me out there.”

  He pursed his lips, crinkled his brow.

  “You say you want to leave, and I offer you safe passage, but you’re refusing.”

  “Maybe you need to earn my trust.”

  He sat up in his chair then.

  “The man behind you is coming too. He has plastic cuffs on his belt, you should bind his hands.”

  I listened. There was a shuffling noise at my back, a low groaning series of grunts. I kept one eye on Warren and did as he suggested.

  The zip ties were in his belt, just as the man said.

  “I have you,” I told him. “You have my kids. But you just earned some points Warren. Get the other guard in here with the key and we’ll take the next step.”

  He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a yellow walkie talkie.

  “Did you get that?”

  “We’re coming through,” a voice sounded from the other end.