"What's the hurry?"
She turned her head to him. "Perhaps I didn't make myself quite clear at our first meeting. When General Mendoza returns, he is to find all projects completed on schedule. If he doesn't, then he will be displeased. You will suffer, the people will suffer, and he will also be angry with me." Devon thought he saw a flicker pass across her face, as if a ghost of past pain.
"You are possibly not aware, but the general has a … view on the sort of people he wants in the cities and settlements under his control."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Devon asked, gazing out at the poor devils in the field. He tried to ignore their poisoned glances. He could just imagine how it looked to them. How would he feel in their position?
Marianna shrugged as if it was obvious. "There is a place for those who contribute the most to our new society. I would want to be among those when he returns."
"I still don't understand your point." He was lying, but he wanted her to say it out loud.
"The unproductive will be … removed. I'm sure there are some among those down below who are pulling their weight. Others, however, most certainly are not. The general will make allowances for the young, as they will grow into their strength. But for those whose best years are behind them …"
Devon turned to face her. "You're talking about murdering the old."
"He would say it was thinning out the herd."
"Then he thinks of them as animals?"
Her eyes flashed. "Careful, Mr. Mayor. Your loyalty to your people is commendable, but I will not tolerate disrespect of our leader. Now, what will you do to improve productivity? My foremen are at a loss."
"I suspect they've reached the limit of what their whips can achieve," Devon said. He raised his hand before she could protest. "We could either divert people from other projects …"
"… and make those late."
"… or have them work longer hours. Maybe even offer incentives."
"What greater incentive do they need than their own lives?"
Devon sighed. "I'll do my best."
"Then let us hope it's enough. They must complete the work tomorrow."
"But you said it would take another two days!"
"Tomorrow, Devon. We cannot afford to fall behind." She turned to go, gesturing to her guards to move ahead. "Look, we have important visitors next week. If they do not see a model town, then there will be reprisals. We will all suffer, but those people will be hit hardest." Her eyes lingered on his for an extra moment, as if he were trying to communicate something without speaking, but whatever the message was, Devon, as usual, wasn't receiving.
That night, as Devon stood in front of two hundred and fifty exhausted, angry citizens of Hope, he discovered the true meaning of wretchedness. They accused him of everything from cruelty to callousness and collaboration. They accepted no explanation, not until he gave it to them straight: work harder, work longer, get it finished tomorrow or slackers would be shot. He wouldn't be pulling the trigger but, from the perspective of many, he was as guilty as the people he served.
And he saw their point. If someone else were in his shoes, he would be leading the abuse. There was no excuse for collaboration, it turned out, until it was you facing the impossible choice.
It hadn't helped that Marianna had insisted he take two black-masked fighters to protect him. He couldn't have looked more like a stooge if he'd tried. But at least no one had knifed him in the back on their way out. The surly presence of Sheriff Laverne had made matters even worse. To most of the people in that room, Devon looked like he was a paid-up member of the Sons of Solomon or, at the very least, one of their operatives.
"You can't blame them none," Joe said as they sat in the Bowie living room. The only bright part of a dark day had been to see Martha sitting beside him. It was the first time Devon had known her get out of bed in months. Roger the cockerel had snuggled between them.
"I don't, Joe, believe me. But if you can see a way out of this for me, then I'm all ears."
"But didn't you say Jessie's safe, so they ain't got nothin' on you no more?"
Devon sighed. "Yeah, but I don't want them to know that I know."
"Why? You reckon they'll pop you off?"
Martha swiped a hand at her husband. "You shut yer mouth, Joe Bowie. You ain't got the brains you was born with. This here chicken's smarter than you." Roger's head popped up, looked at his new best friend and disappeared into a mass of feathers again. "No, he don't want them to know because he's workin' for the resistance. Ain't that right?"
Devon was opening his mouth to respond when someone pounded on the front door.
"They heard you!" Joe said, jumping up like a kangaroo.
"Don't be so stupid!" Martha responded, though she looked unnerved.
Joe went to the door, but returned seconds later, obviously relieved. "It's okay, it's only Lynda."
Lynda Strickland followed him into the room looking exhausted. "Oh, you're here."
"Hello, Lynda. Yes, it seems the Bowies' place is collaborator central this evening."
"I'm not a collaborator! They threatened to hurt people if I didn't help."
Devon gave a grim chuckle. "It's just a pity those people don't seem to appreciate it."
"Sit yourself down, Lynda," Martha said, gesturing at the easy chair her father-in-law Dave had dragged into place.
Strickland slumped down and let out a huge sigh. "Well, I'm glad to see you up and out of bed, Martha. That's the first good news I've had in a few days."
"And it's good to see you, but aren't you takin' a risk comin' here? If anyone sees you …"
She nodded nervously. "Yes, but I needed to talk to someone about it and maybe it's good that Devon's here. But then, perhaps you already know? You were out in the field today with her."
"Already know what?"
"About the … the inspection. Next week."
Devon shrugged. "She said Mendoza would be back. I've got to push people half to death, or he'll finish the job."
"Not just Mendoza," Strickland said, glancing into the dark corners of the candle-lit room as if a spy might be hiding in them. "She says it's just about the entire high command. 'The Committee', she called it."
The couch moaned as Dave Bowie squeezed in beside Martha. "Why on Earth would the bigwigs be coming here of all places?"
"Because we survived," Devon said. "As far as we know, that makes us unique."
Lynda's head bobbed up and down. "Yes, that's it. They want Hope to be their regional capital. She said some of them think it was divine providence, or at least that's what they want people to think. But, in any case, Hope is a working town they think they can make self-sufficient quickly. She hinted that they would move people here, make it a seat of government."
"Where are these people gonna live?" Dave said.
Devon grunted and ran his hands down his face in a vain attempt to rub away exhaustion and dread. "I have a feeling they're planning to 'thin out the herd'."
"The old and the weak," Martha said. "They're gonna squeeze the last juice out of those oranges, then throw them in the trash."
"Why are you telling us this, Lynda?" Dave asked.
She seemed to deflate a little as she sank into the high-backed chair, almost disappearing into the shadows cast by its wings. "I'm not entirely sure. I guess I thought if anyone knew what to do with that news, it'd be the Bowies."
Devon had also sat back, his mind suddenly freed as if someone had squirted lubricating oil on the cogs and springs. "The entire high command in one place? Good grief, we have a chance to cut the head off the snake; perhaps bring the entire organization down."
"You're right, Dev," Joe Bowie said, his face alive in the dancing candlelight. "Hit 'em hard, knock 'em out."
"Oh, shut your mouth, Joe Bowie," Martha said, though with more nervousness about her voice than usual. "How are we gonna do that? A cripple, an old man, a fool and two collaborators. What chance have we got?"
"Leave it with me," Devon said,
"I know someone who can help."
And, that night, he left a message in the agreed place behind the Church of the Latter-Day Saints. In the morning, it had gone.
Chapter 5: Rusty
The church bell rang as people filed out into the sunlight. Someone had rescued it from the ruins of the old Baptist church in the south of Springs—not far from the brothel—and set up in the roof of the latest newly built house. Rusty had loaned his aging muscles to building that place, and yet he had felt little fellowship during the service.
The priest—a retired Presbyterian—had arranged a motley selection of chairs facing a makeshift altar in the largest room which had been designed to hold assemblies of people as well as to provide living space. Rusty and Duck had shuffled in to find that the priest had roped off the front rows with a handwritten sign that said Springs Citizens Only.
So, they'd joined the other Hoper refugees in the back rows and listened to a sermon that had the hand of Otis Weppler all over it.
At least it was over now, and Rusty was looking forward to a lazy afternoon on the Lord's day of rest in the company of Duck and their best friend Bud Weiser.
"Mr. Kaminski!"
Rusty sighed when he heard that high-pitched voice. Weppler whined like an old Chevy with a dodgy alternator.
Weppler's pot-bellied frame emerged from the door of the newly built dwelling—built at least in part by Rusty himself—and jogged over to where Rusty waited with Duck.
"Mr. Kaminski," he said between puffs as he held his sides after exerting himself over ten long yards. "The council met yesterday, and we have decided to assume authority for our defense forces. As our founding fathers clearly intended, it is not for the military to govern."
Rusty had known this was coming. "What does Sergeant Gruman have to say about it?" He knew perfectly well that Mara terrified Weppler. To be honest, he could see why. She'd served in the Israel Defense Forces, took no nonsense and had little patience. Especially for toads like Weppler.
"As I explained, she defers to you as the leader of the civilian community of Hope. In exile."
"But I don't give her any orders, Otis. That's prob'ly why she don't mind me being in charge. She knows her own business, and she keeps her boys and girls in line."
Weppler's face contracted into the sort of expression a young child adopts when they pick an Every Flavor Bean and get vomit. He lifted a hand to shield his mouth. "I've heard disturbing rumors that she uses the facilities at the brothel herself."
"Look, Otis, I don't care what fuels your wet dreams, but if you think Mara's gonna follow your orders, then I admire your optimism."
Weppler flushed and wagged his finger. "That is not acceptable, Mr. Kaminski. May I remind you that your people are here with our agreement and under our sufferance? These can be withdrawn at any time."
"And it's my people who've done a large share of the rebuildin' of this place, and don't you forget it! Now, I'll speak to Mara, but if she don't agree, then I ain't gonna overrule her."
"Unacceptable!" Weppler whined. "This is not a military state! You must hand over control to the civilian authority."
"Or what, Otis?"
The man's face was so red now it looked as though it might explode at any moment. He tried to form words then, just as he seemed to have assembled a coherent retort and had opened his mouth to deliver it, another voice interrupted.
"I think I have a solution, if I may."
Rusty spun around. "Paul! You made it!"
Paul Hickman nodded to Kaminski and turned to face the bureaucrat. "My name is Paul Hickman, and I've come to take our troops home."
"I get you some tea," Mrs. Dabkowski said as Rusty, Hickman and Mara Gruman settled into the wooden chairs at the big kitchen table.
"It's nice that Rusty brings his friends home," she added to the accompaniment of clanking crockery as she rummaged in the dresser.
The sheriff rolled his eyes, but smiled as he nodded toward the bustling figure at the kitchen sink. "Devon told me about this place; said I should stay with Teresa whenever I'm in Springs and he was right. It's a regular home from home." In fact, Rusty had no desire to live anywhere else. His short time here had been the first time in many years he'd felt looked after. She'd knocked off the rough edges caused by years of living on his own but, in the main, she'd treated him like a long-lost son. Which was ironic as he had to be almost as old as she was.
"You said we had to wait until we're alone before you'd tell us what you're doin' here, so let's get on with it," Kaminski said. "You can trust Mrs. Dobkowski."
Hickman looked doubtful but, after a moment, shrugged and leaned forward. "We've got a chance to deal a killing blow to the Sons of Solomon."
Rusty slapped his hand over his mouth just in time to prevent tea spraying across the table, but not fast enough to stop it dribbling from his palm.
"Rusty, you are a silly boy," the old woman said, wiping his mouth and hand.
He glanced up at her as he ran his sleeve across his mouth. "Sorry. But Paul, what are you talking about."
"Their high command is gonna be in Hope next week. We've got a chance to wipe out the monsters behind the firestorm, the glue that keeps them all together."
Mara shook her head. "Elohei. So, that's why you're here? You need the militia? Or what's left of it."
"I need it, Gert needs it."
"He's alive??"
Hick nodded. "Yeah. We got a farmhouse to the northwest of Hope. He wants to gather everyone there so we can plan the best way to hit them."
"Well, I sure am happy to hear he made it," Rusty said, "but they'll be protected, surely? And they ain't short of manpower."
"It isn't about numbers," Mara said. "It just needs a small squad of our best fighters to hit the town at the right moment."
They each sat quietly for a moment, sipping on their hot tea. It was Mrs. Dabkowski who broke the silence. "Are you all going? Will you take away all our protection?"
Hick looked up at the woman as she stood at the head of the table. He opened his mouth to respond, but Rusty got their first. "No, Teresa. I'll be stayin' at least. And don't even think of arguin' Hick. I ain't much use as a commando, but I can help a little here. I reckon I've got some roots in this place, and if you'll leave some arms and ammunition, then maybe we can keep Springs safe. There won't be a whole lot of point you killing the leaders of the Sons if they or some other bandits have destroyed all we've built while our back's turned."
"What about Otis Weppler?"
"Oh, I reckon I can handle him," Rusty said.
Hickman nodded. "If it helps, I'll appoint you deputy mayor of Hope. That'll give you the authority you need to look after the interests of our people, at least in the eyes of that little sh—"
"Mr. Hickman!" Teresa said. "Not on a Sunday!"
The following morning, Rusty watched as the truck rolled away. Hickman had stayed the night at Mrs. Dabkowski's and it had been good to catch up with him. Rusty felt as though he knew as much about how things stood as was good for him, and perhaps a little more. But even as Hick waved from the passenger seat, Rusty couldn't help feeling his spirit lighten a little. Paul Hickman was a man of his time, fueled by bitterness and uninhibited by regret or uncertainty. But death stalked his every footstep and Rusty was glad to see that cloud depart. He didn't know how long they'd have before he and his geriatric defense force would face their first challenge, but while it lasted he intended to enjoy the sunshine.
It lasted ten minutes.
He heard Otis Weppler before he saw him, so he was ready as he turned around. "Now, before you say a word, Otis, I'll tell you this. I'm forming a new defense force, and it'll be under my command. I'm happy to work with you and listen to what the council says, but I ain't followin' your orders and if you want our protection you'll suck it up and like it. You can tell folks you're in charge if you like, just don't try to puff out your chest and go all Eisenhower on me; it ain't gonna wash."
His smile broadened as
, after blustering what amounted to a complete capitulation, the little man scurried away.
Duck Dale emerged from the back door of Mrs. Dobkowski's carrying a newly cleaned shotgun. "Well, you sure sent him away with his tail between his legs."
"Yeah, and I ain't gonna pretend I didn't enjoy it."
"Just don't turn your back to him, will you? Or you might find yourself with a knife between your shoulder blades."
But Rusty Kaminski wasn't listening. He simply nodded and headed for the rocking chair in the porch.
Let them come. He would be ready.
Chapter 6: Plan
It was his own little rebellious act, but worth the risk. Devon swung the mattock down, his legs astride the trench and cut through the last sliver of turf, allowing the river water to first trickle and then pour into the main trench. He jumped back, so he was now on one side of the artificial stream and wiped the sweat from his face with the cotton T-shirt he'd pulled off and tied around his neck.
To begin with, he'd been unwilling to go bare-chested, but he'd seen some sights that made him feel like an Adonis—though he was forty pounds too heavy, several shades too brown and had too many scars to play that particular part. The small group who'd gathered for the final stroke applauded without much enthusiasm and drifted back to their co-workers who were sitting in the shade of one of the few trees that stood near the entrance to the field.
He knew Marianna wouldn't approve, but he didn't care. What was he supposed to do? Sit in his office sharpening pencils while his fellow citizens toiled in the field? He'd told them they had to get the project finished today, and it was only right that he should help make that happen.
Not that they'd appreciated his help. Joe and Jade, of course, were on his side, but most of the others turned their backs and got on with their work, exhaustion robbing them of the will to think about anything more than surviving the day.
And, aside from a few tweaks here and there, they had managed it. Devon followed the last of the townsfolk out of the gate and up the incline to where he'd stood yesterday with Marianna. What had been a chunk of wasted land running between the foot of the mountains and the highway was now cut in half by a long trench—almost a canal—that ran at right angles to them both. The workers had cut smaller ditches on both sides parallel to the road, so the effect was to create a series of rectangular parcels of land surrounded on three sides by water. Or, at least, they would be once the feeble midsummer flow of the mountain-fed stream had filled the last trench.
Last Hope: Book 5 in the Thrilling Post-Apocalyptic Survival Series: (The Last City - Book 5) Page 4