by Anna Oney
Grinding her teeth, Fawn eyed their automatic weapons.
“I don’t think she means us any harm, Tye,” Vance said, as his comrade reached his side. “If she did, I think she would’ve tried something by now.”
“Vance,” Tye said, aiming his weapon in Fawn’s direction. “Shut up. We’ve got orders.” Locking eyes with Fawn, he said, “Hand it over.”
Are you ready to die today, Fawn McCord? she asked herself, cutting her eyes downward and to the right. Or are there still some things you’re meant to do?
Taking a deep breath, she raised her chin, holding out her bow.
“Didn’t you say you were coming to me?” she asked, cocking her head. “You want it, here it is.”
Get the cylinder, she thought, as Tye snatched the bow from her grasp. Stick with the plan.
“Blade too,” Tye said, pulling the hatchet from the loop at Fawn’s hip, and running the stock of the hatchet through one of the belt loops around his waist. “Come with me,” he said, situating her bowstring across his chest, and slinging her quiver of arrows over his shoulder. “Vance, take her horse.”
Following Tye’s command, Vance seemed to catch the stiffening of Fawn’s muscles in her jaw, as he said, “I won’t hurt her. She’ll be safe in the stables.”
“Under guard,” Tye added, latching his calloused hand to Fawn’s forearm. “You’ll get her back when Commander Asher says you can get her back,” he said, motioning toward the open gate. “Go on, Vance, damn!”
“But Commander Asher’s not scheduled to be back for days.”
“Go on, Vance,” Tye repeated, as his eyes became slits, and he tightened his grip on Fawn’s arm. “Do as I say. You know who my brother is.”
Vance stepped toward Juniper, seeming to hold back his tongue. There was something about Vance that eased Fawn’s mind. A softness or empathy, perhaps. Somehow, she knew he wouldn’t harm Juniper. Juniper felt the same, as she didn’t jerk away from his grasp. Not every member of the NWA was a misogynistic jerk like Tye, and that comforted Fawn.
Only inches from the entry point, Fawn watched from outside as Vance led Juniper farther away inside.
I’ll get you back, Juniper, she thought, cringing at the pressure of Tye’s hand on her arm. It won’t be long.
Tye jerked her arm to the right instead of forward.
“Come on,” he snarled, pressing his mouth to her ear. “Move.”
He parted from the side of her face, leaving spittle on her ear. As he pulled her further away from the entrance, she noticed his penis hardening beneath his britches, accelerating her desire to escape.
“You’re just asking for it, breaking the rules like that,” he said, rubbing himself. “You need to be punished.”
So many thoughts ran through her mind as he jerked at her arm once more, but only one stuck.
Lacing Switch.
Thirteen years ago, she’d made a pact with herself to fight no matter how hopeless the situation.
“You mistake me, sir,” she said, as she could no longer see the doors of the back-barrier. “You mistake me for someone who’s going to let this happen.”
Again.
She raised her knee beneath the stock of her hatchet, freeing it from the loop around his waist.
The words, “What the hell?” escaped his mouth at a volume she feared would send more soldiers. The hatchet seemed to fall in slow motion as they reached for it at the same time. Their bodies collided as Fawn reached for the hatchet, smacking Tye’s thigh by mistake. Together, they stumbled to the ground — hands overlapping each other’s as Fawn slammed her palm upon the stock of the hatchet.
“Let it go!” Tye exclaimed, receiving an elbow to the face. “Now!”
Spit flew from their mouths as they began an ultimate tug-of-war. She made a mental note to thank Pete and Axton for the tug-of-war competitions they had held as children. Her brothers’ grunts and laboring breaths of overexertion had given her the fuel to push through the blisters forming on her hands. By thirteen, she’d gained enough strength in her arms to fight them off two at a time.
Fawn and Tye’s thrashing movements on the ground sent dust afloat. The inside of her mouth and nostrils were coated with dirt.
“Let it go,” he repeated, scrambling to both aim his rifle and tug at the hatchet. “I mean it! Let it go!”
Fawn bit down on Tye’s fingers holding the hatchet, drawing blood, but they didn’t budge.
Through the dirt scratching her throat, she managed to say, “No . . . way.”
Still gripping the hatchet, she clamped her eyes shut, which, by now, were burning and red, sending tears down her cheeks. Having successfully flushed out her eyes, she blinked twice to refocus, and was able to make out the barrel of Tye’s rifle pointing directly at her. She tugged at the hatchet with all her might, when a blood-curdling, primal scream erupted from the cloud of dust enveloping them. Within half a second, Tye’s grip faltered, forcing Fawn to fall back from her knees onto her backside.
Tye’s screams became gurgles, and then . . . nothing.
Her arm remained frozen in midair with the hatchet. Dust began to descend, revealing a heap of spotted fur draped over Tye’s torso. A pair of pointed ears bobbed up and down upon Tye’s throat, sending blood gushing from both sides of the animal’s jaw. Soon the loosened earth around Tye’s head became clotted with blood.
Fawn’s impulses kicked in, willing her to scoot backwards on her palms and heels.
“B-Bob,” she whispered, as the animal detached its jaws from Tye’s ravaged skin.
On all fours, the bobtailed creature stood on Tye’s torso and slowly turned to face her. Somehow, Bob had grown from the last time she’d seen him. Trapped by the snare, he’d been vulnerable, frightened. But now, he was stout and proud. Blood covered his face and dripped randomly from his whiskers. The thin line of split flesh across Bob’s middle didn’t seem to bother him at all.
Both appreciative and a little scared by Bob’s intervention, Fawn rose to her knees, lowering her hatchet. She held out her hand, beckoning him toward her.
“Thanks,” she whispered, trembling as he stepped from Tye’s body onto the ground.
Just as the tip of his wet nose grazed her fingers, a voice came from behind her.
“Go on,” a man’s voice shouted, sending Bob bolting. “Get away!”
Fawn sat stunned, peering after Bob’s short tail as he disappeared completely.
Another puff of dust was cast from the ground as the owner of the voice skidded to a kneel beside her. She felt the touch of a soft, but firm, hand circling her back and raised her chin to meet the furrowed brow of Blythe Greenlee.
“Ma’am,” he said, dropping the medium-sized stick he’d used to scare off Bob. “I don’t see any open wounds.”
He wore black, knee-length shorts with an off-white T-shirt.
“I-I’m fine,” she replied, her throat raw from the grainy dust. “You got any water?”
“No, ma’am, sorry,” he said, bringing his forearms beneath her armpits. “Here, let me help you up.” Lifting her from the ground, he continually whispered, “You’re okay. You’re okay.”
A cardinal soared above them as she came to her feet and perched itself upon the highest post of the barrier.
Beautiful creatures, cardinals are, she found herself thinking. There’s been an abundance of them, lately.
“Ma’am,” Blythe said, turning her body to face his. “Can you tell me what happened?”
“What have I told you about calling me ma’am?”
Rubbing his brow, he took a deep breath and let it loose.
“That’s Tye Sneed,” he continued, pointing toward Tye’s body. “Kid brother to Logan Sneed.”
Logan, Fawn thought. He’s the guy who was rough with Noelle at the hamburger lunch. Big Sneed.
“I’m sorry,” Blythe continued, “but I don’t think you understand the depth of the situation. No matter the circumstances, Big Sneed is going to have it out fo
r you.”
“I’m not a mind reader,” she said, kneeling beside Tye’s form. Blood continued to ooze from Tye’s torn flesh and pool on either side of his neck. Crimson was smeared across her forearm, where pinkish indentations had been left by the tips of Tye’s fingers.
She retrieved her bow from across Tye’s chest and her quiver from his shoulder. “But, I’m pretty sure his plan was to rape me,” she continued, without giving the blood much thought. “Plus, he did say that I was just asking for it. For breaking the rules and all.” She rose from the ground, situating the bowstring across her chest. “How that warrants sexual assault, I do not know.”
“Ma—” he began, but corrected himself. “Miss McCord, we have to get rid of the body.”
CHAPTER NINE
Thirty-two minutes earlier
Blythe ran with more gumption than he had in the last couple of days. Life within Back Wood’s walls, although broad, was stifling to him. Three days a week, Blythe excused himself from the blindness of the community’s inhabitants and tried to distance himself from the guilt of following along with his so-called “comrades’” lies.
On his way out of the community, Tye Sneed had given him hell for leaving Back Wood’s walls. Often, when Blythe refused to do what his adopted brother commanded, Tye would take the insubordination to Asher, tattling on Blythe like a disgruntled schoolboy.
Since he was nine-years-old, Blythe had looked at Logan and Tye as little boys vying for daddy’s attention and approval. Logan and Tye’s parents were executed for treason around the same time as Blythe’s father. Asher took the three of them in, swearing he could make them loyal soldiers. Being a molder of small minds, with little to no original thought, Asher was successful in brainwashing the two blood brothers within a year of them being in his care. Blythe, however, remembered his own father quite well, and Byron Asher wasn’t one-third the man Plath Greenlee was.
Blythe had heard the story of how the New World Army had come to be so many times, he knew it by heart. Asher loved to gloat, and who better to gloat in front of than the three young boys in his care?
***
The NWA was founded by Cdr. Richard Asher, Byron Asher’s father. At the time of President Treemont’s assassination — two years before the solar flare — Cdr. Richard Asher had been stationed at a military base, located one hundred miles from Washington, D.C. Due to Richard’s radical thinking, some had believed he was responsible for President Treemont’s untimely death. Richard had disagreed with the nuking the President had ordered to take place in the Middle East, eradicating their people from existence and ending the War on Terror. He was rumored to have made speeches underground, urging a revolt against the government of the United States.
After the solar flare, civilized humanity had suffered massive starvation and population reduction. Society hadn’t been designed to withstand the sudden shock. Loss of refrigeration and the ability to cook anything made food scarce for city people. Security measures on warehouses and shelf-stable food were overwhelmed fairly quickly by the hungry that hadn’t yet been weakened by starvation. People were quick to steal or murder their neighbors for the supplies they had.
All databases had gone down: banks, medical records, police records. Three months after the flare, all electronics and communication systems had been wiped out, and a civil war had broken out amongst the Northern states of America, ravaging the land. The Southern states had been spared the war and remained oblivious to the fact it had even occurred.
The flare had left the earth’s people disoriented without a plan for the future. A life without electronics had been thrust upon them. A world in which people couldn’t count on their handheld devices to distract them from the unpleasant truths about the downfall of the country.
The solar flare and the civil war had given Richard Asher the push to form his own dictatorship — allowing him to swoop in and take charge. He had started out with a thousand or so like-minded individuals. They overtook the government, taking advantage of its resources. Little by little, his army had grown — not because people had been eager to join, but because they had feared what would happen if they had refused. In Blythe’s eyes, Richard Asher had been nothing but a bully — a huge child, who would throw a tantrum that would lead to a killing spree if his subordinates didn’t fall in line.
Byron Asher was born at the end of the civil war, and grew up wanting to be a commander in his father’s regime when he finally came of age. For the first five years, the country was coated with chaos and anarchy. The New World Army’s next mission, after ending the war, was to repair the power plants and transformers located all over the country. Warehouses upon warehouses were stocked full of parts to mend the transformers.
Equipped with diesel generators and weapons stolen from military bases, Richard planned to spread his views, and demand they be implemented and complied with immediately — or else. People with perverse beliefs — mainly those who valued God’s word and those unlucky enough to be born a darker shade than white — could be cured by serving the soldiers of the NWA. Women had it worse, as they were considered the “lesser” gender. As such, they were forced to participate in sexual activities against their will and used for breeding purposes.
Following Cdr. Richard Asher’s death twenty-one years ago, his son had taken over his regime. Byron Asher had done something his father would never have done — appoint two female interrogators, Oleander Crane and Maude Finch. They were what Asher called, “The Untouchables,” and the only women for whom he seemed to have the utmost respect. Blythe assumed it was because Asher didn’t necessarily see them as average women due to their high level of intelligence and brutal, cunning approach as interrogators.
Respect all women, Blythe’s father had taught him. Every single one. You can start by addressing them as “ma’am.”
Blythe was convinced that the only thing keeping Byron Asher in charge was that he was Cdr. Richard Asher’s son. There was power in a name, and Oleander Crane knew how to take advantage of it and bend it to her will. Blythe suspected that Crane was the mastermind behind all of Asher’s calculated moves. Over three years ago, she’d begun sleeping with Asher exclusively, but had Big Sneed on the side. Asher was merely a puppet. Crane knew how to pull his strings to get what she wanted. Sometimes, she went as far as having people killed over simple disagreements. Crane and Big Sneed were unaware that Blythe knew of their ongoing affair. Had they known, Blythe was certain one of them would’ve slit his throat in his sleep by now.
Oleander Crane was two years older than Blythe. At eight-years-old, he and his father, Plath, had found Crane starving alongside her crazed mother. Seared into Blythe’s memory was the sight of a skin and bones Crane, gnawing at her fingers in a run-down machine factory. Blythe and Crane became friends shortly after the NWA had taken in her and her mother.
Crane’s mother, a devout Christian woman, had refused to scavenge for food because she was certain that the Lord would provide. The woman had forbidden Crane to search for food, and would beat her if she caught the child doing so. Shortly after Crane and her mother had settled in to the NWA, a soldier had found Crane’s mother dead in their bed. She had been stabbed multiple times in her chest and stomach. The soldier had found Crane covered in blood carving the words, “Where is your God now?” into her mother’s forearm. That was the last day Blythe had considered Crane a friend.
Blythe often wondered if Oleander Crane was aware that she’d been named after a poisonous flower. It certainly fit her personality. She was just as beautiful as the flower, but possessed a poisonous soul.
Asher had entrusted Crane with the proceedings in Austin, while he handled the East Texas area. Instead of shoving their views down the Southern peoples’ gullets, Blythe believed the NWA should have asked them what their secret was. These “rednecks,” as Asher liked to call them, had, for the most part, survived without mass starvation or killings. They had managed to accomplish something the Northerners had failed to do.
***
Speeding up, Blythe turned a corner of the trail, receiving a whack in the face from a jutting branch. Stumbling a couple of feet, Blythe had covered his face with his hands when a vision of Plath walking beside him through one of the NWA’s encampments came flooding back. He could feel his father’s palm resting between his shoulders as he collected himself. Pushing through the numbing memory, his father’s last words came to him, clear as day — as though Plath were walking beside him now.
“I love you, Son,” he’d said. “Be your best self.”
Blythe decided to walk the distance back to the community instead of running. Thinking back, he wondered if his father had known his time was up — that the NWA had finally found him out. Plath had never included Blythe in his mission to help those the NWA intended to rule, but he had never lied to his son either. Blythe was always aware of where his father was and what he was doing, but the NWA never suspected he was involved in his father’s actions. After all, Blythe was only a boy when the NWA had arrested his father. A boy who would grow to resent everything the NWA stood for, but was too scared to do anything substantial about it.
Sure, he’d helped the McCord woman by putting her on the list for administered vaccines, when, in fact, he hadn’t injected her with the liquefied device the NWA had titled, “location serum.” It was something he was sure he’d regret later, but at the time, it had made him feel as though he was making a small difference. Making his father proud. But even microscopic actions had the tendency to grow into something monumental.
I love you, Son, Blythe recited to himself. Be your best self.
The love of his father had been the only constant thing Blythe had as a child. The NWA would only stay in one place for a year or two, and then they moved on to the next town or state.
The day his father was executed, Blythe had felt as though all the love within him had bled out and mixed with his father’s blood on the stage where they had him on display. Of course, Blythe had been forced to watch. At the time, he didn’t understand why the NWA had wished to scar him in such a brutal way, but later, after one year in Asher’s care, he’d understood it had been a tactic to teach the consequences of treason to a traitor’s son.