Valley of Reckoning

by N A Broadley

  “I know where they are keeping all the medicines and medical supplies. There are several in this group that are sick. Can we take the time to grab the stuff?”

  Roger looked into her blue eyes and smiled. “Of course we can, Miss… errrr…”

  She grinned and held out her hand. “Melissa. Just call me Mel, everyone else does,” she replied. “I’m sort of the adopted mama to everyone here,” she sighed sadly.

  Bobby and his gang had murdered many of the women and children's families. She took them all under her wing, caring for them after the beatings, the rapes, and the other abuses they’d suffered at the hands of the men Bobby had pimped them out to.

  Roger called over Cain and told him what the woman suggested. He watched the two of them stroll toward the police station. Bobby used it for a clinic of sorts. After a few minutes, they both returned with two boxes stuffed full of bandages, assorted medications, antiseptics and bottles of various products. Mel held her hand up with a bottle in it and smiled timidly.

  “We’ve got many with lice. I’ll treat them along the way. Don’t want to be bringing that nasty bug home to your folk.”

  Roger nodded. Lice? What else would they find with these refugees? Scabies was a good possibility along with venereal diseases. He shook his head sadly. He couldn’t imagine what some of these women and children had been through and he didn’t want to. If he thought too long and hard about it, he’d probably lose his mind.

  Just before dusk they slowly made their way out of town; his men on horseback, along with the prisoners on foot, and the three wagons following behind. It would be a long and arduous trip. He estimated it would take probably triple the time it normally would. Roger glanced over his shoulder at the parade of faces behind him.

  He glanced at Mitch, who rode beside him, and smiled tiredly. “I don’t know how these people survived this,” he murmured.

  The last thing he saw were two more people running toward him, an older man and a woman, waving their hands and smiling. The explosion propelled him from his horse, and he landed on the ground, hearing screams of terror erupting around him.

  Cain ran up from behind the wagons. His ears rang with the concussion of the explosion, and his heart beat rapidly in his chest almost to the point of panic. The air smelled of sulfur and burnt flesh. Acrid blue-gray smoke hung in the air, stinging his eyes, making them water. In shock, with wild eyes, he took in the carnage in front of him.

  There were so many men and women on the ground. Screams of pain, of agony, ripped into the air. Spying Roger, lying twisted and broken, he ran to him and knelt. His heart sank when he looked down upon the man who had taken him in as one of his kin. A thick wedge of bone protruded from his chest, and his legs were splayed out at an awkward angle.

  “Roger, don’t move,” Cain muttered. He looked down at him and placed gentle hands of his shoulders.

  “You’ve got a bone broken in your chest; I think it’s a rib that punctured through.”

  Roger grimaced. Funny, he felt no pain. Craning his neck to look, he let out a soft cough of laughter.

  “Oh, boy. That ain’t my bone,” he murmured. He watched Cain’s eyes widened in horror. Milton, one of his friends, moved up beside him.

  “Cain? What do we do?” he muttered, with shock written all over his face. Cain sucked in a deep breath and swiveled his head, taking in the carnage that lay all around him. He didn’t know. Panic sucked at his breath. He watched as men and women who hadn’t been hurt by the explosion began to pull together and tend to the wounded. Looking down at Roger, Cain’s eyes filled with tears.

  “Hang on Roger. Hang on,” he choked. He saw the life slipping from Rogers' eyes. Roger looked up at him and smiled.

  “You take care of the compound, boy. And Mary Anne, she’s gonna take this hard,” he whispered. With one last rattling breath, he gave into the death that waited for him.

  Cain howled in agony, and he felt strong hands on his shoulders. He cried as he bent over Roger’s body. He turned his head and looked up into Milton’s sad eyes.

  “C’mon, boy, we need help with the living,” he murmured. There would be time for mourning later. Cain stumbled to his feet and shaking; he turned to those who were still standing.

  “Check the wounded. There are medical supplies in the wagon. Let’s get it together, people!” he shouted. His heart shattered with grief.

  ∞

  Mitch opened his eyes. The blue sky danced with puffy white clouds and he stared up into it. His chest pounded with pain, and he groaned as he rolled onto his side. He smelled heavy smoke and coughed. Screams filled the air around him. Using his hands, he pushed himself up off the pavement, where he had landed after the explosion. He sat stunned, his eyes wildly searching for Roger. A gash on his head was leaking blood, down over his face, causing his eyes to sting. Another trickle of blood ran down the side of his neck from his ear; his eardrum had ruptured. Sucking in a deep breath, he struggled to his feet and staggered toward Roger. He looked down at his dead friend, and his heart exploded with rage.

  ∞

  Cain staggered on shaking legs through the bodies that littered the ground. He saw Joey laying near the damaged wagon that took the brunt of the explosion. His left arm dangled uselessly by his side, hanging by a flap of skin below his elbow. He looked up at him with a helpless, scared expression on his sweaty face. Cain bent, pulled his belt off, and tied a tourniquet just above the elbow.

  “Just hang on, brotha. We’ll have you right as rain in no time,” Cain lied. Getting up, he stumbled to the next person.

  Jason moaned and clenched and unclenched his fists. Pain etched deep lines around the outside of his mouth. He grit his teeth to keep from screaming. Cain saw that Dennis bent over him with a blanket folded into a square pressing down on his stomach. Blood soaked the blanket a bright red. He looked at Dennis, and the man shook his head. It wouldn’t be long before blood loss would take twenty-five-year-old Jason’s life. He looked into the man’s eyes and smiled sadly.

  “I’m dying, ain’t I?” Jason moaned. Cain nodded.

  “Man, that just sucks,” Jason whispered. Cain turned his face away. Tears, hot and pressing stung his eyes.

  A scream from the back of the group drew his attention to two women standing over a child: seven-year-old Stella, Rose’s baby sister. Her body lay twisted and mangled, her eyes staring skyward. Sobs and shrieks met his ears. He looked down at her small frame, pain heavy on his heart. Shock tore through him when he saw the extent of the damage the explosion had caused. It looked like a war zone: bodies, blood, body parts, the smell of sulfur filling the air, the sounds of screams, prayers, and moans.

  When all was said and done the death toll had reached twenty-four. Fourteen of them were Bobby’s men, three of the rescued women and little Stella and six of Rogers’s men. The carnage of the two bombs painted Main Street a grisly and garish red.

  ∞

  Brian and Spike heard the explosion from a mile away. They’d traveled all night to catch up with Roger and the men. Throughout the night, Brian chewed over and over in his mind how they’d left Bobby; weak, broken, and pathetic. The man didn’t stand a chance of surviving the night. Part of him wanted to go back and check. Just to make sure and to watch the coyotes chewing on that miserable excuse for a man’s body. But he knew, Bobby was getting what he deserved, and karma was a bitch. When they had left him, Bobby had been as good as dead; his body just didn’t know it.

  When the explosion echoed in the distance, Brian shot Spike a glance and kicked his horse into a run. He prayed Roger and the men were not in the line of fire, but something in his gut told him they were. Racing along the road, side by side, they came upon the carnage—a gruesome puzzle of bodies and body parts, screams, and moans. Jumping quickly from his horse, Brian kicked himself into action. He swung his head around, eyes frantically seeking the enemy except there was none. No bullets were flying, no firefight. Just bodies. Everywhere.

  He spied Cain and
Mitch across the street, bending over Roger. Walking toward the two, he motioned to Spike.

  “It’s your granddad!” Cain was covering the old man with a blanket. Brian looked around with wide, shocked eyes. It looked like a scene out of the old war movies he used to watch on T.V. Bodies and body parts everywhere, scattered from one end of the street to the other. Faces, shocked with horror as people realized the extent of the damage. Spike ran past him and roared in anguish, pushing Cain out of the way he knelt beside his grandfather. Lifting the blanket, he about passed out at the sight before him. A large bone protruded from his grandfather’s chest; blood pooled brightly on either side of him. His eyes, lifeless and hollow, stared up into the bright blue sky.

  “What in the hell happened!” He came up off his knees and advanced on Cain. Cain retreated a few steps and shook his head. When he replied, his voice choked with anguish.

  “I don’t know. I don’t know, man!”

  Mitch coughed and with a raspy voice, spoke to Spike.

  “It was an explosion. We never saw it coming.”

  Brian stepped over and laid a restraining hand on Spikes' shoulder. He whirled on him angrily, growling with murderous rage in his eyes.

  “Get away from me!”

  Brian stepped away and dug his hands deep into his pockets. He would let the man have his grief. He walked away and began to assess the situation, helping with those he could and saying a brief but silent prayer for those beyond help. He bent over a man he didn’t know and felt Spike move up beside him.

  “It was a bomb. Cain said two people rushed them while they were heading out of town with the prisoners and refugees. They carried home-made bombs strapped to their chests. What the hell is the matter with these people; suicide bombers, and gang bangers? I just don’t get it!” His voice choked with emotion. Brian shook his head. He could find no words. No advice. He didn’t get it either. They, Roger and his men, were there to help save these people. This shouldn’t have happened.

  “I don’t know, my friend. I just don’t know.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Beth woke just before the first rays of light emerged behind the mountains, off in the distance. She limped her way quietly past Sarah’s room and out into the yard. The air tasted of morning dew and fresh grass. It tasted, to her, green, if green could be a taste. With her limping gate and one crutch, she made her way to the community kitchen. Her sneakers, bright neon purple ones that Mary Anne had given her, were soaked through, chilling her toes. Thinking about the sneakers on her feet brought a smile to her face. When Mary Anne had presented them to her, there was a story that went along with the gift.

  Long before the event, when Roger and Mary Anne decided to create the compound, Mary Anne had taken it in her head that lots of clothing would be needed. So, for years, she’d visited the town dump and its swap shop to bag up shoes, clothes, blankets, sheets, and other such items. Friends, she’d told Beth laughingly, had thought she’d lost her mind as her weekly trips to the dump became well known. They would whisper about her being a hoarder and other such things.

  But Mary Anne would just smile and gather for her storage. Curiosity created quite the buzz about her activities, and soon, townspeople would bring their clothing and household items to her, rather than the dump. Thus, Roger dedicated one entire barn to Mary Anne’s collection of clothing and other items. Beth remembered seeing it for the first time. Boxes and boxes, reaching high up into the loft, filled with everything one could need. Clothing of all sizes, bedding, curtains, pots, and pans. It was an incredible sight. Shaking her head, she laughed softly. It amazed her; the thriving community Mary Anne, and Roger had built. She approached the kitchen, where she got a waft of freshly brewed coffee.

  The kitchen bustled with activity from the three morning cooks, Mary Anne being one of them. On the old cook woodstove sat a large square pan of scrambled eggs and in the oven two pans of home-made biscuits. Bacon sizzled in two large cast-iron frying pans. The aroma tantalized Beth’s stomach and her mouth watered.

  She looked at Mary Anne and grinned, pouring a cup of coffee for herself. “How do you do it?”

  Mary Anne smiled. “Do what?”

  Beth waved one hand around the room at the trays and trays of eggs waiting to be scrambled once the pan emptied. She pointed to the biscuits just coming out of the oven, fluffy and golden brown. “This, all of this. Cooking on a woodstove? I am amazed!”

  She struggled enough cooking on her electric stove at home, never mind trying to keep the temperature of a woodstove where it didn’t burn everything.

  “Oh, that’s easy. C’mon over and I’ll show ya,” Mary Anne said, smiling happily. It had taken her many months to figure out the tricky temperament of the old cookstove, but once she had, cooking on it’d become second nature.

  “See these?” she said, pointing to the little glass thermometers on the front of the oven. Beth nodded.

  “Well, this stove has two chambers, or ovens, and it has a water boiler which helps cool the temperature down when we need to. The wood goes here.” She pointed to a small door on the top left where the wood fed into the stove. “Now, oven number one gets really hot because the wood burns closer to that oven. The oven next to it stays just a bit cooler. So, with the biscuits, I use oven number two. I can keep the temperature around 375 degrees, perfect for baking. When I want to do large hunks of meat, like say a turkey, I need the hotter side.” She paused and looked at Beth, who stared back at her blankly.

  Her eyes smiled at her as she patiently continued. “By controlling what wood I feed into it, I can easily control the temperature.” She pointed to what looked like a handle on the stovepipe running up through the roof. “And this here? This is the chimney bypass. With just a push or pull of this lever, I can heat or cool the oven. Sometimes all I need is a good bed of coals and other times; I need longer burning wood, like oak, which doesn’t burn as hot or fast as say pine. It takes a bit to get used to, but once you’ve gotten the hang of it, it is easy. Now, the top of the stove has eight burners. It’s just a matter of moving the pans around to either heat them more or cool them down,” she explained. “And these drawers down here, these are the ash drawers, where the wood ash filters to. These need to be emptied several times a day.”

  Beth shook her head and laughed. Mary Anne made it sound so simple.

  “I’ll be making pies this afternoon. It’ll be a good opportunity for me to teach you, if you’d like,” Mary Anne offered. Beth nodded eagerly. Someday she’d have to do this all on her own when she left the compound. The more she could learn now, the more she’d be able to survive on her own later.

  “Sure. I’d love that, Mary Anne.”

  “Okay, then. It’s a date. We’ll start right after the breakfast crowd is done and the plates are delivered to the prisoners,” Mary Anne said with a smile.

  Beth scowled, and it was on the tip of her tongue to ask Mary Anne why she bothered to cook twenty prisoners such a good breakfast. She should just throw cold bread and water at them and call it good. Why waste precious food on swine?

  Before she could voice her opinion, Mary Anne turned to her and smiled. “We cannot let ourselves become like them. We need to treat them with the same grace we treat others.”

  Beth nodded, embarrassed. “You’re right. I’ve just seen the harm and the evil those men have done and caused.”

  “So, you go grab a plate, have some breakfast. Let me finish up here, or we’re gonna have a lot of workers unhappy that breakfast isn’t ready.”

  Beth laughed. She couldn't imagine anyone being mad at Mary Anne. The woman worked three times harder than anyone at the compound. Without her, in Beth’s opinion, this community wouldn’t run nearly as smooth as it did.

  “Why don’t you let me help before I eat? I can start setting up the prisoner’s plates,” Beth offered.

  “Sure thing, many hands make simple work, my friend,” Mary Anne said happily.

  Beth used an ice-cream scoop to
measure out scrambled eggs on to each plate, in a row of plates. She then added two strips of crispy bacon and a hot biscuit slathered with homemade butter. A dollop of strawberry jam and they were ready. Thanks to Mary Anne, they would eat well. Not that they deserved it in Beth’s opinion.

  Sliding the full plates onto trays, she loaded them onto a child’s red rider wagon which one of the men had brought into the kitchen. Beth put several carafes of coffee and stacked cups in the cart.

  The prisoners were held in one of the barns. One way in and one way out, and heavily guarded. Mary Anne worried about what to do with them. They were a ratty-looking group and hostile. Many were addicts and this, in and of itself, represented a huge problem for Doc. To let them detox cold turkey would mean round the clock care. They were already stretched thin with the recent wounded filling up the small infirmary. Shaking her head, she made a mental note to meet with Doc and discuss the issue of the prisoners. Thinking of this, she turned to Beth. “In your experience as an EMT, how often did you deal with addicts?”

  Beth shook her head in sadness and disgust. “Too many times, why?”

  Mary Anne sighed. “Because, a few of the prisoners that came in are showing signs of withdrawals. They are shaking, puking, have diarrhea, they’re sweating, and restless. I need someone to take charge of their care. Doc is straight out, and so is Jill with all the wounded. So….” she murmured, leaving the question un-asked.

  Beth scowled. Yes, she did have experience with addicts and with withdrawals. But did she want to spearhead the care for those who at one time would have killed her and Sarah? Or worse, made prisoners of them?