From the Ashes

by Chris Kennedy

  After a moment, Gus felt a hard squeeze from his father’s hand on his shoulder. “Come on, son. We’ve got business to tend to.”

  Gus followed his father back into the den and over to the old CB base station. He flipped the power switch on, and after a minute picked up the microphone and keyed it. “Rocking A Ranch, here. Any of you ranchers on?” He released the key and waited.

  After half a minute, he repeated the call. This time there was an immediate response. “LRJ Ranch here. What’s up, Phil?” It was followed by a couple of other voices, “Triple C Ranch,” and “Flying K, here.”

  “Spread the word, folks. We had a gang hit us, tonight, to try and take over the ranch.” His dad released the key, and noise exploded from the receiver. After a moment, one voice could be heard outshouting the rest.

  “Pipe down! All of you.” Gus thought it was George McKenzie, who owned the spread just to the west of them. Silence fell, and George clicked on again. “What happened, Phil, and what do you need?”

  “Ben and Margo are dead. Maria and I have some grazes.”

  “Shit,” came through the receiver. “What do you need, Phil?”

  “Y’all need to watch your backs. That said, I’ll not lie, we could use some backup. We’ve got five dead gangers here, but one got away. Gus is the only one of us in one piece. We need you to spread the word. Who knows if there are more of them, or where they’ll show up. We’ve talked before about what things could turn into. You know how my dad felt. It damn sure looks like things are heading that direction. Guard your own, but if a few of you could spare a man or two to ride over here and help watch, we’d surely appreciate it.”

  “Me and two of my boys will be in the saddle as soon as we’re done here.”

  “Much obliged, George.”

  “The rest of you,” George said, “Phil’s right. We all need to be alert, spread the word down the line, by rider if we have to.”

  “What about the sheriff?” someone asked.

  Gus’ dad clicked the mic on. “We don’t have time to wait on him, even if you could reach him, which you won’t. No, this is on our shoulders. I hate to admit it, but my dad was right. In what this world is turning into, no one is going to look out for us, even if they wanted to.”

  There was silence for a long moment, that was finally broken by, “I got real tired of listening to your dad preach that sermon, Phil. Wish now, I’d done a better job of listening to him.”

  “Agreed,” and “Amen,” came from a couple of other voices.

  “Yeah,” Gus’ dad replied. “After tonight, y’all need to tell everyone else—it ain’t business as usual anymore.”

  After a short pause, George McKenzie came back on. “Okay, that’s enough for now. Phil, we’ll be there in a couple of hours or so. Y’all just hang tight until we get there.”

  “Right,” Gus’ dad replied. “Main gate’s going to be closed when you arrive. Bring a flashlight to shine at the windows, so we’ll know you’re there.”

  “Don’t blame you. All right, I’m gone. Luck to all of you.”

  There was a chorus of goodbyes and 10/4s from the speaker, then all was silent.

  His dad reached out and turned the power off. “Who knew these old radios would ever be useful again?”

  “As long as we can recharge the batteries, and as long as they don’t break,” Gus replied, “they will be.”

  “We’ll take what we can get.” His dad looked around. “Guess we’d best start cleaning up.”

  Gus didn’t track the time, but it was fully dark by the time they’d finished catching the horses and stabling them, unloading the deer he had shot, dragging the gangers into a pile in front of the house, and setting up a tripod to hoist and gut the dead horse. “Waste not, want not,” his dad had said. “If nothing else, it’ll make good dog meat. Princess and the pups will be home soon.” They dumped the guts outside the berm to keep the coyotes from coming around.

  Once he’d stabled his horses, Gus took a bucket and went to the pile of corpses, where he emptied their pockets and took their jewelry, watches, and belts. When he was finished, he headed for the porch.

  “Dad,” he called as he closed the door behind him.

  “In here,” came the reply from the breakfast nook.

  Gus walked in and saw his mom and dad seated there, each with a half-glass of rare, pre-war whiskey sitting before them on the table. Seeing his mom with a glass rocked Gus a bit—she didn’t ordinarily drink—but given what they’d gone through, maybe it wasn’t so surprising. They both looked as bad as he felt, which wasn’t good.

  He set the bucket on a chair, rummaged around inside, and pulled five wallets out. He tossed them on the table. “Let’s see who these bastards were.”

  He placed four old driver’s licenses on the table. He picked up the fifth wallet, wondering what it contained. It fell open in his hands. “Shit!” He turned and showed it to his dad.

  It contained a sheriff’s deputy’s badge.

  Gus watched his father’s face turn cold and stony. He knew his own mirrored it.

  * * *

  Two days later, Gus was beside his dad at the head of a long column of ranchers riding west along Highway 12, a/k/a Montana Avenue, into Baker, the county seat. They turned south on Highway 7, then west, again, on Fallon Avenue before pulling up in front of the county buildings. Gus, Phil, George McKenzie and three more of the chief ranchers dismounted and handed their reins to those who were remaining outside. Gus followed his dad into the building and down the hallway to the sheriff’s office. The secretary looked up and swallowed hard when she saw half-a-dozen grim-faced men lining up in front of her desk.

  “Can...I help you, gentlemen?” she said in an almost-normal voice.

  “We’re here to see Sheriff Gordon,” Phil said.

  At that moment, the door to the sheriff’s office opened, and the sheriff walked out, coat on and hat in hand, saying, “Marge, I...” He stopped, took in the sight before him, and straightened. “Phil, George, gents.” He nodded at them. “What brings you here? I’m headed for lunch. You want to join me?”

  “Probably not, Ethan,” Phil said. “You’d best hear us out, because you may lose your appetite.”

  The sheriff frowned slightly. “Well, come on in, then, and let’s get it worked out.”

  “We’ll just stand right here, Ethan,” Phil said. “And just so you know, there’s about eight more men sitting outside, waiting on us to come back out.”

  “That doesn’t sound very friendly, Phil,” the sheriff said.

  “We’re not feeling very friendly at the moment, Ethan.”

  The sheriff nodded curtly. “Say your piece, then.”

  Phil nodded in return. “The short version is, two days ago, six men rode into my compound and tried to take over my ranch, telling me they were part of the new world order, and they needed my spread and compound for their headquarters. Gus was out hunting, so there were just four of us at home. By the time Gus got back, Ben and our dog, Rowdy, were dead, Maria and I were wounded, and Margo was either dead or close to it. Gus cleaned them up. We had five dead gangers by the time he was done, and the last one rode off hell-for-leather.”

  The sheriff’s face whitened. “God...Phil, I had no idea. Why didn’t you call or come in before now?”

  Gus stepped forward and pulled the wallet out of his pocket. “Because,” his voice grated, “one of them was carrying this.” He held the deputy sheriff’s badge up before the sheriff’s eyes. The sheriff’s jaw dropped, and his eyes widened. He reached for the badge, but Gus pulled it back. “Nuh-uh. You don’t get this, until we’re sure you’re not part of it.”

  The sheriff stopped short. His jaw snapped shut, and his gaze flitted from one hard face to another. “You’re serious. You honestly think I could...would...”

  “What are we supposed to think, Ethan?” George McKenzie snapped. “With all the hell that’s broken loose the last couple of years, and with the way all the lines of or
ganization and communication have broken down, it wouldn’t be the first time a man in authority set himself up as a tinpot dictator or warlord. That,” he pointed at the badge still in Gus’ hand, “is pretty damned hard to overlook.”

  The sheriff’s jaw muscles clenched. For a long moment there was silence. No one in the office said anything. Finally, the sheriff took a deep breath, let it out, and said, “All right, I can see why you would be worried about something like this. And I do appreciate your not coming in with your guns drawn.” He stepped forward, and Gus stepped back, lowering the badge. As he set his hat down on the secretary’s desk, he continued, “But as God is my witness, I had nothing to do with this. I’m sorry as hell it happened, and sorry as hell it happened on my watch. Gus, what’s the number on that badge.”

  “37,” Gus said after looking at it.

  “Marge?” The secretary was typing on her computer. She looked up with a sick look on her face. “That...was Fred Gillespie’s badge, sir.”

  The information shook the sheriff for a moment, then he braced his shoulders and looked at them. “I fired Fred last week for petty theft and general bad behavior, but he, somehow, got out of the building with his badge.” He looked around at the office staff and deputies. “Did any of you know about this?” Headshakes all around. “Any idea what Fred might have been thinking?”

  A big, blocky deputy named Jerry Flint, who claimed to be a full-blooded Lakota Sioux, pushed through from the hallway and stepped around the ranchers. “He said something a couple of times about talking to somebody from Teledyne. I saw him a couple of times talking to a stranger who rode west, out of town, a couple of days ago.” He shrugged. “Just figured he was blowing smoke like he always did. Maybe he wasn’t this time.”

  Gus pulled something else from his pocket. “He was carrying this, too.” He handed the sheriff a thin metallic rectangle, almost like a business card, that had the Teledyne name on one side and a multi-colored hash-worked barcode on the other.

  “Shit.” The sheriff’s voice was hard. He looked up. “Any of you been approached by them or Obsidian?” Headshakes all around, again. “Good. Let me know, pronto, if you are.” He looked back at the ranchers. “What do you want from me?”

  “If you want the bodies, send someone to get them, elsewise we’ll plant them in a big hole someplace.”

  “I’ll send a wagon to your place tomorrow, Phil,” the sheriff said. “They’ll keep in the cold, I’m sure.”

  “They’re piled in front of my porch at the moment,” Gus’ dad said. “Not the prettiest lawn decorations, but I do take a certain satisfaction in seeing them there. You’d best send someone soon, or I might put their heads up on fence posts.”

  “You going barbarian on me, Phil?”

  “We all might be, Ethan,” George McKenzie said. “We’re too far out. You can’t get to us like before. It would take you two days by horse to get to Al’s place, for example, and you used to be able to drive that in an hour and a half without breaking the speed limit. This just brings it home to us. We’re a lot more on our own than we used to be. We’re going to have to get used to it. And so are you.”

  The sheriff sighed. “You’re right. Come on in, and let’s talk about it. Marge,” he said to the secretary, “get ahold of Judge Morgan and tell him I need him to come to my office right now. It’s important.”

  The sheriff started to turn away, but Gus held his hand up. “Just a minute. I need to say something before y’all start all the talking.” He turned to Jerry Flint. “Jerry, the guy who got away was pretty lean, had a mother-of-pearl belt buckle, carried a hand cannon of a pistol, rode a scrawny pinto that was fast as shit, and could ride like a circus performer. You got any idea who that might be?”

  Jerry tilted his head for a moment. “Maybe. Why you asking?”

  “I’m pretty sure that Ben and Rowdy got the man that killed Ben. But this one, I’m certain he raped Margo, then stabbed her right before he broke out of the house.”

  Jerry’s eyes widened, and he stepped back a step, while his boss stepped up beside him. “You looking for some vigilante justice, Gus?” the sheriff asked.

  Gus ignored him, and his eyes bored into Jerry’s. “You got a name for me, Jerry?”

  After a moment, the big deputy said, “You’d find out just asking around town and the bars. That sounds like Julio Enriquez. He floated into town, riding that pinto, a couple of months ago, wearing an old .44 magnum on his hip. He did a little trick riding to impress people and get them to buy him drinks. Claimed to be part Kiowa, but I got my doubts about that. Him and Fred used to drink together a bit.” He paused for a moment. “Come to think of it, him and that Teledyne guy spent a little time together too.” He pursed his lips, then said, “Ain’t seen him in a couple of days.”

  Gus looked at the sheriff. “You look for this man, Sheriff, and if he’s in town and you think you can bring him in, go for it. But if he’s not in town, or if you don’t want to try to bring him in, let me know. All of you,” he looked around the room, “you let me know. Because he’s mine.”

  Gus could feel all the eyes in the room staring at him. He didn’t care. They just bounced off the ice that wrapped his soul.

  He suspected he was going hunting again, real soon.

  * * * * *

  David Carrico Bio

  David Carrico made his first professional SF sale in 2004. Most of his work to date has been in the form of alternate histories and space opera. His publication credits include Jim Baen's Universe and Grantville Gazette e-magazines, Chris Kennedy Publishing, Baen Books, Ring of Fire Press, and Baen.com. He has several novels and story collections available. From the Ashes is his first CKP publication. Find David at https://davidcarricofiction.com/ and https://www.facebook.com/davidcarricofiction/.

  * * * * *

  King of the Mountain by Kevin Steverson

  Chapter One

  “Yes sir, Mr. Boudreaux,” Rylik King said into thin air.

  He wasn’t really speaking into thin air. It just appeared that way to anyone paying attention to him. At that moment, nobody was. The people near him were engrossed in the one-man band playing in the corner of the eating area. He couldn’t blame them. The guy was pretty good. He seemed to specialize in stuff forty years old or older. The last number was a big hit in 2018.

  After listening again through the earpiece, a device nearly invisible to others, Rylik said, “I’ll be there. Headquarters, Next Monday, May 2nd. Bright and early, I got it…sir?”

  He listened to the other side of the call a moment longer. “No, sir, they say I’ll stay me for this one. They already gave me some of the new partial imprints, something along the lines of those temporary vacation ones. They don’t replace me, they just add a few skills and things I could learn, given time. Along with my guerrilla warfare and survival skills, I now understand the basics of farming coffee on a mountainside, repairing windmills for power, and building water pumps that work. I’m scheduled to get the Spanish language imprint, along with a few others, when I get to HQ.”

  Once again, Rylik listened to the caller. “I know, sir, but it’s fine by me. When I finish my actual leave time, I get to go to South America for a mission that will seem like another vacation. Hey, I’m just glad I’m one of the few Agents with a farming background. The mountains of North Georgia aren’t the same as the mountains in Colombia, but my background landed me the sweet mission coming up. If the Corporation wants to control all the coffee farms, far be it from me to say no. I don’t mind leading the team to take out the cartel leaders and gain the locals’ trust. JalCom left it a mess. If we can gain a foothold before Teledyne tries to move in, it will make it easily defendable. Yes, sir. Talk to you Monday.”

  After the call ended, Rylik walked back to his table and sat down. He had stepped away from the crowd and faced a wall to keep his lips from being read. He drank the rest of his beer, a strong German dark lager, listened to the music, and signaled the waitress for another. It was good
to be back home, even if it was just for a long weekend.

  He was glad Helen, Georgia, was right around the corner. It was a tourist town with a Bavarian theme. The town’s architecture was like something from a village somewhere in the Alps. There were all kinds of shops selling everything from knives and swords, rocks, gemstones, and arrow heads, to wooden bowls and pottery. Great food, good beer, and good times happened year ‘round, and it was really busy during Octoberfest. You could take a horse and carriage ride or walk along the riverfront running through the valley. There was one road into the town and one road out through the foothills of the mountains.

  Rylik King grew up on his grandfather’s farm in the Sautee-Nacoochee Valley, a few miles from where he sat now. He was an only child, raised by his grandparents after losing his real parents in the Dellik war in 2043. Both were members of the Obsidian Corporation Forces. They weren’t frontline soldiers, but a successful mission behind the Dellik lines cost them and several others in their support unit their lives. He was four years old at the time.

  The grandparents that raised him were both long gone. Three years ago, an aggressive cancer took his grandmother, and a year later, his grandfather passed. Rylik still thought a broken heart caused the heart attack that took Wilfred King. Several times a year, Rylik made it back to his farm, though crops hadn’t been planted on the 28 acres since his grandfather passed.

  He’d received offers for the prime real estate, a hillside and part of a fertile valley, but Rylik wouldn’t part with his childhood home, and money didn’t matter. He had plenty. Successful missions and bonuses as an Agent of Obsidian Corporation paid well.