by Nathan Jones
This was a fine mess he'd gotten his people into.
After a few seconds staring bleakly into the darkness at his tent ceiling, he realized that what had woken him up was a commotion from within the camp. Then he heard Logan's voice outside, urgently whispering for him to get up.
Tom's first thought was panic, that the enemy had snuck around on them in the night and positioned themselves for an attack. He was already chastising himself for sleeping, even when he knew he'd desperately needed it, rather than scouting like he should've.
He scrambled out of his blankets, grabbing his gun and ducking out of his tent in his socks to meet whatever threat they were now facing.
But it turned out he'd jumped to conclusions. Logan and the other scouts hadn't slept on the job or made fools of themselves while watching the Sangue camp; they'd diligently kept eyes on the bloodies, watching as the enemy packed up, turned southeast in the direction of Emery, and double-timed it out of there.
Just like that.
“You've got someone sticking on their tail in case this is some kind of trick?” Tom asked, still hardly able to believe the news. But since this didn't seem like an emergency, after all, he reached back into his tent and grabbed his boots, starting to put them on.
The young man didn't exactly roll his eyes, but he looked impatient. “Of course. If they're just sneaking off to try to circle around and catch us by surprise, we'll know about it.”
He hoped so. “Still, I'd like to send scouts out in all directions, just to be safe.”
Tom wasted no time rousing the camp, since even if Sangue was really gone he didn't want to pass up this opportunity to slip away safely back to Camptown without being followed. He'd set a slower pace, and finally pause to give the wounded the attention they desperately needed, but experience had taught him the value of getting while the getting was good.
Skyler was one of the first up, as if he'd slept in his boots with his gear all ready to go. Which, Tom had to admit, was probably what he should've done too. “Is it true?” his son asked eagerly. “They're gone? We're safe?”
“Looks as if we might be.” He clapped the teenager on the shoulder. “Let's get Teddy and go check out this abandoned camp.”
Although Skyler brightened at that, as if he the offer meant he was out of the woods for the stunt he'd pulled yesterday, Tom had no intention of putting him in danger again. Which was why the first thing he did was send out volunteers to scout in all directions, including back towards the enemy camp. As they left he oversaw everyone else in taking down the camp and packing everything up, and only when the scouts were well away did he head out with his son and Teddy to check out the Sangue camp.
In the growing predawn light, with less of a feel of Sangue's menacing presence hanging over their heads, walking back to where the bloodies had spent the night felt like it took an uncomfortably short time. A reminder of just how hot on their heels the enemy had been.
The Sangue camp had almost no trash, no sign of campfires, and even the trampled grass from tents and foot passage seemed less pronounced than in the volunteers' camp. Hate the bloodies if you want, and Tom certainly did, but it was hard to disparage their discipline.
Although he wasn't really thinking about trash or signs of human activity at the moment. “This doesn't make any sense,” he said, half to Teddy and Skyler and half to himself. “They almost had us pinned against the western end of the mountains, and every day they kept on us was one more day they could call for reinforcements on their radios and trap us. Why just head back the way they came out of the blue?”
His friend shrugged. “Maybe they've got orders not to pursue enemies too far, in case they're being led into an ambush? Beats me . . . I'm just glad they did.”
“Maybe they found someone else they wanted to chase even more,” Skyler suggested. “You think Brandon managed to take out Highway 29 after all?”
Tom hadn't considered that. “Why head back to Emery instead of north to go after them?” he argued. His son shrugged.
Whatever Sangue's reasoning, the scouts soon returned to confirm that the area around them was empty of enemies. Not long after that, the scouts who'd been following the bloodies as they fled also returned, confirming that the enemy squad was still headed southeast, as fast as they'd ever chased the volunteers.
With that last weight off his chest, Tom led the volunteers in a vaguely Camptown direction, just in case the enemy still had people trailing them. They moved slower and easier, but fast enough to get away from any threat if there was one lurking out there.
Just after lunch, Tom was scouting ahead and spotted scouts on horseback searching for them. It turned out to be Mitchells and the rest of the volunteers from Camptown, with enough horses for all Tom's weary people to ride on the rest of the trip back. Mel had gotten the warning to them, and once the sheriff confirmed that no enemies were sniffing around the bowl valley he'd mounted up and come charging southwest with reinforcements.
Once the exhausted volunteers were mounted up and turned towards home, buoyed up by the prospect of seeing their families soon, Mitchells reined in his horse beside Tom's. Camptown's leader wore a grim expression as they rode along in silence for a few minutes. “What do you think, Trapper?” he finally asked.
About the fact we got our butts kicked by an equal force from an enemy that vastly outnumbers us, and just spent the last few days being chased around in our own mountains where we're supposed to be in our element? Tom bit back a sigh. “I'm thinking we need to rethink things a bit. Change how we're going about this.”
“Well, that seems obvious enough. The bloodies react fast to our tactics, so we have to keep trying new things and hope to stay ahead of them.” The sheriff sighed. “You think it's going to be possible? Can we actually defend Camptown?”
Tom honestly had his doubts. But he didn't see much good in letting his thoughts stray in that direction. “What's the alternative? Trying to flee with hundreds of people who are struggling to find enough food to survive through the month, let alone through the winter? We've got people gathering bugs to eat, and happy to have them.”
Mitchells's shoulders sagged, and he suddenly looked every year of his age. “I guess we better get thinking, then.”
“We do. And one thing I've been thinking is that we've worked hard preparing all those emplacements and ambush points on all the approaches to the valley, but if our volunteers are going to be busy riding out to chase off encroaching enemies, those defenses will be left empty. And since we can't be everywhere at once, we need them manned on the off chance another force of bloodies comes from a different direction and catches us by surprise.”
The sheriff scratched his jaw thoughtfully. “You're saying I need to grab fifty or so people and train them specifically to defend those emplacements, nothing but marksmanship and moving around the ambush points and setting traps and things like that?”
Tom nodded. “Think so.”
“Huh. We'll, I guess it'll be easier to sell that than it is getting people to volunteer to a hard training regimen to turn them into some sort of mountain commandos, sneaking around in the mountains ambushing Sangue.”
Described like that, the volunteers sounded a lot cooler than they really were.
A grim silence settled as they rode on for a while, both sunk in their own thoughts about the seemingly insurmountable task ahead of them. “This may seem silly, giving what we're already facing,” Mitchells finally said quietly. “But you know what keeps me up nights?”
Tom wasn't sure he wanted to hear what was giving the man nightmares. Unfortunately, it seemed he was going to hear it anyway.
“Helicopters,” the sheriff continued, absently glancing up at the sky with a shiver.
He looked at the leader of Camptown askance, wondering if this was some sort of joke. “If you think you're hearing helicopters . . .”
Mitchells gave him an irritated look. “What's keeping me up is that one day I might. Or, you know, some sort of
aircraft.” He shivered again. “The idea that we'll hear the distant thump of rotor blades, and then some sort of attack helicopter will swoop into view and take up position hovering over the bowl valley, guiding every Sangue within ten miles right for us. And they might toss a few missiles our way or rake us with heavy machine gun fire while they wait.”
Tom hadn't actually considered that possibility, at least not seriously. And he really, really wished he wasn't thinking of it now, while they were in the middle of limping back home from their disastrous failed ambush to the south. They were barely holding on as it was; getting attacked by some sort of enemy air force would be the death of them all.
“Sangue doesn't have helicopters,” he said with complete confidence.
The sheriff gave him a surprised look. “What makes you so sure?”
He scratched at his forehead beneath the brim of his hat. “Well for one thing, if they did we would've heard about it. The first aircraft seen in fifteen years is bound to spark more than a few rumors.”
“Unless they've been keeping them hidden until now,” Mitchells pointed out.
“And they'd finally reveal them to, what, take out a few hundred people irritating them in the mountains of Central Utah?” Tom kept going before the man could say anything. “Also, second of all, they don't have them because if they did we'd be screwed, and there'd be pretty much nothing we can do about it. Short of relocating Camptown into hidden caves somewhere, maybe.”
The sheriff didn't seem to find that reassuring. “So you want us to play ostrich and bury our heads in the sand?”
He grinned weakly in reply. “Hey, works out fine for the ostrich as long as there's no real threat.” Mitchells continued to glare at him, and he sighed. “I suppose it couldn't hurt to prepare drills to have everyone evacuate to the nearest cover with all their critical supplies and possessions at the first sound of aircraft. We should probably be making sure everyone's ready to flee Camptown at a moment's notice anyway, in case Sangue ever discovers the place.”
“Seems like a sensible precaution,” the sheriff agreed, not quite sounding triumphant.
Tom grunted. “Any other vague, highly unlikely fears you want to get me staying up nights worrying about? Alien invasion? The sun suddenly exploding?”
Mitchells leaned far out of his saddle and patted him on the shoulder. “Keep this lot moving for Camptown. I'm going to go check on the scouts.”
* * * * *
The rumble of vehicles carrying more slaves and supplies to the site of the rockslide finally faded, and Brandon let himself breathe again. Glancing back at the others, he nodded curtly and bolted across Highway 29. They all followed.
Around thirty feet later he was in the cover of the thick scrub oak blanketing a hillside south of the road. The branches were a closely spaced tangle, tough and pointy and nearly impossible to break, and trying to move through them was noisy, painful, frustrating, and exhausting. But they only needed to go a short distance to a stream bed trickling down the slope from above, where the going was a bit easier.
There was an itch between his shoulder blades the entire time, expecting with every step that a bullet would whine from out of nowhere and take him down. He wasn't too worried about that, though, since while following the road he'd spotted a few Sangue patrols, and noticed that when a convoy passed by at least one soldier tended to pop up and wave. Maybe to let the vehicles know that the surrounding area was being guarded, maybe just simple human nature to greet allies.
Either way, he hadn't seen any sign of bloodies popping up to wave at the convoy that had just passed, and he also reassured himself that Sangue probably wouldn't expect anyone to be creeping around less than a day's walk from where hundreds of slaves were toiling to clear the road, while several squads of soldiers swarmed the area guarding them and making sure no one interfered with the work.
Fingers crossed, that meant it was probably safe.
It seemed to be; over the next few hours they made their way south, watching out warily for anyone trying to follow them. There hadn't been any signs of pursuit since they'd killed the dogs, then clumsily hidden their trail and headed east, and with the prospect of finally being in the clear and on their way home to Camptown, Brandon finally let himself begin to relax.
Now he just had to think of how to explain to Fiona why he'd been gone so long; that probably hadn't done much for her nerves. But on the bright side, he'd also be able to tell her he'd taken out an entire convoy of bloodies.
That might help his wife sleep better at night.
Chapter Nine
Changing Strategies
Kristy went for Skyler first, throwing her arms around her son and hugging him like she'd never let go. That was understandable, but after about a minute Tom started to feel a little hurt. Although it was hard to feel too bad about that, since Molly had toddled straight to him and had wrapped her little arms around his neck the moment he scooped her up in his arms.
Of course, eventually his daughter began squirming to get down so she could go hug her brother. Tom set her on the ground and watched her toddle off, at which point his wife finally took pity on him and came over to hug him too.
It was a good hug, although he sensed an undertone of panic to it since she was clutching him tight enough he could feel her heartbeat racing. “Thank God, Tom,” she whispered. “Thank God. Ever since Mel got back with news of the disaster, I've barely been able to sleep. I was afraid I'd never see you or Skyler again.”
He patted her back soothingly. “It wasn't quite that bad. They just ran us around a bit, then gave up and left.”
She drew back, searching his eyes intently. “And Skyler? With things that bad, was he forced to fight? He won't tell me, and that's not pointing to an answer I want to hear.”
Tom bit back a sigh and glanced at their son, who was studiously looking away. Well, worried about them or not he couldn't blame his wife for jumping right to that. No sense prolonging the inevitable. “He took out a scout trying to flank us, and with a bit of arm twisting I was able to get Logan to admit that he probably helped Ron Marshall pin down some bloodies who were threatening his, Jenny's, and Mer's squad while we were fleeing the ambush.”
Kristy stepped away from his arms, and he saw thunderheads building in her sky blue eyes. “He fought,” she said quietly, an edge to her voice that Tom knew from experience meant nothing good.
“There wasn't much option,” he said lamely. “They kind of had us backed into a corner.”
“Not much option. Very good reasons, I'm sure.” She looked around at the rest of the volunteers reuniting with loved ones at the north end of the valley, then primly put her arm through his. “Skyler, sweetie!” she called in a somewhat brittle voice. “Watch Molly for a while, please, and make sure the horses get back to their corral and get taken care of. I need to have a word with your father.”
Oh boy. This wasn't going to be good.
Skyler gave Tom a look, half defensive and half sympathetic, as Kristy led him off by the arm. She didn't say anything as she walked, or more accurately stalked, and he finally cleared his throat. “Do you want to hear what happened?”
“No.” His wife kept her eyes straight ahead, lips drawn in a thin line. “I know the only important part.”
“It was a mistake, Kris,” he tried, “but we both made it back safely.” She didn't respond, but he knew it was coming. Biting back a sigh, he resigned himself to the inevitable and kept quiet as they closed the last of the distance to the retreat and stepped inside.
Well, he couldn't say he didn't deserve this.
The moment the door shut behind them, Kristy led the way to their room and began pacing in the small space. Which would've been amusing, given she had to move slowly and carefully to avoid bumping anything with her protruding belly, but there was nothing funny about her darkening expression. She was really building herself up to a towering fury.
“I messed up,” Tom said, trying to head her off at the pass. “W
e both did. Let's talk this over without you getting all worked up, for the ba-”
“He's not going out again, Tom Miller!” Kristy fumed, pausing just long enough to shove an accusing finger in his face. “Not to scout, not to hold the horses, not even to hunt! There's no safe place for him helping the volunteers, you've proven that.”
“Okay,” Tom agreed.
“I mean it, he's not leaving the bowl valley! I can't believe that even after everything, after I made my wishes clear and you both promised, that-”
He gently drew his wife into his arms, ignoring her withering glare. He could feel her trembling, the genuine fear for her son her anger masked. “He's not going out again, Kris. You're right, it's too risky. It was a mistake to argue for it in the first place.”
Kristy looked up at him with narrowed eyes. “You mean that, or is this just like your “promise” he wouldn't be part of the fighting?”
Tom didn't rise to that dig. “The moment I realized he'd been involved in fighting I benched him. No more scouting, nothing. And I resolved right then and there that the moment we got back to Camptown, he wasn't going out again.” He brushed a strand of flaxen hair from her cheek. “I was being an idiot, Kristy. I was so confident in being in my mountains, in what I'd taught our son, that I thought we were invincible. The failed ambush opened my eyes, and I won't put him in danger again.”
He could sense her wavering in her anger, but she didn't relent. “Then go tell him, right now. You and you alone . . . I'm sick of being the bad guy on this issue.”
Fair enough, he supposed. He headed outside, starting resolutely for where Skyler and Jenny were caring for the horses while Mer played with Molly. Although he made his way over to the babysitting young woman first, stooping to pick up his daughter when she ran to meet him. “Can you take Molly inside to her mom, then help Jenny with the horses while I talk to Skyler?” he asked her quietly.