Fire From The Sky | Book 8 | Hell Fire

by Reed, N. C.

  “That is it,” Greg nodded firmly. “Thank God,” he added. “It does, however, bring up an interesting point.”

  “What now,” Clay groaned, laying his head back to look at the ceiling and close his eyes.

  “Calm down, Francis,” Greg replied with an old wisecrack from when they had been kids. “It was just a thought that more than one of us had while we were on this op. We stripped houses everywhere in those girl's neighborhoods when we were sure the owners were dead.”

  “As we agreed,” Clay nodded cautiously. “Has someone complained? Did we disrespect someone's-,”

  “No one complained,” Greg held up a hand. “I said relax. The question was, what about other places that we didn't go?”

  “I don't understand,” Clay admitted.

  “There are a lot of empty houses out there, Clay,” Greg told him. “People caught far from home, people killed in the violence after the lights went out, people who died from lack of medication or from starvation or-,”

  “Dead people, I get it,” Clay held up his own hand. “Empty houses. Get to the question part.”

  “Are we going to look through them, too?” Greg asked simply.

  “What?” Clay hadn't even considered that.

  “Are we gonna look through those houses, too?” Greg repeated. “Check their pastures and so forth? I mean, there may still be a lot of livestock out there, too. Might still be some dogs that we can tame.” Any dogs in the communities attacked by the rogue military outfit had been shot. Even the small lap dogs that posed no threat.

  Clay had wished at least three times since the battle that they had taken prisoners just so they could burn them alive or torture them to death for the absolute savagery they had inflicted on his boyhood home. Elderly people who had survived the winter only to be gunned down in their own homes by gutless thugs. Children shot because they were too young to be 'of use'. He almost frowned at the thought. Someone, somewhere, had asked for people of a certain gender or age. If he ever found out who... .

  “I hadn't even considered it,” Clay admitted. “The only time we did anything remotely like that was on the way back from getting the dogs. Did you see horses or anything like that while you were out?”

  “No, but remember we picked the places we went clean for the most part, and we didn't exactly sight see during the trip,” Greg replied. “That's why I was asking. If we're even considering it, then we might want to hold off on blocking the road. That won't be something we can just easily undo.”

  “True,” Clay nodded. “I don't know. We need to bring that up in a meeting, I guess. And we should get at least my father involved in that discussion, if not Robert. I'd rather not just make that decision on my own without at least some input from others.”

  “Understandable,” Greg nodded. “We need to have a meeting soon, anyway. A lot of stuff has built up while we've been worrying over everything else. Chief among them is some kind of club type place for the adults,” he chuckled. “Deuce's Place has been a big hit. May have caused some jealously.”

  “I see,” Clay chuckled. “Well, it has been a while since we've cooked. Or even played cards to amount to anything. Like you said, too much going on. If we can get back on some kind of reasonable schedule then we need to try and do that.”

  “When do we start training the girls, and who is going to do that?” Greg asked next, checking a small notebook in his hand.

  “We need to not call them 'girls', I suspect,” Clay frowned. “The last thing we need is a bunch of angry Amazons running around here with guns.”

  “Amazon might not work any better,” Greg pointed out.

  “Also true,” Clay sighed. “We'll work on it. As for their training, today is... .” He stopped abruptly.

  “You don't know, do you?” Greg smirked. Clay's red face was all the answer his friend needed.

  “At least the Corps teaches us to remember what day it is, Lieutenant,” Greg stressed the rank.

  “Kiss my ass,” Clay shot back, though without heat. “What day is it?” he asked then.

  “Friday, Sahib,” Greg told him. “It's Friday.”

  “Then I'd say start on Monday,” Clay decided. “Give them a couple days to establish a regimen and get acclimated to life on the farm, no pun intended. As for teachers, what's wrong with the teachers we had before?”

  “For one thing, some of the 'Amazons' are in no way adept with firearms. They're going to need basic instruction just like some of the farm residents did before.”

  “Oh,” Clay hadn't thought of that. “Then I guess you get to have a harem of angry Amazons for a few days, don't you, Deputy Holloway. I mean, with you being the certified firearms instructor and everything,” he smiled widely.

  “Hey man, some of those girls are damn fine,” Greg made an exaggerated nodding motion, causing Clay to laugh.

  “I hadn't noticed.”

  “You probably shouldn't, either,” Greg agreed. “Since you have an actual angry Amazon of your own,” he teased.

  “Point,” Clay held up his hands in surrender. “Anyway, you need to pick out three or four helpers over the weekend to assist you and spend next week teaching the basics. I'd suggest using Samantha and Vicki for two of them.”

  “Not Abby?” Greg frowned.

  “Abby is a good shot but she is not long on temper or patience,” Clay pointed out. “Samantha is weak on handguns but is one of the finest rifle shots on the place. Gary would also be a good choice, as would Mitchell. Be a good job for Gordy, too, if he's able. He can't do much else until his stitches are out, so I imagine he's going stir crazy by now.”

  “Not with Samantha around I bet,” Greg snorted.

  “Stitches,” Clay repeated.

  “Ah, that is true,” Greg nodded. “Seriously though, having him there might serve as a reminder to be serious about it, too. The others are all still recovering. And Gordy can't stand a watch, but he can help train shooters. Good idea.”

  “Bossman, we have incoming,” Heath's voice interrupted just then. “One Hummer, from the interstate.”

  “From Jordan?” Greg asked, getting to his feet.

  “Could be,” Clay nodded. “Whisper, are they alone?”

  “Affirmative. No gun visible.”

  “Keep an eye on them. We're coming out.”

  -

  It was one Hummer, with three occupants. Clay fought off the urge to curse as he saw Dawson in the front seat, with someone else driving. It looked like Pickett was in the back seat.

  “Don't those assholes have any actual work to do?” Greg muttered at his side. Clay had been wondering the same thing. The Hummer pulled to a stop, Dawson and yes, Pickett, getting out while the driver stayed in the vehicle.

  “Gentlemen,” Clay managed to be civil only through the greatest of efforts. “I'd ask how we can help you, but I don't care, so I'll just ask what brings you out here to slum with us despots.”

  Pickett's face went red but Dawson just looked embarrassed.

  “Look, Sanders, I just came to say I owed you an apology,” he said. “A real apology, I mean,” he added at Clay's snort. “And yes, I bought it too. No excuse, and looking at it in hindsight it was stupid to fall for it. Sometimes the Devil's whispers are stronger than his shouting.”

  “Never heard it put that way, but I suppose it's true,” Clay nodded.

  “I was trying to apologize when you drove off the other day,” Pickett told him. “Had you waited-”

  “I might have killed you,” Clay said flatly, catching the older man off guard. “I told you I'd had all your shit I aimed to take, you old jackass. That's how I deal with that kind of thing. I kill it.”

  “It's true,” Greg nodded helpfully. “I've seen it.”

  “Everything's a joke to you, ain't it?” Pickett snorted.

  “When you've seen the kinds of things I have, yes,” Clay nodded. “It is. I don't take anything seriously, or for granted. What do you want?” he asked bluntly.

  “Jus
t to try and make amends,” Dawson admitted. “Nothing else.”

  “Nice sentiment,” Clay scoffed. “How you plan to do that, exactly? Never mind,” he shook his head, holding up a hand. “I almost acted like I give a shit. My bad. You've said I'm sorry, so that's done. Anything else?”

  Both men turned even redder at Clay's sharp tongue.

  “This is what happens when you push him too far,” Greg interpreted for them. “He stops giving a shit what you have to say. Or think. Or whether you live or die, comes to that.” You could almost see his horns poking from under his hair if you looked close enough. The purely evil smile did nothing to help with that.

  “I'd really like to have the chance for us not to have hard feelings,” Dawson actually sounded sincere, something he'd never sounded in the past. “If what I heard about what you had to say was accurate, then I feel even more stupid, since you're absolutely right. As hard as you worked to make us stronger, how would it make sense for you to do that if you wanted to take over things for yourself?”

  “Worked that out, did ya?” Clay replied.

  “Mostly people remember your grandfather and just assumed you would be the same way, I think,” Dawson shrugged, not noticing Clay's hackles coming up.

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “Your grandfather was a political power here for decades,” Dawson frowned at the question, puzzled. “Hell, he was Calhoun County for a long time, man. Most powerful man in the county some said, and never held an elected office. With that in mind, it wasn't too far a leap to think you'd want to do the same thing. Can't do it like he did, with vote getting and the like, but there are other ways. And taking over with muscle is one of them, especially now. Sue us. It sounded reasonable.”

  “Yeah, because Franklin George is reasonable with his 'Sanders are the Devil' bullshit,” Clay snapped back, though inwardly conceding that their idea about Leon wasn't far off the mark. Or at all.

  “Like I said, hindsight is golden,” Dawson agreed. “I see it now, but couldn't then. Or wouldn't, maybe. I honestly don't know which. I was under a lot of pressure trying to get things set up right, and had more than one problem child to deal with at the same time. I never claimed to be perfect.”

  “Fair enough,” Clay forced himself to sound reasonable. He looked at Pickett.

  “What about you? Mister Mayor,” he deliberately goaded the Mayor of Jordan.

  “I got a taste of being in charge and liked it,” Pickett admitted, suddenly looking a lot older than Clay remembered. “Things was getting done again and we were making progress and I was able to make things work after months of nothing and... I didn't want to lose that. I wanted us to keep moving and not go backward.”

  “Because I'd pushed you back and kept you down with my presence,” Clay scoffed.

  “I didn't say I was right, Clayton,” Pickett shrugged. “I said what was. You asked, I answered.”

  “Fine, you apologized. We done here?” Clay said abruptly. It caught both men by surprised and they almost visibly recoiled. They exchanged a look and then looked back to him.

  “Well?” Clay drew the word out. “I got shit to do today.”

  “Can we not... can we not make things right, here?” Pickett asked carefully.

  “Don't see how, no,” Clay shook his head. “Anything else?”

  “Man, give us a chance at least,” Dawson was next. “For what we owe you if nothing else.”

  “Keep it,” Clay waved it away. “I'll consider it the price of learning. I did give you a chance, two of them as I recall, and yet here we are again. I see now how this works, and I ain't playing no more. I say 'okay, shucks we're all friends again now', and then the next someone comes along shoveling shit about me or mine, we're right back here again. No thanks. Twice is enough. Now, unless you need something else, the same road that brought you here will see you home.”

  “Look, you said it yourself, if we can work together and be friends, it keeps us from being isolated,” Pickett tried again.

  “I'd rather be isolated than give you the chance to do it again,” Clay told him without pause. “At least this way you can't surprise me again. I absolutely cannot trust you. You've proven that, up to and including threatening us. Which I assure you is a stupid thing to do, by the way,” he added darkly.

  “When have we threatened you?” Dawson demanded.

  “If you leave us hanging, you'll regret it,” Clay said, and saw Pickett flinch. “Sound familiar, Mister Mayor?”

  “What?” Dawson looked to Pickett and then back to Clay. “When did this happen?”

  “When you were attacked the other day,” Clay told him. “Right before we were, too. Got it on tape, or disc rather, if you'd like the hear it. Threatening us for not abandoning our families to come help you. You, with over two hundred trained militia and your own heavy weapons, courtesy of who, by the way? Oh, courtesy of us. Yeah, that's who. So, fuck you very much for your stupid ass apology for your stupid ass behavior and your fucktard threats against us, and most especially, after all that, for wanting us to all be friends again just like it never even happened!” Clay was slowly working himself into a rage, now, his voice growing louder with each breath he took.

  “Feel better now?” he demanded, suddenly quieter. “I know I do. How about you, Greg? Do you feel better after that mile of bullshit?”

  “Fucking fan-tastic,” Greg nodded.

  “Hell, let’s all have a great big group hug!” Clay spread his arms wide. “What d'ya say, fellas? Bring it on in? No? Shame,” he dropped his arms. “Now, just in case that wasn't clear; no, I don't want to try again for us to be friends just so you can break it off in us later on when we think we can trust you. We obviously can't trust you, so I think we'll end our relationship here, now, rather than later on after you slip us the date rape drug.”

  “So, don't let us keep you from all that important work you're missing out on in Jordan,” Clay finished, now clearly seething. “Don't call us, we'll call you. And don't visit us, either. Any of you. We gave at the office, know who we're voting for, and a few of us have even found Jesus, so we don't need any. Drive safely on the way back. Most accidents happen within ten miles of the home.” Turning on his heel, Clay stepped back inside, leaving Greg facing the two men.

  “Holloway, you need to talk to him,” Pickett started, but stopped when Greg snorted with laughter.

  “One, don't even imagine that your opinion counts for shit with me, measured against his,” Greg began ticking off fingers. “Two, this was nothing you didn't have coming, and less than you deserve. Three, he's as mad as I've ever seen him so I'm pretty sure he was serious about the don't call us thing, and definitely serious about not visiting. And finally,” his voice grew soft, “you do anything, just one thing at all, to hurt him, and I will hunt you down and kill you like dogs. I won't even have to ask for help because there will be dozens of volunteers lined up wanting to go with me. Now load your ass up in your new toy and head on home. Your welcome here is definitely worn out. I'd say have a nice day, but I kinda hope you have a wreck on the way home and die in a ball of fire so... seems a little bit counterproductive.”

  Reeling once more from a verbal onslaught, both men had the good sense to do as they were told. Greg watched them out of sight before going back inside.

  “You stayed with them a little longer than I expected,” Clay said, already looking at an inventory report. “I miss anything?”

  “Just told them how much it hurt us for them to treat us so bad,” Greg replied calmly. He reached up and wiped an imaginary tear from his eyes.

  “Cool.”

  “Now,” Greg scooted forward in his chair. “We got a lot to do, so what do you say we get to it?”

  EPILOGUE

  It had been a difficult purification.

  The Worthy Ezekiel Talent watched as the last of the prisoners were carried away, most to labor in the fields that fed The Worthy, though a few would be tasked with other... duties.
He was disappointed that there had been so few true believers in this small city. So many of them had seemed to be the very kind of people that the Uttermost would have liked having as followers. The few that remained were sad to see friends and loved ones dead or gone, but the truth often required sacrifice, and they had refused the truth.

  Talent straightened as the Sanitizer approached him. The man stopped abruptly and saluted Talent with a fist across his chest. Talent replied with a short bow, acknowledging the man's respect for his position.

  “Worthy One, we have completed our work here insofar as I can tell,” the man reported. “Are there other tasks you would have us complete?”

  “No, Commander, I believe we are done with our work here,” Talent replied gently. “A shame so many refused the path of enlightenment, but the fields need laborers, do they not?”

  “They do, sir,” the Commander nodded respectfully. “Do you require our assistance with anything else?”

  “No, it is time for me to move on,” Worthy shook his head. “They know how to proceed, now,” he indicated the remaining townspeople, “and a priest will arrive in a short time, I'm told. They will be fine until then. You should rejoin your men, Commander, for they need your guidance. I will be fine.”

  “Yes sir,” the Commander bowed ever so slightly. “Blessed journey to you, Worthy.”

  “Blessed journey to you as well, Commander,” Talent replied. Once the man was gone, Talent pulled a map from his pack and studied it for a moment. The highway north out of town here would lead him to another medium sized township roughly four days walk from where he stood. He nodded, folded the map and returned it to his pack before shouldering the burden with relative ease. He had become much stronger, much tougher, since his inclusion into The Worthy.

  “Farewell, my brethren,” he smiled at those who had chosen the true path. “Do not despair. The Uttermost has heard your name and will send to you one similar to myself, but better. More suited to care for your spiritual needs in the days ahead. Be strong until then.”