A Pawn's Betrayal

by Ernie Lindsey

  I have no idea how to respond to this. I don’t know what to say to a person who won’t fight to keep his freedom, to save his own life, then I remember, most of the citizens here don’t know that Larson is surrendering.

  God help them.

  I turn, and I run.

  I catch up to Ellie just as more heads emerge from windows. When they ask what’s going on, I don’t stop to answer. Instead, I shout for them to join us, to grab whatever they can and fight for their freedom. I shout for them to follow us and fight so they can either live or die as free citizens of the PRV.

  Some join us. Some don’t.

  Word is already starting to spread from home to home. Over the pouring rain and shouting, I hear distant cheers and battle cries. More disconcerting, however, is the sound of sporadic gunfire. I assume that some of the Larson loyalists have tried to stop our advancement. It dies out quickly, however, and I can only pray that it means more are joining us than trying to divert us.

  I’m almost running without direction, because I don’t know the city at all, but Ellie grabs my arm and yanks me to the right. “This way!” she shouts and I follow her lead, lifting my arm and calling out to the soldiers and volunteers behind us. So many have taken up arms and fallen in line. It’s too dark, too chaotic, but if I had to guess, I’d say our numbers have doubled at least, maybe tripled. It’s a good sign.

  We round a corner, passing a place called Gardner’s Groceries. I’m so enthralled that for a second, I forget where I am and what’s happening.

  The lights are on and inside, I can see row after row of multicolored boxes and cans. I’ve heard of these places before. Big box stores where you can walk in and find all the food and supplies you need forever and ever. If it were just Grandfather and I, back in the encampment, the contents inside that building would’ve been enough to feed us for the rest of our days, and likely half of our friends and their families as well.

  Ellie leads us past it and barks at the crowd to take a left. They barely hear her, so I lift my arms and shout, giving the order. They listen and in a flash, they’re heading in another direction like the way leaves flicker in a gust of wind, showing one side, then the other.

  Up ahead, not an eighth of a mile distant, I see the great, gaping hole in the side of the wall. It’s a fiery, burning mouth filled with orange and red flames, white and gray smoke. It resembles a fresh wound, reminding me of the time a stray Beagle wandered into camp with a gouge in its side. Maybe from the tusk of a boar or the antler of a buck, but whatever it was, it had opened the poor dog’s side from belly to spine. There was nothing we could do to save it, and the dog became something of a legend in the way it had the strength to come as far as it did.

  If we got hurt—if anyone sustained an injury and whined about it—the running joke was to ‘Beagle Up,’ which meant to shut up, stop whimpering, and stay strong.

  “Look at that,” Ellie says. She’s finally starting to show some signs of fatigue. Her breathing is slightly labored and it sounds like she’s gasping in wonder when she says, “Bombs start wars. Bombs finish them. It’s always the bombs.”

  I give her a sideways glance. It sounds like something she’s heard from an Elder.

  Do they even have Elders here in the capital? I never thought to ask.

  She sees my questioning look and says, “My grandfather always said that. There weren’t any wars in his time, but he taught history lessons in our schools. He knew a lot.”

  “Sounds like it.”

  Ellie’s hand goes to her side. She’s been running at full speed too long. If she’s winded, then the older, less in-shape members of our regiment have to be exhausted. It’s a good time to pull up and wait on the other three factions to arrive.

  “Walk!” I shout and it takes a few paces for everyone to slow down.

  A soldier, perhaps ten years older than me, with a plump face and a heavy mustache that hangs down beside his cheeks asks, “What’re we waiting on? I mean…what’re we waiting on, ma’am? The war’s gonna be on the other side.” He chuckles, and so do a few of his buddies. I ignore him.

  I order them to form up and guard all sides while we walk slowly toward the burning hole in the wall. We need to catch our breaths. We went faster than the other three regiments and they’re nowhere to be seen. The sound of gunfire died out minutes ago, and I’m confident we’ll be fine, but I’m not certain that we’re totally safe from any Larson loyalists.

  “Guard yourselves,” I command. “Keep a watchful eye. We’ll form up at the wall and wait on the others. We go through together or we don’t go at all. Understood?”

  Everyone but the mustachioed soldier, who grumbles, answers with a strong, willing, obedient, “Ma’am, yes, ma’am!”

  It feels good. I’m back in control. At least for a few minutes until Hale arrives.

  We arrive at the wall. I smell burning wood and the acrid remnants of an explosion. Rocks, beams, and chunks of cement are littered about, the resulting chaos of the detonation. Unfortunately, I see the bodies of two wall guardsmen lying amongst the rubble. Actually, I see parts of the guardsmen. They’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time and had likely never seen it coming. That kind of death, the instant, unexpected kind, has always bothered me. You don’t get a chance to say goodbye. You don’t get a chance to pray. You don’t get a chance to ask God for forgiveness. One minute you’re here, and then you’re gone.

  I say a quick, silent prayer for them.

  Beside me, Ellie sees what I’m looking at. She gags, heaves, and has to turn away before she spills her insides on her boots.

  We wait. It can’t be more than thirty seconds, but it feels like hours. We shouldn’t have been that far ahead. Did I lead my people too fast through the streets? Did I do something wrong? Did I not follow Hale’s orders as I should’ve?

  I get my answer when soldiers in the rear of our group begin to cheer and point.

  Up the street from the direction we came, I can see Finn and Mosley leading their parties. It’s my guess that we picked up a few extra hundred volunteers, citizens and soldiers alike, but from what I can tell, they’ve both added triple that amount. That’s why they’re moving slower.

  I say, “Thank God,” to anyone listening.

  Thunder rolls in the distance, an angel wailing in pain.

  I shove my way through my throng of soldiers, trying to get to Finn as he arrives with his group. They don’t look as exhausted as mine, possibly because they were moving slower, but they’re full of fear and anticipation, just like the rest of us. To my right, Mosley orders his people to a halt as well.

  Finn grabs me, pulls me close, wraps his arms around me and kisses my cheek. “Did you see how many?” he asks like an expectant child, searching for approval.

  I nod.

  “And then look,” he says, pointing over the heads of his volunteers. On the hill above us, rounding the corner at Gardner’s Groceries, I see Hale emerge—he’s unmistakable in his walk, his marching strut—followed by a horde of soldiers and citizens that nearly doubles all of ours put together. “Between all four groups, that puts us close to five thousand, at least. Look at ‘em all, Caroline.”

  It gives me hope. Real, honest to goodness hope. We don’t have anywhere near the forces of the DAV, nor do we have anything resembling the firepower, but these numbers—with that, the two of us Kinders, and the desire to stay free people, we might actually stand a chance.

  Hale tosses an arm high into the air, waving, and I can see the width of his smile from here. He finishes with a salute, sharp and quick, yanking his hand from his eyebrow to his waistline, and then he takes two more steps before a crack emits from an open window.

  The bullet separates his skull and our leader, the man responsible for creating and motivating this rebellion, slumps to the ground, gone.

  Chapter 17

  There’s no saving Hale, and some of the men from Mosley’s group find the sniper in a hurry. One of them happened to notice the muz
zle blast from a second floor window of a house with white siding and black shutters, and it’s not long before the mouse-faced man with thick glasses and a smell like rotting cheese stands in front of us.

  He’s revealed by the yellowish glow of a distant porch light. The glasses perched on his nose are filmy and glisten with raindrops.

  Mosley, Finn, and I stare him down, silently, while three of our soldiers hold him in place; one on each arm, the third with a chokehold tight enough to send spittle flying.

  We’ve already learned that he’s a Larson loyalist, but no more than a former army journalist who felt that the impending enslavement would improve the lives of many of the captives.

  Apparently no one had agreed with him, and he was removed from service months ago by Hale’s orders.

  Mosley knows him by name, calls him “Smithy” even though the sewn-on nametag says the man simply goes by Smith.

  I watch as Mosley grinds his teeth together and backhands Smithy across the jaw. His glasses go flying and his eyes that were once magnified appear small and beady, appropriately like the eyes of a rodent, which match the rest of his face.

  One of the soldiers holding him asks, “What should we do with him, sir?”

  Mosley, now in charge, by default, hesitates for a moment before he says, “He’ll face trial for murder when this is over.”

  Finn protests, saying, “We don’t have room or time to worry about keeping a prisoner, and besides, he murdered Hale. There are witnesses. We already know what the outcome will be with a jury.”

  “Doesn’t matter. A law is a law. Get him to the prison.”

  The soldiers back away, pulling Smithy.

  “But,” I say, “we can’t even spare the three of them, Mosley. It’ll take too long.”

  Mosley shakes his head and puts his hands on his hips. He scrunches his forehead and chews his bottom lip. “Fine. Cuff him to that lamppost.”

  Smithy protests in a voice that’s shrill and squeaky. “Let me go, damn you! I did what every single one of you should be doing! I’m a hero.”

  Mosley backhands him again. “Quiet! You are being held as a prisoner of war based on the laws of The People’s Republic of Virginia. You’ll be charged and tried for Murder in the First Degree, and until that time, until you’re to be remanded to the Republic penitentiary, you will remain in custody, and if that means being chained to a lamppost until the war is over, then so be it. Get him out of my sight. And you two,” he says, pointing at two skinny privates named Cale and Lark, “do something with Hale’s body.”

  “B-b-but what, sir?” Cale stutters.

  “At least get him in out of the rain. Smithy’s couch, if you have to. Cover him up. We’ll send someone to take care of him when we’re able.”

  Cale and Lark salute, scamper over to Hale and lift him up underneath his arms. I have to look away. The hole in the side of his head is a better comparison to the gaping wound in the wall than that poor Beagle ever was.

  “Say a prayer, too,” Mosley commands and the privates nod in compliance.

  Mosley seems distraught at the death of Hale and when I ask him if he’s okay, he responds with a quiet, “Yeah, I’m fine…it’s just that—well, I’ve never led before.” He gets a sparkle in his eye. “You have, right? You led a thousand people here.”

  “Mosley, no—”

  “Caroline, I can’t do this.”

  People are getting antsy. I’ve never been in a war before, and the few thousand people we have lined up against the side of the wall haven’t either, but I can’t imagine what they’re going through, waiting to march into an open field and maybe their death. If we don’t do something soon, they might lose their nerve and turn tail on us.

  “If you want me to lead, then here’s my first order. Mosley, you can and you will. You’ve trained for this, you know what you’re doing. I can see that in you. You’re strong. I know you are.”

  “But,” he protests. “But, I…”

  I hold my hand up to stop him. “No. Not another word. Finn and I have to fight. You and Hale trained our people well, and they can hold their own, but the two of us, the Kinders, we may just be the only chance we really have to win out there tonight. Got it?”

  He looks around nervously, lifts his cap and scratches his scalp. Fat raindrops splash off his exposed forehead. “Yeah. Okay.”

  Finn emerges from the gaping hole in the wall and darts over to us. We’d sent him out to scout their movements, and the fear in his eyes isn’t a good sign.

  “They’re definitely reacting to the explosion. They’ve moved the entire line of tanks forward by a quarter mile and it looks like the forward division of the infantry is repositioning itself, too. They’re not showing signs of an attack, but they’ve got to be wondering what in the hell is going on.”

  “Good,” Mosley says. “Keep them confused. They’re expecting us to walk out the front gates in a couple of hours with our hands in the air, delivering our people. They won’t know how to react when all of these people march out to fight.”

  Finn shrugs. “Give them thirty seconds to see that they’re all holding weapons and they’ll turn us into hamburger meat with those tanks and then raid the front gate.”

  Mosley leans over and puts a hand on both our shoulders. “Not with you two taking them out first. Hale’s gone, but that don’t mean we can’t stick with the original plan. First order: load up your packs with the T-bombs and then on my signal, let’s start a war.” He grins and pats us on the back.

  “What’re you gonna do?” Finn asks.

  “Get everyone ready. Now go. Five minutes, then you’re back here at the mouth of the wall. Hurry.” He marches away from us, looking confident, with his shoulders back and chin up.

  We trot along, barking orders at our makeshift infantry, heading back to the supply wagons, and find two soldiers, teens maybe, guarding the spare ammo, the Tunguska bombs, and boxes filled with medical necessities like bandages and hacksaws for limbs that will be damaged beyond repair. There are also containers labeled with a skull-and-crossbones insignia. When I ask what that is, and what it’s for, the soldier with short hair and a hooked nose says, “In case.”

  “In case of what?”

  “Put’s ‘em out of their misery.”

  “Oh.”

  The idea that someone could be wounded beyond help, while an extremely real possibility, sends my stomach into knots at the thought. I think of my mother, the nurse, having to administer it to one of her patients and how heartbreaking it must be if she’s lost hope. But what bout the wounded soldier? What if he still has hope?

  Finn touches my arm. “Time to go,” he says.

  I was so lost in that horrible daydream, I hadn’t noticed that he and the two supply soldiers had already loaded our packs with five bombs each.

  Hooked Nose says, “You know how to use these, right?”

  We both say yes.

  “They’re kinda tricky, though. You have to be careful of the latch sticking when you pull the pin. Make sure it’s released before you move on, because you go back to check one of these things out right about the time it decides to detonate… Poof.” He gets an all-too-excited gleam in his eyes as his hands go up and out, mimicking an explosion. “Poof,” he repeats, “gone before you know it.”

  “What are the chances of that happening?” Finn asks hesitantly.

  The soldier with a jaw like a block of wood answers, “Ten to one, I’d say. You gotta remember these things are as old as the hills. They work, but it’s common enough to be a problem. Just be careful and make sure the latch is tripped before you leave it, and you’ll be fine.”

  I’m not so much worried about evaporating into Kinder-mist… Okay, well, maybe I am… What I’m really worried about is securing one of these Tunguska bombs to the side of a tank, thinking it’s armed, and then having it not be, and then having to watch as it fires and kills a huge group of my people. If they’re as old, rickety, and unstable as these two soldiers say, t
hen there’s a chance that they won’t explode, regardless.

  When I ask about this, I’m told, “It’s a risk we have to take, ma’am. We don’t have any other options.”

  Finn and I exchange glances and cautious smiles. “Okay, then,” he says. “Time to make some things go boom.”

  He strides away, leaving me standing there, wanting to ask more questions about the possibility of failure, but then something occurs to me: if I can bend time, and these bombs don’t work, then I’ll have to go from tank, to tank, to tank, and disarm them individually.

  This time, a genuine smile stretches across my face. It’s easy to forget what I’m capable of among all this chaos. Really, if it became necessary, I could probably disable the entire army by myself. It may seem like it would take forever in the layer of time that I’m experiencing, but to the DAV blackcoats, one second they’d be holding their weapons, ready to fight, and the next, they’re blinking back to consciousness with their hands and feet tied together.

  I wonder why I’ve been so worried.

  I had gotten so caught up in the situation with being nearly electrocuted to death and locked up in prison, to getting shot, to finding my parents, to following Hale’s orders that I had completely and absolutely overlooked the fact that I, no, we, don’t have anything to worry about.

  I’m a Kinder, dammit. I’m superhuman. So is Finn. We can do this. We can win this battle with just the two of us and maybe never not even lose a life.

  This is going to be easy.

  I pick up my pace and catch Finn just as he reaches the forward part of our cobbled-together army. Mosley has taken the place of Hale in giving a motivating speech, and with everyone now aligned in the proper regiments, standing at attention, instead of milling about nervously, they look like a proper fighting force.

  We wait on Mosley to take a breath, and then Finn grabs his arm as he pauses.

  Mosley nods, shouts for everyone to hold their position, then follows us to the wounded hole in the wall. Overhead, two spotlights that weren’t damaged in the explosion cast their yellow cones, the color of corn, down on top of us. Sheets of rain hurtle through the cone of light like a flickering river.