"It did seem to me that Crawford was puttin' on a show for my benefit," Hick said, scratching his stubbly chin. "We turned up a bit ahead of schedule and I got the impression they wasn't quite ready. One poor sap fell over in the middle of a drill. Got beaten black and blue."
Gert leaned forward out of the easy chair, suddenly engaged. "Tell me more about that."
So, Hickman recounted the event, answering Bekmann's forensic questions as accurately as his memory would allow while the others watched. Finally, the Dutchman seemed satisfied. He grunted acknowledgment and settled back in his chair.
"Well? What do you think?" Hick asked.
"I think it's crazy to fight them," Bekmann said, "but to capitulate would be utter insanity. And perhaps there is hope. I believe Mr. Crawford was attempting to intimidate you. He was like the big bull elephant, puffing himself up and trumpeting his challenge so his opponent sees the hopelessness of fighting, saving the bull from any risk. An experienced male can remain dominant for many years after his peak merely through honing this skill."
Hick shook his head. "If you're suggesting that Crawford was bluffing … well I saw the men he had there. I saw the equipment."
"Sure you did. You saw people marching, and you got the impression of an organized military camp with vehicles and heavy weapons. And yet Devon here tells us that the Sons are not so numerous. Why should Hope be so important that they would concentrate here rather than anywhere else? No, I think you saw what Crawford wished you to see. And yet from what you have told me, it's clear that he is not a military man himself and I guess the same can be said of most of the people under his command."
Martha Bowie took a deep breath from her oxygen mask. "Are you sayin' they're a fake army?"
"I don't know. I suspect they still outgun us and, even if many of them aren't trained soldiers, if Hick's count is close to accurate, they can put a lot more people in the field than us. I mean, how many fit, able and armed do we have in Hope?"
All eyes turned to Rusty Kaminski. "Well, I didn't exactly get the chance to finish my census, but the real problem is weapons. We got the assault rifles you brought back from Ezra, along with the M-249s and a few grenades. Aside from that, we're packing shotguns, pistols and hunting rifles."
"Look, I have to be realistic," Gert said. "We're grasping at straws here. They have the advantage in manpower and weapons. As I said, resistance is futile."
Hick chuckled. "They ain't quite the Borg, Gert. But anyway, we don't have a choice. The question is, how do we go about it?"
And so, as the night crept by, they drew up their plans even as the noose tightened.
Chapter 15: Many Partings
Jay was in the kitchen when Hick surfaced the following morning. For a moment, Hick's mind couldn't process the presence of a strange man in his house and he looked around as if double-checking it was his own kitchen before the fog cleared. He'd only had a few hours of restless sleep, but his mind wouldn't allow him to drift off again, however much he sought oblivion.
"Mornin'," Hick said, glancing up at the clock to double-check it was still morning. "How are you doin'?"
Hick moved past him and it was all he could do to stop himself from gasping as he saw the boy from behind close up and in the daylight for the first time. The back of his head was a mass of angry, lumpy burned skin, framed by stubbly hair that wrapped around the front and gave him an almost normal appearance from a certain angle. The burned skin spread down his back to where it disappeared beneath the white T-shirt (one of Sam's, Hick noted), before emerging again on the backs of both arms. Right down to the elbow.
"Jeez, son. What happened to you? They didn't do that did they?"
Jay, who'd been focusing entirely on his bowl of oats in warm water, looked up at Hick as he stood at the sink washing out his favorite mug. "No, that happened in New York."
"Sam said she thought you'd died there when you didn't turn up where you said you'd meet her."
The young man's handsome face darkened as he shook his head slowly. "I went back to find my mom and a plane came down. I don't remember nothin' after the flames, but this woman had followed me and she dragged me out of the way. I don't know how she did it, but she got me into the back of a kiosk she'd found. She looked after me. Did her best."
"Why did she follow you?" Hick asked, all other thoughts having fled for the time being. He poured himself a cup of instant coffee, pulled up a barstool and sat down opposite Jay at the counter.
"She was trapped in her car. I helped get her out. I left her there and went looking for mom, but she followed me. Saw the plane come down. Burned her hands real good."
Hick shook his head, wondering how many similar stories had played out across the country that night and afterward.
"She found some drugs to take the edge off the pain. Then, one morning I woke up and she was gone."
"She left you?"
He shook his head. "No, she was dead. Overdose. So I went to find Mom …" Tears welled up and ran down his cheeks.
"I'm sorry, son," Hick said, patting him on the shoulder, then jerking his hand away.
"It's okay, it don't hurt much now to touch. Went back to our apartment block and it was gone. Just rubble and burned wood. I don't really remember nothing for a while, but I wandered south as best I could. Saw a fire burning like a beacon. There was a man rounding up people. I wasn't sure he'd take me, but in the end, he said that if I could keep up, I could come along. Ended up in Wareham."
Hick nodded. "And did you steal?"
The shame on the boy's face was all the confirmation he needed. "Yeah, and I know it was wrong, but I was starving. Guess I've been punished."
They sat for a moment in silence as Hick made him some coffee.
"What about you and my Sam?"
Jay shrugged. "I love her. She's looked after me, but I think it's time for me to move on."
"Why?"
"Look at me, Mr. Hickman!" he said, suddenly animated as he turned his head from side to side. "I'm scarred and I'm crippled. It's not fair on Sam she should have to care for me. She's come home and she deserves a life."
Hick surprised himself by feeling a genuine warmth toward the boy. "Well, I think you're right that you should move on."
Jay's face dropped and the light went out.
"But not because of your injuries, and not alone. I want you to take Sam with you."
"What?"
Hick almost laughed out loud at the boy's expression. He looked like a country boy trying to catch flies.
"Listen, the evil scum who did that to you," he said, pointing at Jay's foot hidden beneath the counter, "they're comin' and I ain't sure we can hold them off."
"And you don't want Sam here?"
"Or you," Hick said, though both of them knew that his concern was entirely for his daughter. "If you can get her away, then it'll make it easier for me to fight them. Though it sure is ironic that I waited so long for her to get here …"
Jay nodded. "I'll do it. I reckon I can drive an automatic, but do you think Sam will want to go?"
"If you go, she'll go. We're sending our sickest and weakest to Springs. Now I don't mind if you head that way, but I want you to go under your own steam."
"Where's Springs?"
"About a hundred and fifty miles northwest of here. Devon and Gert just got back and we left people there already. A darned good brothel too, by all accounts." He smiled as Jay reddened, then slapped him on the arm. "So what d'you say? I'm puttin' a lot of trust in you. If Springs doesn't suit, then head west. Leave word about where you're goin' so we don't fall entirely out of touch. If you don't hear nothin' from me, then stay away."
Jay shook Hick's hand. "I'll go."
#
"Is this an April Fool's joke?"
Devon found himself between a rock and … another rock. "What? Oh, is it April first? Well, we're likely enough to be making fools of ourselves over the next couple of days, but I don't want you here when it all kicks off."
"Jessie, you're pregnant."
"YOU DON'T SAY!!"
And with that, she turned on her heels and swept out of the room, slamming the door behind herself.
Gil Summers looked up from his chair with half a smile on his face. "That brings back memories of her teenage years. But you can't be surprised, surely?"
Devon slumped into the armchair opposite the older man. "It seems to me to make perfect sense. We need people in charge of the convoy who are used to the world out there. And she is pregnant, after all."
"And she loves you, Devon. Quite apart from the fact that she's always been triggered by the slightest whiff of sexism, she doesn't want to say goodbye. She doesn't want to leave you to face the Sons without her."
Devon sighed. "I get it. I'd feel the same way if the boot were on the other foot. But that doesn't alter the fact that she's the right person to go."
"I hope she comes. But I wish you was coming too, Sir Shrek."
Devon glanced across at Margie, who was stroking the hair of the Princess Fiona doll Jessie had somehow acquired for her. Next to her sat Amanda, who looked as though she hadn't slept in weeks. All signs of the painted lady she'd once been had been rubbed away by the new world.
"Don't worry about me," Devon said. "I'm indestructible."
Margie looked across at him. "Those men are bad, real bad. But I know you can beat them."
He smiled back at her, but one glance at Amanda's hopeless expression showed what she thought of his chances.
"Can you be ready to leave by sundown?" Devon asked.
"We'll have to be. I feel as though we're at a crossroads, Devon. It's odd, but this feels normal to me now and I would hate to lose it." He gestured at his living room. The TV had been removed and replaced by a small table that had a half-completed jigsaw on its surface. Above the fireplace, a row of candles lit what would otherwise be a dark part of the room, and books lay scattered on the coffee table in front of the couch where Margie and Amanda sat. An easy chair had been wedged into the bow window, and more books and magazines lay scattered on the arms and floor.
But the most remarkable change was the utter absence of the sounds of technology. When they weren't speaking, all they could hear was the distant chirping of birds. And then an all too familiar grumbling noise from the room next door.
A few moments later, Jessie came in again holding Dorothy with Toto at her heels. "She needs feeding. Again," she said.
She walked over to where Devon sat and gently rolled the baby into his arms. "I'll make some formula." Then she bent down and tenderly kissed him.
"Don't leave me holding the baby," he said, smiling as she retreated.
She turned mid-stride and looked back at him. "You'd better get in practice for when her brother or sister is born." She smiled sadly and moved out of sight.
Devon cradled the child and kissed her on the forehead, his throat constricting as his eyes filled with tears.
He didn't watch the convoy leave that evening, but he'd felt the town empty as those who couldn't—or wouldn't—defend it gathered in the parking lot of the school. Fleetingly, he wondered whether there was truly any point in staking the lives of those that remained on defending what was, without its people, just a collection of buildings in the desert of northeast Nevada. Why not simply follow the convoy to Springs and settle there?
Because Crawford would follow them. They would have to face him at some point, and Hope was more defensible than Springs. But then even if they did defeat Crawford, wouldn't he be replaced by some other fanatic at the head of another army? Devon shrugged to himself as he thought. Maybe, but looking into the future was a fool's game, as anyone who'd made a New Year's resolution three months ago would know—if they'd survived this long. The world of today bore little resemblance to its predecessor and he didn't doubt that tomorrow would be as different again.
One day at a time, Devon. One day at a time.
"Penny for your thoughts?"
"What? Oh you know. Life. The universe. Glad to see you back safely."
Jenson Bowie picked up a spade and stepped down into the trench between Devon and the next man along. It had taken most of the afternoon to break up the road surface with picks and shovels, and they were now into the stony subsoil. The trench would run between barricades made of old cars and other junk dragged out of town and laid beside the highway heading north.
"Seems like a lot of trouble when there's no sign of them this way," Jenson said, heaving another spade-full of soil onto the heap behind the trench that could be used as cover by the defenders.
Devon wiped the sweat from his brow, enjoying the tingle of the cold evening air playing across his face and the back of his hand. "Yeah, well we've got to concentrate our forces on defending the approach to the south and we don't want them coming from up here and biting us in the butt. We know they're to the east of here, and I reckon they're likely to be in Salt Lake City by now."
"You sure are a strange one. I mean, I get that you were a cop over in England, but you seem to know a lot about military tactics too."
Devon leaned down and grimaced as he forced the blunt end of the spade into the compacted earth. "Not really. It's mainly common sense."
The truth was that Devon had learned a lot during his time infiltrating a terrorist cell in London. Those guys obsessed about urban warfare, as if their plans to blow up a theater would push the city on to the streets in a battle against the authorities. Their ambitions were way beyond their capacity, but the materials they'd been given to study, and therefore the discussions they had together, were absolutely credible. It was guerilla warfare 101. And he was glad he'd paid attention. At the time, he'd been merely gathering evidence. Now he was preparing to go into battle.
He stood and looked along the trench. It was around four feet deep and six feet wide, running from one side of the smashed road to the other. He raised his voice above the clinks and thuds of spades and picks. "I think that'll do. Let's get cleaned up here and head back."
A groan of relief went up as they shuffled along the trench and climbed out, and then through the piled-up carcasses of trucks and cars to the Hope side of the barrier. They still had plenty to do, but it would have to wait for tomorrow when the light returned. The barricade to either side of the road needed closing up and the earth piled up on this side of the trench had to be shaped and reinforced before it would offer adequate cover.
"Of course, they could always come across country," Jenson said, as he stared into the gloom.
Devon turned to walk back to the truck they'd used to bring people out here. "They could, but they'd struggle to get vehicles across the mountains, especially without anyone noticing. We've got watchers posted—folks who weren't fit to fight, but wanted to help. If we see smoke from either side of the highway, we'll know they're coming that way. But I don't think they'll bother. Crawford will come in overwhelming force up from Ezra, and we've got to hold him off at the bridge."
He climbed into the front of the pickup and waited for the last of the laborers to get onto the bed and pull up the tailgate before swinging the truck around and waving to the pair of hardy souls who'd volunteered to keep watch for the night.
Jenson's eyes glinted in the reflected light of the dashboard as he glanced across at Devon. "I'm gonna call in on the school. Doc told Ma she needs intravenous antibiotics." Then he said what was really on his mind. "You reckon we got a chance, Devon?"
He grunted noncommittally. "The school I went to in England had a motto: Dum spiro spero."
"What does it mean?"
"'While I breathe, I hope.'"
For a few moments, there was nothing but the rattling of the engine, the rumbling of the tires on the asphalt and the occasional tip-tapping of raindrops.
"Well, you gotta hand it to them," Jenson said, finally. "The Chinese sure know how to make a point."
Chapter 16: Prelu
de to war
Paul Hickman paced up and down behind the barricade like a caged tiger. Almost two hundred fighters had remained to defend Hope: a hundred and fifty or so here at the bridge over McGill's Gulch and another four dozen back in the town under Devon's command in case any of Crawford's forces bypassed the bridge. A couple of guards manned the roadblock to the north of the town, though their only role was to light the beacon fire and escape as best they could if any significant force came down the highway. It was a desperate strategy with most of their hope resting on the natural barrier of the ravine that cut the town off from the south.
Cars had been driven out of Hope and across the bridge to block it just beyond the far end. The cars were arranged in an arch, giving the defenders the ability to fire through a full one hundred and eighty degrees. More cars had been used to seal up where the bridge went out over the riverbed, and the plan was to use that as a second point to fight from when they were overwhelmed.
One of the machine guns they'd taken from Ezra was set up in the forward defense position, and the second was on the Hope side of the bridge and would give covering fire to any retreat.
Hick stood beside the second machine gun and gazed across the gulch at the empty road beyond. It was after noon on the second day after his meeting with Crawford and so his forty-eight hours were up. Elwood Miller and his folks had been the last to cross the bridge. The farmer himself and his two farmhands had joined the forces defending the barrier, but he'd sent his wife to join Cassie in the makeshift hospital.
Hick watched Cassie leave with regret, wondering if he would see her again. He sighed and kicked at the dust. What was he doing here? He just wished one of the two equally matched sides of his personality would win decisively so he could have some peace in his mind. Would it be Gollum or Smeagol?
Gollum wanted him to sneak up the highway half a mile to where he'd hidden his truck and follow the others to Springs. Then he could pick Sam up—and Jay, if she insisted on his coming too—and drive toward the West Coast. Maybe find a shack in some deserted bay to hide in.
Last Stand: Book 3 in the Thrilling Post-Apocalyptic Survival Series: (The Last City - Book 3) Page 13