"Is
everyone here that can be here?" Emilio, who might just have not
slept in three days, pinched his nose and rubbed at the inside
corners of his eyes. It was a very uncharacteristic gesture, and
brought everyone to full attention.
"I
think so, sir," Tomma said softly.
"Then
I think may be we can begin. Do we have the map from Hall?"
"Yes, sir." Tomma and Vernie stepped to either side of a
table at one end of the long room. They raised up a plywood sheet,
with posterboard pasted on it, and leaned it against the wall. Most
of their world had been hand-drawn here: a map of Starvation Creek
and the surrounding hills, with all the old farms and the specialties
listed. The one thing that had been done to bring it up to date was a
red line through Ridge, Creek, and Maggie's Hill. Everything to one
side of that line had been burned over by the Great Fire, including
the Orchard; much of what remained on the other side of the line had
had to be abandoned after the depopulation of the New Moon War and
the pandemic.
Those in the room, the
very old, the very young, the disabled, and the walking wounded, drew
near. Some brought folding chairs, others sat on the floor, forming a
semicircle round the table.
Everyone had had
so much to do in the last year that they had most of them passed the
map, in its former location on a dimly lit wall of the Mess Hall,
many times without giving its relative obsolescence much thought.
Seeing it now, with its yellowing paper and faded image, by the harsh
light of the halogen lamps on Ridge Three, was sobering.
Emilio picked up a thin brass curtain rod from the table and used it
as a pointer. "We have before us an army by which, in terms of
available fighters in the short term, we are outnumbered. They are of
two kinds, perhaps allies. They are armed principally by means of a
fighting vehicle with a large gun, as we have all seen. Also bows,
crossbows, and some edged weapons. We have observed at least one
rifle, which appears to be of the kind that was used against us
before. But it has not been brought to the battle and is perhaps
being held in reserve, or for internal security. Nothing can be
assumed, however.
"Those who have
attacked here – " he pointed at Ball Butte " – are, we
think, Eastsiders. They match descriptions we have on record,
confirmed by Mrs. Allyn's account. They may be thought of as cavalry
– horse soldiers. On this army's approach, they were seldom seen,
but are more numerous than we thought – riding horses, they scouted
ahead, secured the flanks, and formed the rear guard.
"They have captured Ball Butte and ..."
A murmur arose. Hands waved. Mrs. Perkins stood up. "Where are
our people that were up there?"
Emilio
leaned back against the table. "The two young men have returned
within our lines. They were both hurt, but not too badly."
"So, Ellen ..."
"Has not been
found. Captain Wilson and Maggie are leading an effort to regain that
high ground and to determine the whereabouts of Mrs. Murchison."
The shock was profound. Silence fell; the crowded semicircle seemed
to Emilio to shrink visibly, as if everyone sought the strength of
shoulders to either side. Billee, who was sitting with her legs out
straight, leaned back against a concrete pillar. She took a deep
breath and held it, so as not to weep aloud. Krall laid her great
head in Billee's lap and whined.
Emilio
addressed the assembly. "This is like the Great Fire; conflict
also consumes what it will until it has run its course. Skill and
perseverance count for much, but to none of us is there a guarantee
of long life and easy days. It may be we will see Mrs. Murchison
again. Should that be so, she will wish to hear that we have used our
skills well, and that we have persevered. Is that not so, Mr.
Murchison?"
All eyes turned to Avery,
Ellen's son.
"She'd tell you all what
she always told me," said Avery, his voice steady. 'Go
get some.'"
"It is so." Emilio pointed to the area between Murchison's
farm and the summit of Ball Butte. "A relief crew was on its way
to the lookout last night, and we have lost contact with them ... a
young man from Gulick's and two from Roundhouse. There are signs of a
struggle. We do not know the outcome. These enemies are a very saving
people; they retrieve arrows if they can find them. They recover all
equipment and bodies, and they habitually cover their tracks."
A woman from Gulick's stood up, not far from Mrs. Perkins, who had
not sat down. "Why are we even doing this? The farms are gone,
you tell me my cousin's dead –"
"Missing," put in Vernie.
"Dead,
thank you very much! He and I grew up here, it's our home, but for
what? We can't grow food while fighting! We should just all pack up
like the Bledsoes and scatter!"
"You
have a point," said Avery rolling his chair forward, "And
it's one that has been discussed every year since the Creek was
established. Let's get Emilio's entire report – and mine – and
then, if you like, we'll call a quorum and see if we have a sense of
the Creek on that."
The woman glared,
but subsided. Yet clearly the mood of the room was with her.
Emilio, seemingly unperturbed, pointed to the scrawled rectangle that
represented Bridge. "As usual, our strongest preparations have
been made in this area. For the second time in a row, our assailants
have declined to test us here." He
tapped the map in the place marked with a farmstead and outbuildings
which all present knew to be now occupied by ruins and weeds:
Lawson's Freehold.
"Once again, an
attack has been made upon Ridge from this vicinity. We have a full
account from Mr. Errol, of New Ames, who is in the infirmary, that
some twenty to thirty men – bald like ourselves –" he forced
a hollow chuckle "– again, some using bows, but mostly
crossbows – made their way up Ridge from this vicinity under cover
of fire from the large weapon and engaged those of us who had formed
a line there.
"From speech
overheard during the fighting, and from details of clothing and
equipment noted on the battlefield, as well as the appearance of
bodies which we were able to recover, we feel there is reason to
believe these are much the same people as we encountered last year.
We think, from blood trails, they also carried away some wounded and
some dead. It may be hoped we hurt them much.
"However, we also have a number of people hurt, including Mr.
Errol, and two missing. We have brought in three dead, a young woman
from Josephs and two men from Roundhouse. But our line has held and
was reinforced and resupplied under cover of darkness."
Mouths opened. Emilio raised his hand, palm out. "We will best
speak fittingly of our dead when we have time to draw a proper
breath. Mr. Josep has taken over on the south slope of Ridge; his
runner informs us that the attackers have withdrawn across the South
River –" Emilio indicated the Calapooia –" and are
marching once again." He drew an arc on the map with the tip of
the curtain rod toward Bridge. "Why they are shifting we do not
know. They do not appear very dispirited; so we may anticipate more
activity, at Bridge perhaps, or at Ball Butte.
"We have the interior lines. As they march, so may we, point for
point. Ball Butte is a matter of concern. While they hold that high
ground, they command the Creek. We wonder that we have not already
been fired upon from there. Hence Captain Wilson's maneuver. Mr.
Avery, sir."
Avery wheeled round to face
the audience. "As we all know from our flat and rumbling
tummies, it has been a lean stretch and likely to get leaner. When
the Department of Defense cleared out this valley and ran, "Jeeah"
knows where and to what end, they left an opportunity behind in the
form of Carey and Ellen Murchison, Sgts., USMC. The Murchisons were
equipped to assess that, due to a trick of the winds, or whatever,
we're not as salted with radioactive isotopes, and other problems, as
some of the surrounding country. So they were able to pull together a
community, enough, they hoped, to farm. But it takes more than we
ever recruited, or more of a second and third generation than we were
able to produce, to stabilize at a defensible and sustainable
population.
"Think of all the
things that didn't go wrong! War held off, cold held off, flood held
off, drought and heat held off, fire held off, and crop failure held
off, just enough, for twenty-two years, for us to pretend life was
some kind of normal. It's not, out there, and not so much in here,
either. Even with this –" he gestured at the blazing
lights "– which is a thing likely unheard of nowadays, there's
little to go on.
"The Pilgrims trudged
past us all that time, and we did what we could to make Creekers of
some of them. They had known terrible privation. Some of their
companions fell to diseases, which was why we had strict quarantine.
Some had starved. Some had tried to farm, and their crops had made
them sick. Some were too radioactive, themselves, for us to recruit.
The poison comes from everywhere, mostly in the rain and snow. Savage
Mary tells me if we were to show up among the people of Old USA and
be tested, they'd have declared us poisonous.
"It's not that we're afraid of danger here. It's more we have
some notion of the likely rate of return on scattering out. Wherever
the Bledsoes could have gotten to – and some of us think they've
met our 'friends' outside – they would likely have found little
safe to eat, less safe to drink. Port Land bars the way north toward
cooler lands; hostile opportunism on an even greater scale than these
bandits and better organized, from what Mr. Josep tells us. If we got
so far as the Canucks, why would they welcome us? We have heard them
explaining, on their radios, how to dispose of any Pilgrims who get
that far. And radiation is an issue even for them."
Avery looked round the room, meeting as many eyes as met his. "The
truth is, it's worth hanging on here until it isn't. If we cannot
sweep the barbarians from the gate, I'll recommend the Farms pack up
and choose their directions. We are too many to all stick together in
a wilderness, unprovisioned. If we can defeat them, there's still a
crop, of sorts, to get in. We have clean wells and irrigation. The
Creek might yet be a gamble we could win." He reached over his
shoulder and drew the sawed-off shotgun, indexing his finger along
the barrel, and pointed it at the ceiling. "Have a go?"
"I will," said one of the Roundhousers. "My kin
brought me here over my objections, but they were right to do so;
though we loved our home it was becoming a death trap. Here there may
still be some hope, the Lord willing."
Billee was on her feet. "Hey, count on me! Krall too."
Krall swept her tail at the sound of the name, and the Roundhousers
laughed to see the bond between a dog of their people and a woman of
the Creekers.
Vernie held up the Creek's only
known example of a Hawken rifle in his left hand. On his bare arm,
the scars of his wounding in the New Moon War gleamed in the light.
Tomma, across the map from him, held up the Creek's only Lyman rifle
in his right hand. Tomma yelled out. "Yeah, Creek!"
Vernie
looked across at him quizzically, much as if to say, what, you can't
come with anything better than that?
But it
seemed enough for the room. Many stood up and shouted Tomma's
words.
Avery crossed eyes with Emilio. Emilio
was not smiling, but he seemed moved. Shakespeare, we're
not, thought Avery. But we mean about as much.
:::
Wilson
had had misgivings about sending on a scout alone. But Maggie had
insisted, and now her crewman had not returned.
"We'll be sticking together till we know more. I'll go point,
you cover me with Bess there –"
"S'a
Kentucky but it has no name," she replied sourly.
"Yeah, your rifle there. Range about a hundred?"
"More; I make my own Minié
balls, young man. But here in the woods, figure it out."
"Mm-hm. Everybody on your right and left, and a 'tail-end
Charlie,' as Avery says, in case of envelopment."
"Fancy word. Never mind, we all have your wide ass covered."
" ... Right. So, up to th' saddle, n'I'll hang a left toward th'
lookout."
"Fine." She waved
the rifle, giving to the gesture that universal meaning: go ahead,
chatterbox.
Wilson winced inwardly. It had
always been thus with Maggie; 'Savage' might have been a better label
for her than for Mary, whose acid tongue was equal-opportunity. Mary
would highlight her own foibles as well as those of others. Maggie's
competence no one doubted, but she did not often return the favor.
Grasping his spear and loosening the Old Army in its holster, he
turned to go, leaving his rain cape open at the front. Everyone was
still "geared up" for weather, though the worst of it had
passed for now. The Great Fire had not come here, and the dense green
vegetation dumped ice water on one at the merest breath.
Wilson
worked his way up to, over, and around stumps, root wads, windthrown
logs, and the occasional boulder. This was a south slope, but it was
not open country; and in two hands' travel he despaired, at this
cautious pace, of even making the saddle before dark.
Part of the trouble was the dark daylight;
the clouds that had gathered a week ago had not dissipated, but had
thickened daily. Rain had come at last, and it rained for a day and a
night – not enough to flush the green slime from the Creek, but enough to
offer hope of ending the drought. The footing underneath was
surprisingly – to him – firm, which was a blessing. No one likes
to break a leg where there are no hospitals.
He came to an old nurse log covered with young bushes. Not
a good year for huckleberries, dammit – like everything else. He
peered through to the other side. Practically a clearing – several
trees had come down at once, likely. Waiting and listening a bit
first, he stepped over the brushy log and onto the next one, taking
care not to dislodge the peeling fir bark. Nope; too much exposure.
Hunkering down on the downhill side of the log, he shuffled,
crouching, round to the tall root wad on the end, and stepped round
it.
:::
Lacey
shored himself up on a tangle of old roots full of stones and dirt.
How long he'd been out, he had no idea. His entire left side, arm
too, tingled as if it had been without circulation overnight. What
had happened, and why did his head hurt so much?
He lifted his right hand and probed at his face gingerly. This could
not be good. By the feel of it, something had gone through from his
left cheekbone to near his right ear, or vice versa. Never one to
face away from his enemies, he felt justified in presuming the
former. Dried blood, still viscous in the humid air, covered the side
of his head, his neck, and his shoulder. He searched his memories,
which seemed remarkably unsorted.
There was a
war – no, that one was with the Nevadans, who seemed intent on
migrating, with prejudice, through his people to go North. No, it was
the same war; he'd been detailed, with his tribe, to seek out machine
weapons to gain parity. A hopeless business, surely. That man –
Magee? – struck him as an overreacher.
It must be midday; hard to tell by the sky from here, with such an
overcast. Had he simply overslept? No, a wound, a fighting wound and
a serious one. He closed his left eye, and then opened it, closing
the right. Well, things are working. What this creeping
sensation might be though, he had no idea. Craning his neck as much
as he dared, he eyed his shoulder.
Ants. Ants were having a meal at
the expense of his open flesh. Flies, too, were buzzing at him, in
spite of the cool, damp air.
He tried again
at memory, his head throbbing. There was a fight on a mountain top.
Oh, this mountain. It must be the same place; here
were hemlock trees, their whiplike tops gently tasseling in a slight
breeze.
There was a lookout; he and his men
had been investing it in the usual way when battle had been joined
with a canny warrior.
That one had been an
extraordinary difficulty. He had two firearms, and apparently an
endless supply of the flaming ammunition, like a Nevadan. Lacey's men
had fallen to his left and his right. He had pursued the fighter into
the forest. The man had thrown the apparently empty rifle far down
the slope and drawn his other weapon. When Lacey's arrow entered him,
as he came to the open ground, the warrior had turned and fired one
more time.
And here was Lacey's erstwhile
foe, sitting beside him, dead, and fly-blown like himself. So old!
One of the oldest – but it was a woman! Yes, Lacey's own arrow
protruded from her chest. Wrinkled and rather wasted, with the
swelling belly of the starving. White hair, close-cropped. Dressed in
mostly leather, like his own warriors. Who would have thought there
had been so much fight in such a creature? She had moved like a
soldier. In a night fight one cannot tell, but he felt sure she'd
taken out most of his war party single-handed. Six men? Eight? With
himself likely to make one more.
Though
he had no memory of it, he must have finished the business with his
knife, for it lay near him, bloody. And he had her revolver. Hands
shaking with fatigue, he hefted it and examined, with his better eye,
the mechanism. He'd seen, and even handled, this sort of thing in his
childhood, before the taboo had been enforced. He was not sure how to
check the chambers – there appeared to be no loading gate? No way
to see how many shots remained. Nevertheless, Mullins would want it.
Firearms were exceedingly precious to Mullins' people.
Feet scraped at the log, to Lacey's left and rear. Footsteps!
Cautious, tentative. Either he was being stalked, or someone,
experienced, was patrolling in this direction. Lacey slid quietly to
his right and leaned on his cold companion. He held up the revolver,
but did not move the big hammer, remembering that these made
considerable noise.
Another old-woman warrior
stood up nearby, with a long rifle in her hands! She pressed aside
the huckleberries to better see the ground ahead, and her eyes
widened as she took in the two bodies by the root wad. She put the
rifle to her shoulder and in one smooth swift movement reached for
the lock. She appeared to be shouting something – a warning to the
approaching footsteps, perhaps.
Nothing
for it, then. Spirit forgive me for the use of this
thing.
Lacey thumbed back the
hammer on the long, heavy revolver, aimed, and fired. The gun twisted
and seated itself deeper in his hand. Her rifle also roared, but it
was pointing at the sky. Perhaps his round had found its mark.
A large man came round the end of the log, holding in his hand an
iron-tipped spear. He was the negotiator from the river bridge. He
swiped at the revolver with his spear, but just missed, and the spear
point went into Lacey's leg. Lacey thumbed back the hammer again, and
dropped it, the weapon's muzzle pointed at the man's chest. There was
a resounding 'click,' but no thunder came forth. Both men blinked.
Then the man shoved harder on the spear, and Lacey could feel the hot
point drive through him into the ground. Though he was already in
pain, Lacey felt his consciousness slide toward a numbing
indistinctness. The revolver left his hand.
Other soldiers were arriving. The leader gave orders, and they
scattered to form a defensive perimeter. A disciplined people. Two,
Lacey could see, were quickly making litters from rain capes and
spears.
"Looks like you are fadin' a
bit. Can ya hear me?" asked the spearman.
Lacey twitched the fingers of his right hand in acknowledgment.
"I'd dearly love to cut you up real slow, for it appears you
have killed two of the best among us here, each worth every one of
you and more. But I have been tasked to find me a prisoner, and you
are elected. If I have not hit an artery you'll do. I would not risk
poking at you so much, but I can't have you running off." With
that, he drew the spear and rammed its point into the calf of Lacey's other leg.
The last of Lacey's tenuous hold on daylight slid away.
(To be contiued)