Starvation Ridge: Bright in the Skies -- Chapter Eight

 

A long, skinny hand, wobbling slightly as the vehicle jounced along, pointed to a dial. "We used to do this with a computer and a joystick, soldier. But what we have here used ta be called analog gear. Now you see these numbers we have painted on this dial, an' you see this arrow on th' board here pointin' at th' zee-ro on th' dial."

    "Yes, sir." 

    "This here truck's one 'a my best kept secrets, or I would have trained you before now. I have set this little gizmo humming, but with no power to th' mains yet. So I'm goin' up front with Milady, an' when I shout 'three,' crank it round to this'n, which by th' way is a three. Hold it there till I say 'zee-ro.' Do not go past the three; I need re-habs, not corpses. An' keep that hat on, or you'll likely not hear me say anythin' at all an' wake up later with a godawful headache. Good?"

    "Understood, sir."

    Magee slid into the passenger seat of the converted MRAP. He picked up and fastened on a bulky helmet. "Hello, my dear."

    The Doctor, already helmeted, kept both hands on the wheel, watching for impediments in the unimproved "road." "Hello, my lord. We have twice passed the bridge shown on the map, and no sign of your fugitives. It does make me nervous to have a window in front of me with a rogue LAV out there in the twilight."

    "Well, we got a decoy. Mullins is not likely to wait to shoot th' second vehicle in line. Besides," he smiled, "We don't know th' LAV's even operational at this point."

    "It must have been so at some time, my lord, for the shell-holes on the long mountain behind us are fresh."

    "I'd guess this fork in th' road means they are asslin' around out here. Tryin' th' right, then th' left. With no more supplies than they're down to by now, th' locals will have fought 'em to a standstill."

    "Your Mullins is perhaps overextended, my lord."

    Magee turned his thick glasses upon her. "My Mullins, huh."

    "I am sorry my lord, I had of course not meant to cast aspersions." She smiled.

    "He an' Lockie were all I had left that were any way qualified for field command. Wolf's improvisational skills have complicated things, as usual."

    The Doctor smiled again, grimly. "On that, I will be so good as not to repeat myself, my lord."

    The vehicles turned a corner as the ground sloped slightly upward. A flash of light lit up the evening and the lead truck, driven by a prisoner and containing no supplies or other personnel, burst into flames.

    "Looky there, right on schedule. Halt th' column, my dear." Magee leaned back and shouted over his shoulder. "Three!" He reached up to the ceiling and began cranking a small wheel. "Might as well give it a three-sixty."

    "That will take out our own men, my lord."

    Magee continued cranking. "Yep, for at least half an hour, even in th' trucks. But anyone within two klicks will be just as out of it, meanin' no surprises from any direction, an' no one will bother us while you an' I're zip-tyin' our misbehavin' children up there." 

    "I do not think the beam will penetrate the LAV-35 well."

    "It's a risk. But we are likely so heavily outnumbered that we have had to barge right in. My money, whichever of our bad boys fired that thing, 'specially if it's Mullins, will get curious and stick his head out for a look-see. Then he'll sleep like a baby."

    "That will be a relief, my lord."

    "Yeah, that gun's wicked. But so are you, my dear. Thanks ever so for savin' up th' microwave kit."

    "My pleasure, my lord."

:::

    Emilio followed Josep into the lookout on Ball Butte. He took in, at a glance, the emptiness of the place, and the ineradicable rancid smell of warmaking. Brass casings, plastic, broken glass, and scraps of leather, some of them scorched and bloodstained, lay about. Over the last two weeks, the place had been fired into and firebombed, and men and women had bled here. Wastes had overflowed the latrine and had perforce been dumped out the doorway and windows. The natural-stone building – a cave, really – had become a monument to humanity at its worst. "It is as you say, Mr. Josep. The position has been abandoned."

    Light, resembling lightning in its intensity, arced across the ceiling, flared and faded. Both men ducked. Echoes of explosion reverberated round the hills. 

    Josep went to the window, as Emilio reflexively covered the door. "Was that even directed at us?" asked the older man.

    Josep studied a pillar of smoke, lit in shades of pink from underneath, rising and drifting away to the west. "I think not. Perhaps there is fighting among our f ..." He dropped his bow and covered his ears with his hands.

    Emilio, in agony, fell to his knees. His rifle dropped from his numbed hands and he leaned against the doorway, nauseated. Focusing on the distance in an effort to maintain control, he could see that several members of their crew were in the same condition as themselves. Then, as quickly as the buzzing, debilitating sensation in his flesh had come, it vanished, leaving behind a massive headache. 

    A hand gripped his shoulder, and Emilio turned, painfully. Josep knelt beside him, one hand resting on his shoulder, the palm of the other resting on his own forehead.

    "What in all Jeeah's green earth was that?" asked Emilio, forgetting his resolve to avoid religious language in the presence of his Christian friend.

    "I do not know," replied the Roundhouser. "I have never felt anything like it. And my head is splitting."

    "Mine as well. We must establish a defensive posture." Emilio rose on rubbery legs, taking up the tiny rifle as he did so, and stepped outside. His hand shaking, he reached for his whistle, and shrilled to every Creeker and Roundhouser in the vicinity.

    As they came up, some supporting one another weakly, he made signs to them not to congregate in the open, but to take up positions, weapons at the ready, among the nearby boulders. He sensed that Josep had returned to the window. "Mr. Josep, do you see anything that will explain what has occurred?"

    "No – or yes and no. There are new trucks, I think. They are in the place where we spoke with the Bledsoes, or near. Whatever is burning is in the trees, but I feel sure it is a vehicle. And there is one illuminated by the flames, which has a thing on its roof."

    "A turret?"

    "Not the cannon thing, no. It looks like that apparatus we carried to Ridge for your young engineer with the glasses."

    "Bowl-shaped?"

    "Yes. And it is pointed to the north."

    "Ah, Mr. Josep, if we live through the night, perhaps we will ask Mary or Mr. Selk what you have seen. No doubt it is as you say, a gentlemen's disagreement is in progress below. However, it cannot bode well for us here, I think."

    Emilio turned to the men and women of his crew. 

    "Is everyone alive, uninjured and accounted for?"

    Mrs. Perkins, a team leader, responded. "We are, but everyone hurts like the dickens." 

    Emilio could see that some were still holding their heads. "I think, from overhearing conversation among our science crew in the refectory, that it is a weapon, and that its power diminishes over distance. There may be an altercation in the valley to our west, in which case we are, as Mr. Avery would say, 'collateral damage.' I am feeling some relief now; is it so for us all?"

    Mrs. Perkins replied again. "It would seem so, sir."

    "It is well. Make four teams of four, as we have discussed. Rifle, shotgun, two bows. Be sure there is at least one firebomb in each team and means to make it burn. Dispose yourselves north, west, and south of the summit, and one team in the fort. Everyone within hearing of each team's whistle and designate a watcher for the fore night and another for every three hands of the night. I will join the north team and Mr. Josep will run down to relieve command at Bridge. If you find means, make walls or holes for cover. Otherwise seek out suitable tree trunks. Make yourselves comfortable as you may, as it will be a wet night."

    Despite their training and their best intentions, the next few minutes were noisy. Emilio winced. We are a graceful enough people in peace. In war, less so. May we learn better before our enemies do.

:::

    Jorj almost smiled, but the cylinder sleeve did not quite fit. Considering it was handmade, he could not complain. Mr. Deela was a pleasure to work with; the part was very close to being the real deal. Deerie's other problems he could deal with soon enough; mostly a matter of hoses. He pulled things apart again and reached for the round file. As he did so, David, Nine-ah, and Raoul huffed into the newly illuminated interior of the New Ames barn, pulling a heavily laden hand cart.

    "Where to?" asked Raul, shaking his head to rid his cedar rain hat of excess moisture.

    "What have you fine young people got here?"

    "Plate steel, sir," said Nine-ah, the young Roundhouser who had joined her life with Raul's.

    "Oh, right, right. Are the corners drilled out and all?"
    Raul, putting his arm round Nine-ah's shoulder, replied. "Yes, a hole about every thirty centimeters. And the plates are all cut to the sizes you requested, sir."

    "Well, an old man can't ask for more than that. Lean 'em up to the right-hand side here; don't pinch your fingers though. Uhh ... any idea where Mr. Bolo is?"

    "He was in the line over by Bridge, last two days running, and is resting at Chaney's, sir."

    "Well, I won't bother him right now. But he's awful handy for holding heavy iron in place." Jorj looked at first one and then the other of the boys, imploringly.

    The young men, who had been raised in a family in which requests were made more directly, did not catch on immediately. But after an uncomfortable silence, Nine-ah looked at Raoul and raised an eyebrow, then gestured with her head. Raoul made an "O" with his mouth, then turned to Jorj. "Sir, we're not really on duty right now; could we be of service?"

    Jorj beamed upon them. "Why, perhaps you can, and it's kind of you to ask." He reached for a socket wrench, a ratchet wrench, and a coffee can from his toolbox. "This is a five-eighths socket, see, and these in the can are five-eighths bolts, nuts, and washers, two-and-a-half inch, which the children have scoured up for me from all the farms round. Some are nine-sixteenths, but they'll do, and here's another socket for those. Umm, you all look a little blank. Seen these before?"

    Raoul took the wrenches. "Yes, sir, a little. What are we making?"

    Jorge waved his hand grandly at Deerie, the wood-fired three-roller crawler tractor. "We are building a tank. Smallest d- ... smallest tank in the history of the world, kids, but a tank all the same."

:::

    Vernie reached for the long-barrelled Kentucky rifle. It was surprisingly heavy for such a slim thing. "How does it work?"

    Tomma held up Maggie's powder horn. "Well, it's not that different from th' Hawken. Measure powder into th' barrel, put your patch in, ram with the ramrod that's tucked under the barrel here, add th' ball, ram again, pour a smidgen of powder into the pan, pull th' hammer back, aim and fire. The flint will throw a spark, and with any luck th' spark will touch off the powder, which will burn down the touch-hole and set off th' powder in th' breach."

    "Sounds iffy."

    "T'is. Th' cap was a great invention."

    "I'd almost rather get one of the twenty-twos."

    "We're maxed out on those. And everyone's down to about twenty rounds each with them, anyway. You have enough makings here for about thirty-five shots – if you can keep this thing out of the rain."

    "These little dugouts are damp, but they'll do. How is Maggie?"

    "She's never regained consciousness, and may not beat the infection. Another loss we couldn't afford. And something's th' matter with Dr. Tom. It's like you can't get him interested anymore; Elsa is having to do practically everything, with a little help from Nita and old Mrs. Lazar."

    "We're not doing so hot."

    "No; we're not, but th' consolation is, neither are they." Tomma gestured with his head through the mist toward Bridge. "Wilson thinks they've brought everybody they've got. If we can outlast them, there might not be any war for a long time; give us a chance to pull a food scene together."

    "Sweetie, that's whistling in the dark. You know we've been eating wheat, don't you? Whoa!" This last came in a whisper.

    "What?"

    "Somebody coming." Vernie, not quite ready to practice loading the rifle, reached for his crossbow.

    Tomma aimed his Hawken at the night. "Word?" he called out softly.

    From the nearby hemlocks came a Roundhouse accent: "Whites. Word?"

   "Eyes."

    The visitor turned out to be Josep. He smiled indulgently. "Bundling, are we?"

    "Well, Tomma has to show me how to use this thing." Vernie set down the crossbow and hefted the flintlock.

    "And it's warmer w'two, anyway," added Tomma.

    "Agreed and agreed; but once Mr. Vernie has the drill down, if you could return to your own pit, Mr. Tomma, we'll have better coverage."

    "Understood, sir." Tomma grinned.

    Josep moved on, checking the remaining rifle pits.

    "Huh," said Vernie, chagrined.

    "Not to worry; he's good at this. And kindly in his way."

    Not all Roundhousers could hide their distaste for Vernie and Tomma's relationship. They had, for that matter, been leery of old Maggie, when someone, watching walk, had realized her body had once been that of a man, and told the others.

    "Yes. Well." Vernie's hand sought out Tomma's in the gathering darkness. "Just sit with me a little longer."

    Tomma shifted closer. "We've been lucky, you and I."

    "Yes. We've been lucky. You and me."

:::

Mullins had not exactly lost consciousness, but whatever it was, was same as. He could not, by sending anything resembling commands, detect movement in his arms or legs, nor could he turn his head. For the time being, had he recovered the power of speech, he would not have been able to give anyone his name or recent history. As his mind swam up from a gray lake of pain, he found himself sorting through memories from longer ago than he generally cared to visit: his mother, brushing his hair from his eyes and offering him roasted meat. He'd taken it, glad of it in his immense hunger, and had wondered at her turning from him, weeping, as he ate. Or the day she'd been taken away by laughing men as he hid where she'd placed him, not daring to whimper at her not returning. 

    Now he remembered joining a band of youths, making his place among them by leaving the one that had taunted him bleeding and wrecked against a railyard fence. And working his way up through their ranks to become their leader, through his instinct for mechanics. He had led the gang in fairly sophisticated exercises in breaking and entering, specializing in large, faceless warehouses. 

    But one of these buildings, it had turned out, was occupied by men in mottled green-and-brown clothing who had raised weapons in the corridor and barked commands. When he'd turned to run, he could see his crew falling down in heaps by the door, and he himself, deafened and going blind, had fallen behind them. And when he'd forced himself to consciousness, he'd been a prisoner of the barking men in their dark glasses. This deadness in his arms and legs – it was like that then, too.

    It was in prison, which was to become his home for much of his life, that he'd met his final teachers, Magee and the always-lucky loner, Wolf. Magee had found him fellow convicts with whom to work on machinery, and Wolf had helped him refine his defensive techniques.

    And then the prison guards, the soldiers with their sunglasses, had hastily loaded themselves onto flying machines and simply departed – where, and why, they certainly did not convey to the prison population, who'd been simply left in lockdown.

It was the suddenness of the departure that had been Mullins', and everyone else's, great opportunity, for Mullins, seeking new tools, had taken advantage of the first breakdown in the soldiers' discipline to hide himself away in a bin, while Lockerby sat in their cell, talking to a pile of blankets in Mullins' bed as if he were there. And so it was he, Mullins, that had given second life to Magee's ambitions, by releasing everyone.

    Mullins tried lifting his head. Ohhh, painful. Face down? Had he been shot?

    "A little life returns to a little life, I see."

    Magee? Had Mullins muffed the jailbreak? Perhaps not all the guards had left, with their vicious sleep-inducing sidearms?

    "A splash of water for th' lad, please. Not too much; it's been in short supply here, I find. Young man, set up some rain catchment, will ya? Tarps are in th' third truck back; just ask for 'em."

    "Suh, yes, suh." Jahn's voice.

    Something – warm, cold? – oh, wetness – blanketed the side of Mullins' head and snaked down his throat. He must be lying on his side, or face down. He blinked. Firelight?

    "Much better. For some reason, my boy, you've outslept your little army. Very sloppy of you."

    Mullins tried commanding his arms again, reflexively, and found that his hands were tied behind his back. "S ... sss ... "

    In the night above, Magee's voice poured down in a soothing purr. "Touching; I believe you are trying to say 'sir.' We'll dispense with that formality for now, as you are my prisoner and I must decide your disposition. As usual, our dear Doctor, who is so very fond of mayhem, insists you must receive the red hypo, and while I agree that is your merit, I'm always open to discussion of salvage operations."

    "Vuh ... vuh ... "

    "Very kind of me, I know. Quite a thick tongue you have there; let's try yes-and-no questions. Did Wolf escape your custody?"

    "Yuh ... ssuh."

    "Exceedingly sloppy. Did you ascertain which direction he went?"

    "Nuh."

    "North? Well, that might mean something. Is he armed?"

    "Dud ... dnn ... "

    "You don't know. And I presume he has made himself scarce."

    Mullins managed a nod.

    "Am I right in presuming that you have persisted in your assignment here in an effort to use the power plant as a means toward achieving some kind of ascendancy over me?"

    "Meh ... nuh ... no, sir."

    "Ah, a most dangerous question produces some coherency. Tell me, if you are ready, what were you thinking?"

    "Sir, if we ... if we were able to complete the mission, we hoped to improve our position – regain some favor."

    "Seek clemency? That's certainly one way to jump with it. And you tried a direct assault on th' right, which was repelled, then prepared to repeat th' effort on the left? Didn't work for General Lee, why would it work for you?"

    "Yes, sir, sorry sir ... our allies had taken the lookout, and we aimed to haul the gun to the summit and rake the valley from there."

    "Little Round Top, but on the left. A not-too-awful plan, stymied however by your disobedience in letting Wolf get away, for your supply of parts dried up forthwith."

    "Sir."

    "Next, an important question. Is the Cat's situation subject to field service?"

    "Sir, it's mostly a matter 'a hoses. Got none."

    "Well, we're good, then. I have some. How 'bout that LAV?"

    "Not so good, sir. We are treating it as towed artillery."

    "I have to say, you're not impressing th' tribals much. Well, Mully – against the Doctor's advice, and let us both remember, she was right in the matter of Wolf and I was wrong – I believe I will make use of you and not dispose of you. I have brought things to gladden the heart of any good motor mechanic. At first light, you will apply yourself to the regaining for me the use of the Cat."

    Mullins could see, through the rain that dripped into his eyes, booted feet walking away from him past the fire. Someone laughed somewhere.

    What was it about rain, yellow flames, and boots? Mullins blinked away the rain. Oh, yes. It had rained the night those smirking men had pulled his mother away from the fire.

 

(To be continued)