Starvation Ridge: Bright in the Skies -- Chapter Fifteen

 

Wolf squatted on his haunches and rolled the legless man over. Lots of damage to his middle, as might be expected. The air, still blue with the smoke of combat – and execution – stank of the man's burnt tunic.     

    "You're a mess, fella," said Wolf softly.

    "Tell me what I don't know. Want to put me back in my chair?"

    Wolf looked over the chair. "Should I check it for surprises?"

    "There was a knife right by my hand. Did I reach for it when you came over?"

    "No."

    "Saw you kill that sunnavabitch ... thought we might have a thing or two in common."

    "Maybe." Wolf tested the wheels of the chair with his foot, figured out the brakes and set them, then lifted the man, into his seat. Blood began to soak into the shredded tunic, but the man didn't seem concerned. Shock and bravado served for anesthetic, apparently. Wolf had seen this many times.

    The two regarded each other in silence for a moment. Wolf busied himself reloading the Coonan, one ear cocked for activity from down the stairwell.

    His host spoke again. "Aren't those revolver rounds?"

    "Yeah. It's kind of a unusual gun."

    "All guns are getting unusual now."

    "And seems like every one of 'em came here today."

    "So ... are you one of them?"

    Wolf glanced at the lifeless suit of armor on the floor. "It's complicated." He looked Mr. Control Room in the eye. "It's kinda over out there, maybe. Th'two sides have fought each other to a standstill for now."

    "Got a name?"

    "Not one that matters."

    "Mine's Avery Murchison."

    "Are you the boss man up here?"

    "No, kind of a unit commander. Was."

    "Who would I talk to about stuff, then?"

    Avery cocked his head over. "Got a feeling I don't really know." A fleeting expression crossed his face. "There's a one-armed girl. If she's alive, talk to her."

     Wolf took in the damaged room, missing little. "What the eff was this all about, anyway?"

    Avery, beginning to grow pale, gestured vaguely at the armored corpse. "Was that Magee?"

    Wolf raised his eyebrows. "Yeah."

    "He  ... did you dirty?"

    "Yeah, actually. I kinda did him first, but he, ah, upped the ante."

    "Well, he was trying to to do the whole world dirty. Or would have, if he'd pulled this off."

    "I appreciate your confidence, but are you telling me too much?"

    Avery shifted in his seat. Pain was beginning to reach him.

    "I don't think so, somehow. Hoping to recruit you for something."

    Wolf tucked the Coonan in his belt and reached for his carbine to sling it over his shoulder. "What would that be?"

    "Help me destroy this facility." 

    Wolf smiled. "Yeah, it's potentially a liability, from some things I been told. There's a big bomb downstairs, but I've got no fuses and ain't inclined to cross any wires. Whatcha thinkin'?"

    "Got another way. Take you a few moments and plenty of time for you to clear out."

    Wolf considered. "You want me to deliver you to anybody? Could maybe do that."

    "Jeeah, no. I've been rearranged, I can tell. Been hurt before. And what use would I be, out there, after all this is gone?"

   "Got a point, 'm'afraid." Wolf strode over to the control panel and pointed at the dials. "'S'got anythin' to do with these?"

    "Yep. We have to knock out a little pin so's it will hit ground zero, then we're good to go."

:::

The remaining trucks had drawn themselves up in a fighting circle. Two were in flames, dissected by the strange weapon that had been digging all the trenches. Its whirlwind of burning debris had gone up to New Ames, set the house on fire, and swept back through the fight, macerating road, trees, fences and friend and foe alike. The Creekers, trying to set up a perimeter and come to grips with the invaders, spread round to the east, north and west of the trucks, but gave the geyser of rocks and burnt soil a wide berth.

    Then it moved off. 

    Everyone watched its path of destruction as it tore across the Creek and jumped up Ridge, crossing the ridgeline and turning west. The mountain began to shed glowing debris, some of which flew over the crest and rolled, hissing, down among the fire-killed trees.

    A few shots rang out, and battle was rejoined. 

    Night fell.

:::

"Hold still, Bolo, while I figure this out."

    "I am holding still, Mr. Josep, sir."

    Josep winced. Of course he was; Bolo had more resistance to pain than anyone else at Roundhouse. Or, not that exactly. Maybe it was that Bolo's body felt as much pain as did any other, but somehow the big man didn't understand pain. This somehow had affected everyone around him; through the years, Bolo's family (which was everyone who knew him) had gone to great lengths to spare him injury or sickness, as if he had always remained a child. 

    And now here he was with a crossbow bolt in his temple, and he was sitting up and talking and apparently not the worse for it. Across Bolo's lap from Josep squatted Mrs. Wilson. In the dim firelight, Josep could just make out that she was examining Bolo. Krall, the big dog, wrapped herself round Billee's feet and rested her head on Bolo's thigh, sighing.

    Billee frowned. "I'm not really good at this. We need Dr. Tom, or Mrs. Chaney, or at least Karen or Juanita." 

    "Me neither," assented Josep. "Bolo, you've been shot in the side of the head and the bolt twisted as it went in; I don't think we can draw it without some idea which way it turned."

    "It's in my ... where I think?" Bolo made a woebegone face.

    Josep's voice fell to a whisper."Yes." 

   "Why am I alive?"

    "We don't know. 'The Lord works in mysterious ways' is as good an answer as I've ever heard."

    Vernie Watkin, carrying a long old-fashioned flintlock, crawled over. "Jeeah," he said, looking at Bolo, then addressed himself to Josep and Billee. 'They want a parley."

    A momentary rage crossed Billee's face. "After all they've done?"

    Josep wasn't sure how to answer this. Billee had proved an outstanding tactical leader; but since Wilson's disappearance she seemed to be bent on annihilation. He settled for answering with a question. "Should we have more of our people go through what Bolo's going through, or worse?
"
   "I'm not too bad," said Bolo. Josep shushed him.

    "I know what you mean," replied Billee to Josep, "but I don't have to like it."

    "What have they got?" asked Josep of Vernie. "Spokesman? White flag?" 

    Vernie looked surprised. "Yes to both. Some did not understand the flag thing at first. He was almost shot."

    "All right, let us go and talk to the man."

    Billee did not like being left out of this, but she could see Josep's expectation that she would stay with Bolo. And Bolo certainly looked like he could use the company. So she kept to her crouch by his side, her knee lodged in Krall's ribs, patting Bolo's hand.

    Josep followed Vernie, stepping over the strange tilted ditches, taking advantage of what cover was available, toward the "front." This consisted of a small circle of armored trucks, two of them in shambles and emitting gouts of smoke, lit from in front by the strange fire on top of Ridge, and from behind by the last gutterings of the burnt-out shell of New Ames, on a slightly higher elevation. Creekers and Roundhousers occupied the nearest hedgerows, sporting twenty-twos, bows, spears, and swords. A faint smell of damp saltpetre, mixed with that of the wounded soil of the fields, hung in the air.

    They came to Tomma, who held the sights of the Hawken steadily on a figure sitting on the running board of one of the trucks. Even in the dim light one could see the man was tall, thin, world-weary, cagey, and authoritative. A cottonwood branch rested across his knees with a rosette of white plastic flagging tied to one end. He appeared to be unarmed.
    "Bring me up to speed?" asked Josep.

    "Nothing new," replied Tomma. "He asked for our leader, and, I guess, right now, right here, you're it." 

    "No sign of bad faith?" Josep peered into the dismal light ahead.

    "None, they've not fired anything since he started waving that stuff, and there's been no sign of anyone manning slits or any movement toward an attack or breakout, that we can see."

    "Good job. I guess there's nothing for it but to see what he wants." Josep laid down his weapons and stood halfway up. "Greetings."

    If the stranger was startled, he gave no sign. The stick stirred slightly on his knees, and he shifted his weight. "Hey. Yew'd be th' man in charge?"

    "Maybe. Some people, if they were to show up, I might defer to. Till then, you have me."

    "Y'be fair; I like that." He pronounced "like" as if it were "lack." Where was he from? "Y'see, I'm thinkin'." He pointed a bony finger at the rumbling mountain, behind Josep. 

"The shits't brought us here, they got to be dead, or that godawful thing'd be sweepin' us all up by now. If they's dead, that's all to th' good, 'cuz it were more their war than enny of us over here. Boys is tired 'a dyin' 'an I speck y'all feelin' 'bout th' same. Say?"

    "I won't pretend it hasn't been rough. We have some people that have lost husbands and wives. Children, even."

    "Yeah, figgered. I hate that; purely I do. 'Cuz if one of 'em was to knife me in th' back on my way outta here, I'd say I had it comin'."

    A faint rustling caused Josep to check behind him. Bolo, apparently completely ambulatory, was standing in the Road, supported on one side by Billee and on the other by none other than Wilson! And was that Armon with them? Josep gaped, but Wilson rolled his forefinger in the air, which Josep took to be a sign to keep the parley going. He returned his attention to the stranger. "What do you propose?" 

    "T'let us walk. We'll leave all our weapons an'y'c'n have these bloody machines, too."

    "Surety?"

    "Aw, fella, if ya kep' me, what'd stop these kids come back an' fight ya if they had a mind? I ain't nothin' t'them. None of us has much t' watch out for but our own skins. And, y'know – " he chuckled – "I 'speck yer in like case; y'farms look like fried shit t'me."

    "You may have a point. Where do you think to go?"

    "Back down th' road we made; try t'build a proper tribe down to th' Umpqua."

    Wilson stepped up. "Hi, my name's Wilson."

   "Oh," said the stranger, "seen you afore. Ain't you th' honcho, then?"

    "Yes and no. We're a mixed lot. I happen to know it's a long walk from here to the Umpqua, how do you propose to eat, unarmed?"

    "Well, thanky fer yer concern; we thought we'd take our wounded along, y'know." 

    Josep winced; he could feel the sly smile in that voice even from this distance.

    "If I understand you right, I recommend against what you have thought of," continued Wilson. "You have preserved food in the trucks?"

    "Waal, yeh, MREs. Some. Packaged stuff. It's not too bad. Got some smoked venison. No, venison, really."

    Wilson turned to Josep. "What say we have each of them, in the morning, take something of that, and a water container. We'll put a cache of hunting weapons – four bows, a couple of knives, and say eight arrows – by the Bridge for them to pick up on their way out. That work for you?"

    Josep nodded. "That works for me." He turned toward the seated stranger. "You catch all that?"

    "Oh, hail, yeah. I hear anythin' related to my skin."

    "We'll be watching."

    "Wouldn't expect no less. So, if nobody's trigger finger is any itchier than usual – " the thin man nodded toward Tomma – "None of my boys here will so much as blink, and I'll gather up our toys, real slow like, and y'all c'n watch me pile 'em up right here in th' open? An' I surely would hate to die of mistakin' y'all on this deal."

    Josep looked at Wilson, who nodded. "We're good here," replied the Roundhouse leader. "Our word as Christians, Jeeans, and human beings, which, may it still be true, we are. We will not break 'this deal,' though you must understand we cannot stand down while you proceed."

    "That was kinda complicated, but I gotcha; gonna get up real slow now and commence t'gatherin'."

    Wilson waved Emilio's little twenty-two vaguely toward the man, with the barrel pointed to the darkened sky. "Please do."

    An explosion shook the ground beneath their feet. All eyes turned to the mountain, from which a ball of fire emerged. The flame lit the valley and the hills all around as it rose, then vanished into the louring clouds.

:::

The band of refugees were washing themselves desperately in the cold waters of the Creek, by the light of the last flames of Hall, when the explosion startled them.

    "What was that?" asked one of the Roundhouse children. It was the one with the puppy, standing knee deep. 

    Karen held her hand protectively over little Allyn's hiding place in the sack at her side. Too damp out here for a baby. She turned back to look at the girl, who, like herself, was still half-covered with Ridge's offal.   

    "No idea. Ridge is ... gone, I should think."

    "Okay," the girl said, holding the squirming puppy at arm's length. "Never liked that place anyway. How come it's so quiet out here?"

    "I don't know that either. Your brother will be back soon, and maybe we'll have some better information. Keep washing that poor dog, and do your hair too. And do it twice. At this rate we'll never smell like humans again."

 

(To be continued)