Karen
tried to wipe the sweat from her eyes, but that seemed to make
matters worse. So she stepped to her water bottle, sloshed some water
on each eyelid, and felt better. A little more water on top of her
head, and tipped onto each shoulder of her new tunic, and she felt
better still. She returned to the sawbuck and gripped her end of the
bucksaw.
Tomma smiled across to her, and they resumed their
rhythmic dance, pulling the saw through a green Douglas fir log
toward each other. Errol had discovered they made a good team on
tasks of this kind, and assigned them to add to the woodpile whenever
they were both available. Karen had spent much of the two previous
winters getting in wood, but much of it was done with a sledge and
pry bar, tearing down sheds and splintering one-by-fours into usable
fodder for the stoves, and it had burned dishearteningly fast.
The
bucksaw was new to her, but she took to it.
The trick with
the saw was never to bear down, never to hurry. They had found each
other's pace; they could do this for hours. But sweat built up; no
one could deny it was work.
"One more row across the
top of the pile, then a real break, 'K?" asked Tomma.
"Do we really use this much wood?" Most rooms on the farm
were unheated. As winter approached, everyone gravitated to the big
kitchens in the evenings.
"Thirty cords in a winter;
no!" he laughed. "Ten, maybe, with the kitchen, the wood
shop, and two of the cabins to feed. But not everyone on the Creek
has time to get wood in. And we need to push back the trees a ways."
She nodded. Improving security must be combined, whenever
possible, with farm work. Clearing land was an efficient use of their
time, and she'd helped with that as well, on the Jones and Beemans
allotments. Some of the logs had been brought to Ames', and were
waiting to be bucked at the sawbuck. None of the logs were very
large; the woods to the north were all second and third growth, much
of it having sprung up in former pastures.
There had been a
sawmill on the Creek back in the last century; but it had run on
electricity; lots of it; such power was not to be found at present.
As smaller businesses had become uneconomical to operate in the face
of competition from corporate giants, the mill had failed, let go its
workers, and been stripped of its machinery. Lumber sold in the area
after that had come from Canada. When Karen was told the story, it
sounded familiar enough; her father had talked about the fallacy of
"economies of scale." Goods produced that way were
cheaper, he'd said. But with so many unemployed, who could
buy?
The mill building was now the Mess Hall. Creekers
used it to hold civil and social meetings, and to feed those who had
not yet a place on any of the farms. Its kitchen was the largest, and
facilities were springing up round it for blacksmithing, smoking meat
and fish, tanning hides, and the like. But as much as possible was
done on the farms, on the principle of distributed capability.
Cutting wood, for example. Sweat was about to run into Karen's eyes
again. She looked across at Tomma, but saw that his attention was
turned to the main house, down the slope from the woodpiles. She
followed his gaze.
A small boy, whom they both recognized as
one of the "runners" whose function was to carry
prioritized communications along the Creek, was talking with Juanita,
and he was holding the reins of the Creek's one Icelandic pony, which
was reserved for the young runners. As they conferred, Mrs. Ames
appeared in the kitchen door, and was listening intently. Presently
the boy mounted, bareback, and rode off at a measured trot. Mrs. Ames
stepped over to the iron pipe "bell" and began clapping it
vigorously with the kindling hatchet.
Tomma dropped his end
of the saw and stood up; Karen did likewise. Then Tomma picked up the
saw, and carrying it in his hand, ran on his long legs down to the
farmhouse, with Karen in pursuit. Mrs. Ames stood with arms akimbo,
while Juanita stepped forward to meet them.
"Tomma, I
will take the saw. It is a General and it is a Condition Red, so
everyone that can be spared should go, and go armed and provisioned.
I see that Errol is coming down, and my husband. Mrs. Ames and I, we
will prepare some food. Carry some also for others. The boys will do
watch and watch, and when Vernie comes back from the saddle, I send
him him after you."
Tomma turned to Karen. "It's
short notice, but ... are you in?"
Two months ago she
might well have remained noncommittal, a stance her father had
recommended she keep to as long as possible in all circumstances. But
as her sweat mingled with that of the others, as she burned her
fingers on the ironstone bread pans and Juanita treated them, as she
watched green things grow and become food for her body and theirs,
she had come to think a home among others would be a good thing. Food
and a people, she saw, could be fought for, like her own blood and
life for which she had fought more than once.
"I
believe I should go with you."
"Fair answer.
You'll want all the gear in your corner; meet ya here."
:::
"Her
corner" was not in the upstairs room she'd occupied on arrival.
Weeks ago she'd moved into one of the cabins. These were made of
logs, twelve feet square, with a heavy door and doorbar and no
windows, only loopholes. Even the roofs were made of logs, with rare
and valuable steel roofing laid over. The cabin covered two sides of
the farmhouse from loopholes, and was connected to it by a buried
culvert which could be blocked at either end. There were two sets of
bunk beds in the cabin, but Karen was the only occupant as yet.
It was good, said Mrs. Ames, that the building should be lived in,
to prevent mold and such. Karen liked that its door could be barred,
that it was difficult to burn, held a supply of food and water, and
had an emergency exit, and she appreciated that she had been let in
on the secret of these little forts and had one of them entrusted to
her. It was of course very dark with its door closed, but in the
cheery fall weather she kept the door open as often as she could, and
sat, in her little free time, in the entrance, making and mending
such things as needed attention.
Karen now had two sets of
"gear" – her original backpack with its fiberglass bow
and arrows, re-provisioned, hung on the wall by her bed. Her new
"campaign kit" such as everyone else had, stood in the
corner. A bedroll, a jerkin, leggings, strong sandals made from old
tires, a new and much more powerful bow as tall as she, which Errol
had made of Pacific yew, and arrows of cedar, with broadheads made
from large steel washers cut in half, re-shaped and sharpened. They
were not as accurate as her carbon fiber arrows, but serviceable, and
there were twenty, in their own quiver.
She went to her
backpack and collected some items unique to herself: her old belt,
with its Schrade skinner knife, and a pouch containing, among other
things, her monocular, trash-bag "raincoat," and
flint-and-steel. Creekers had adopted a style of long, floppy leather
or cloth belt that they slipped through two steel rings and then
tucked under with a kind of slip knot. She found it awkward, and
preferred her old-style belt with buckle and punched holes. She was
in and out of the dark room, closing the door behind her, in ninety
seconds.
In the back yard of the house, Tomma, Errol, and
Mr. Molinero were shipping hefty pack frames brought to the door by
Mrs. Ames and Mrs. Molinero. Another, only slightly smaller, was
brought for Karen, who sat down, tied her bedroll around the top and
sides with vintage clothesline, shrugged into the wool-rope straps,
and was given a hand up by Errol. Each dipped a steel, plastic, or
aluminum cup in a water bucket on the table by the door, drank it
off, and turned to go. Juanita planted a quick kiss on her husband's
cheek – anything more demonstrative was held unseemly along the
Creek – and Karen barely caught her whisper: "Jeeah go with
you."
Mr. Molinero, as the oldest, wore a long thin
whistle on a thong round his neck. He led out, with Tomma close
behind him. The Creek Road beckoned, dappled with early afternoon
sunlight through autumn leaves under a mackerel sky – change in the
weather coming.
Tomma carried, along with his bedroll and
pack frame and bag, his irreplaceable replica Hawken rifle and a
leather pouch on a shoulder strap. The others had bows, like Karen's,
all made by Errol the carpenter. Errol also had with him a few basic
tools, including a cruiser's axe with a smooth ash handle, tucked
into the webbing of his pack sack. All wore stout leather jerkins on
the same pattern as that worn by Karen.
As they walked
together, they came upon four members of the Wilson household from
across the Creek, in getup similar to their own, but with
broad-brimmed leather hats. They all carried Errol-made crossbows.
The tallest, a man of perhaps twenty in a close-cropped black beard,
stepped over to Emilio and shook hands. "Emilio, Tomma,
everyone, good seeing."
"Good, Allyn. You know
Karen?" Tomma gestured toward her.
"We've met
already." Smiling, but suddenly shy, Allyn stood with his hands
by his sides.
Karen ended the awkward pause, "Tomma,
while you were away I was at Wilson's with David and Raul, drying
apples."
Allyn smiled. "Speaking of which, we have
some to share, I think." He turned to the others. "Stannin?"
"Oh, yeah." Stannin, a round-faced youth of some
thirteen winters came forward with a white canvas bag marked "PNLA
Portland 2014." An antique, still serviceable. It was filled
with dehydrated apple slices. Karen, along with the other Ames
farmers, took a handful, and absently read out the advertising as she
did so.
"You can read?" Stannin asked,
wonderingly.
"Mmm, these are nice. Yes." Karen had
been slow to discover that literacy was disappearing as the
second-generation Creekers reached adulthood. There was little to
read, so she was out of practice herself; and the educational goals,
for now, of Starvation Creek leaned toward agriculture, manual
trades, first aid, and marksmanship. An apprenticeship program was
said to be in the works, but, so far, it seemed to her everything was
still catch-as-catch-can. Karen had herself been put to learning the
baking of barley cakes and oat cakes, many of which, rolled in broad
leaves, were in her pack frame at the moment.
"Let us
move our feet," said Emilio. "I see the Jones and the
Holyroods go ahead of us, and they are opening a wide lead."
:::
Everyone
fell into double columns on the narrow road. Once paved, dirt had
accreted on most of it, and grown grass and weeds, and it had become
a cart track, with a green ribbon down the middle. A few drops of
rain fell.
Allyn fell in beside Karen. "Have you been
baking ever since you came over?"
"Mmph –"
Karen pointed to her mouth, chewed, and swallowed. "– no;
we've been cutting wood and working on the little blockhouses. I just
moved into one."
"I'm still cutting and
drying apple slices; even though there's not really enough sun now.
We need to clear out the cold frames and start winter veggies."
"Maybe you could smoke the apples."
"Very
funny." He pointed to Karen's bow. "Get any practice in
with that?"
"Some; not enough. It's very nice,
lots of power. But though I have been oiling it, every few days the
point of aim changes."
"How much?"
"About twelve centimeters left at twenty meters – if there's
no wind."
"Twelve in ... I think I need
more practice than you do. You're good."
Karen,
striding long to keep up with Emilio and Tomma, turned her head and
regarded Allyn's earnest expression. "I had a good teacher. But
... thank you."
Allyn seemed almost about to stumble.
Several expressions chased themselves round his face, then he looked
ahead, matching stride with her.
This sort of thing – a
promising conversation that halted suddenly – had happened between
them before. Karen was not sure what to make of it.
They
caught up to the Beemans the Lazars and the Ellins crews. Along with
the Joneses and the Holyroods, the number had swelled to some
twenty-four young men, and three women. All mingled briefly, then
fell in and marched on past Reymers Farm, which lay on the other
side of the creek. Two women, gathering potatoes, waved and then
stooped to their work. Their warriors had already left for the Mess
Hall. Behind their fields, clouds began to shroud the long basaltic
spine of Starvation Ridge, and the day darkened.
"Hi.
We met yet?" The two young women had somehow edged Allyn away,
and were walking on either side of Karen. They carried laminated
compound bows, a new thing in Karen's eyes. They were both shorter
and wider than she, the one on the left fair-skinned, red-haired and
freckled – much more so than Karen, and the one on the right was
olive-skinned, dark eyed, and smiling – it was she who had spoken.
"Karen. Ames."
"Heard of you; I'm Aleesha
and this's Marcee. We're both Lazar's."
"So,"
asked Marcee, "You a warrior? Not all the women are."
Karen wasn't sure what to answer to that, but Marcee went on. "The
old-timers are all about how women have the eggs, of which there
aren't going to be enough, so we're supposed to stay out of any
fighting – unless it comes to the farms."
A picture
leaped into Karen's mind of Juanita's bow and arrows, leaning on the
wall in the Ames kitchen. Readiness, at least, had no gender.
"So, you've ever been in battle? You're too new here, I'd
think." Marcee seemed to be looking Karen over appraisingly.
"No, I have not been in these 'battles."
"Aha!
A raw recruit."
Tomma, now several ranks forward,
looked back. "Don't be too sure. She's a Drownproofer."
"A what?" Marcee looked confused.
"Drownproofer. She was trained all her life to avoid attackers,
then whip them when cornered."
Allyn chimed in. "And
she has."
A steady light rain began to fall as evening
came. The young people, many of whom had little in the way of rain
gear, were happy to arrive at the Mess Hall no later than they did;
they shucked their heavy pack frames and went to empty places at the
tables, where baked potatoes and steamed kale awaited them in a
variety of wooden or ceramic bowls. Pitchers of water and old
Tupperware or aluminum tumblers were also available. But as for
cutlery, each was left to his or her own devices. The potatoes had
cooled. Karen set to with her belt knife and looked around her as she
ate.
The long room was packed with people. Against the wall
in the middle was a low plywood stage with a table and chairs on it;
and in all but one of the chairs sat, presumably, Elders. Karen knew
three of them: Tom and Elsa Chaney, the doctor and the farmer at
Chaney's; on the table, hands splayed to his left and right, sat the
"Captain," Carey Murchison, the former Marine sergeant. His
balding head bowed, he seemed to her frailer than when they'd met,
but still powerful.
Murchison raised his head and said
something to Tom Chaney, who stood up. The spate of conversations and
clatter of dishes subsided.
"Hi, and welcome to the
General Meeting. It's not like ones we're used to. It's a two-parter;
and there's nothing to vote on." His smile eased some of the
tense atmosphere. "The Bledsoes, Josephs and Russells have
already met and they've gone up to reinforce the Murchisons on Ball
Butte. There's a bit of a war on." His kind eyes fell on
Murchison. "Carey."
"Thanks, Tom." He
looked round the room; some fifty young faces – so young!–
looked back. "Today, a party of, we think, thirty-one, all male,
surprised the Eagles's Nest from the woods and the lookout was forced
to pull the plug. We believe the attackers also suffered a ...
fatality. They appear to have spent part of the afternoon sifting
through the wreckage of the Nest, and at least some are now making
for the Butte, and should arrive under cover of darkness."
He gestured toward a handmade map, with east at the top, hanging
from the wall behind the table. "As you can see, as they've
split their forces, they may believe they can hold our attention on
the Butte and slip into the valley just north of the Bridge. There
might not be too many of them, but they have discipline, some
courage, and enterprising leadership, and they may be hungry.
Also –" he looked round the room again for emphasis "–
they possess two or more firearms and some ammunition." He let
this sink in.
There were no questions; another sign that
this was not your garden variety General when everyone seemed to have
something to say into the wee hours. Many could guess who'd died at
the Eagle's Nest, and the shock cleared their heads. Soon all would
know, and mourn with the "old man." For now, they could
honor the loss best by giving him their full attention.
"We
have very little time. Wendler's?"
"Three." a
voice came from the far back.
"Tomlinsons'."
"Four." Karen knew that voice. Cal Perkins, the smiling
man she'd met on the road with Mrs. Ames. So they had settled at
Tomlinsons'.
"Schneider's?"
"Three."
"Gulick's?"
"Two." Gulick Farm had
few residents again; something Dr. Chaney called "flu
depletion."
Flu was a serious matter on the Creek, and
had disrupted more harvests, and canceled more trainings, than any
other factor. There were no graves, however; bodies were ceremonially
composted, along with all other farm "waste." The dead, it
had been noted, had registered no complaints.
"Okay,
so, twelve. Go form a line between Russells' crew and the flat."
And so on; Hisey's and Delsman's crews would form a line across
the creek, with their center on the Bridge; Maggie's and Peacher's
would return home and then fan out north across the saddle between
Ball Butte and Maggie's Hill; Reymer's, Lazar's and Ellins' crews
would throw a line from the Bridge to the Chaney farm, to back up
those on Ball Butte but also be available to throw into the line
across the Bridge; and Beemans, Jones', Holyrood's, Wilson's and
Ames' would stay at the Mess Hall, a last reserve.
Murchison
gave them all the passwords for the night, and offered a few general
instructions; keep at least twenty feet but no more than forty feet
apart, keep still, keep quiet, engage anyone who fails a challenge;
come to one another's rescue as needed, but use common sense; if you
find yourself hurt or weaponless and alone, fall back on Hall.
Each "crew" had its own tactical leader, carrying a
shrill wooden whistle. The whistle was intended to be unique in note,
a call to one's own; but in practice anyone might respond. Assuming
there were no deep sleepers. It would be four hours on, four hours
off for the next while. More or less; who had a working watch
anymore?
This was no more than a skirmish line; if that war
party out there had stuck together they could cut through any part of
it like butter. But it would be the Creekers' best chance of
determining their movements until morning.
Sixty-three
fighters were available in all, including those from Murchison's
farm; those had been on alert at the Ball Butte station all day,
though, and would need relief. And, of course, the Ridge, which had
its own crew. So, say fifty-nine mobile, a third of them half-trained
and experienced, the other two thirds half-trained and green.
So, we can expect a casualty rate of two to one. Or more. In that
sense they have us outnumbered. Were the odds better at this end
of the valley, he would have sent back the Ames' and the Wilsons's
crews to watch the eastern saddles on Maggie's Hill and the Ridge.
But you can only cover so many bets at a time. Not for the
last time that day, Murchison struggled to keep his mind away from
the futile round of "what ifs" concerning the failed
lookout; none of it would bring back his granddaughter.
The crews moved back to their gear along the walls, taking their
weapons, blanket rolls, and such rain capes or wool cloaks as they
had, but leaving behind the pack frames. These had been used to bring
in food supplies for the campaign. A few workers, whose farm was
known as Hall, wearing aprons and cloth caps, began opening packs as
the last "soldiers" filed out.
"Tomma, please
take your firearm and go out to the trees and cover the entrance."
Murchison smiled wanly. "And keep your powder dry." "Rest
of you, half of you go take a nap, half please assist with the food.
We'll make a third of it available for meals here over the next few
days, and the usual two thirds will go into the ox-cart queue."
Karen made eye contact with Emilio, whose gentle smile showed her
the chain of command was as it should be. She checked the location of
her blanket roll, bow, and quiver, and presented herself to the
nearest "Hall." "Hi."
The boy, surely
about twelve, had a long, thin face, scraggly black hair, a light
complexion, and dark eyes that seemed to look narrowly at her from
beneath his eyelids. "I'm Guchi. Hall."
"Karen
... umm, Ames."
"S'short for Yamaguchi. I dunno,
it was on a tag I had around my neck when they found me."
"Sounds a good name either way. What do I do?"
Allyn appeared by her right shoulder.
"What do we
do?"
:::
Wolf the Lucky wondered, not for the first time, about luck. He'd lost his best man and four twelve-gauge slugs and had not much to show for it. And now it looked like rain.
Rain,
as everyone knew, was poisonous.
"Willits."
"Wolf."
"So what all we got here?"
Willits handed him the precious Glock. "No harm done to that,
as usual." He looked over his shoulder at the wreckage which was
being systematically gone over by Wolf's men. "The fire at the
top of the tower looks like it will go on for awhile – there may
have been volatiles stored inside. Most of what came down is just
wood – roundwood woven together to make the 'nest.' There was one
occupant; looks like it was a girl. She was blown all over us along
with some of her personal items, a crossbow and a pair of binoculars
which are a total loss, and a few handmade bolts, which we can use.
Oh, and we know you hit her; low in the gut. That might be why she
..."
"Burgoyne?" Wolf cut in.
"He's
salvageable. A lot of stuff came down right on him and the fire
didn't get to him. Got the Kevlar, got the axe, got the bolt cutters.
Cougar is divvying up the meat with the axe."
"Come
across wires, caps, fuses?" Communication gear?
"Uhh, no. If she had anything like that it must have gone down
the tower."
"Any sign of what the girl's been
eating?"
"Umm, beets, apples, potatoes, and some
kind of bread. Anything else, blown away."
They always
left the best for last, instead of coming out with it. Even Willits.
It's enough to drive ya mad. Apples could be foraged ... but ...
"Beets? Potatoes. Bread!" Eff! It's the pot of gold.
These farmers must be amateur fighters, or they'd never have
let her get out this far with farmed food. It was like a signpost:
come and get us. On the other hand, the blast had been a
pretty slick trick. No smell of cordite or whatever. What else have
they got? Have to be careful, but not too careful. Speed might be of
the essence. Those clouds up there; around here, when it rained, they
sat right on the hills, blanking out any advantage of a pair of eyes
on the heights. He made up his mind and handed the shotgun and four
buckshot shells to his new second-in-command.
"Willits,
let's wrap up here."
"Wolf."
"Take
five guys and this and go recon that hilltop due east of us; I have a
feeling we're being watched from there. Travel light, take water, run
a hundred, walk a hundred. The rest of us will take the meat and your
loads, get back into the cover and work our way over toward that
bridge. If you can, clear out the hilltop and get a look-see into the
valley. Either way, come back down and rejoin us by the bridge.
Chirp, we'll chirp twice and bring ya into the lines."
"S'good, Wolfie."
"Willits." They each
touched a finger to their foreheads.
Wolf holstered the
Glock, turned to the remainder of his crew, who had gathered, sensing
decision, and gestured with his AK.
"You got all
that?"
"Wolf," they replied, almost in unison
for once. They gathered up the recon's, and Burgoyne's, gear, as well
as the fresh meat, and fell into column with Cougar on point. The
Scotch broom, scenting the air with their passage, added its pungency
to the smell of burnt wood and flesh. Smoke rose behind them, and
they stepped in the shadows of tall ash and cottonwood.
:::
What's
keeping them? Ellen Murchison wondered for the fortieth time. Her
crew was worn out, not only from an unusually long day with short
rations, but the tension of knowing that an armed force, led by a man
carrying the weapon that had fired on her granddaughter's position,
might come upon them from somewhere to the west. Or, anyway, she'd
seen them toiling toward her, before they entered the dead ground
below the slope. Since then clouds had rolled in, chill and bleak.
Now it was nightfall. Not much advantage to attack us here now,
she thought. Unless they mean to stay.
She'd already
packed up her phone and buried the wires. A last call might be vital
to the Butte crew, but if made too late, would compromise the
remaining two stations' communications. One must know when one is
expendable and act accordingly.
Wait; footsteps? She
hauled back the long spur of her replica Colt Navy percussion
revolver. It went through its litany of little clicks; disturbingly
loud in the stone shelter. Black powder had been easier to revive
than modern ammunition; but if the weather was going into its winter
mode, the weapon could become unreliable. Still, she'd done what she
could. With Jeeah's blessing, she could theoretically take out five.
"Clearcut." A voice in the fog, that of Melvin, one of
her outliers. A bowman.
"Blowdown." Ah, the right
answer. She'd wait a few moments before easing down the hammer,
though.
"Come forward and let's see you. Crew?"
asked Melvin. Good; almost a whisper, as directed.
"Russell's. Got Bledsoe's and Joseph's, so we're nine. Action?"
Too loud. Well, one thing at a time.
"We'll show
you outlying positions and go; three fit into the post."
A body attached to the "Russell's" voice arrived outside
the dugout; a young man looked in. "Beg pardon, ma'am –"
he lowered his voice as he became aware she was shushing him "–
Ol' Man says we have to string off to the left and connect up with a
line forming up; all the way down to the creek."
"All
right. Thank you for coming. What do you carry?"
"Me?
Bow, and one of the new 'swords.'"
Ellen began
dismantling the tripod of the telescope. "Tell you what; I'll
have my arms full getting this down from here tonight. Give me that
little sword, and you take the Navy. You
know how to use it, right?"
"Jeeah. Yes;
I've dry fired it, anyway. Long time since I've seen it."
"K, well, when ready, hammer all the way back; if seven paces
or less, point, shoot. There's no safety or anything like that to
worry about. And as it's heavy you won't have too much recoil. But
you might want to stuff some moss in your ears; it's close in here."
Another face appeared in the doorway. "Your friend here should
watch your back and be your ears –''
A gleaming tube,
barely visible in this light, pointed in through the doorway. There
was a blinding flash as a weapon was fired, point-blank, into the
young man from Russell's, who spun and fell soundlessly against her.
Blinded and deafened, Ellen forced herself to feel for the dropped
revolver – it seemed to take forever as the collapsed body, still
quivering, interfered. Why hadn't she been shot yet? Oh – he must
be blinded himself.
She grasped the comforting grips of the
long, heavy Navy. She must have made some sound, as there was
movement from the presumed direction of the doorway. To shoot, she'd
have to give him her position with the noise of her revolver's
hammer; advantage bandit.
No happy endings in real life.
One of Carey's favorite sayings.
Footsteps outside; more
of them? The figure in the entrance twisted, but this provided her
with no opening; the tube – it had clearly been a shotgun's blast –
was still aimed her way. Then there came a welcome thump; quite
loudly, her assailant had been struck in the back of the head. He'd
be tightening his trigger finger as consciousness slid away ....
Ellen gathered strength to shove the body aside and leap to her
left, as the second explosion came. She gasped involuntarily as pain
seared her right side. But she hoped – based on old experience as a
United States Marine – that she'd got off light. Most of the
pellets had disappeared into the poor young man she'd known for all
of thirty seconds. Whatever had passed through hurt, but was not
debilitating. Or so she told herself.
"Mrs. M.?"
shouted a tremulous voice, much too loud, in the entryway, as the
shotgunner sagged and fell into the interior.
"Come in.
And you are?" She holstered the Navy, picked up the shotgun,
leaned it on the wall, and searched the body for ammunition. There
was a pocket. Two shells! Buckshot, betcha.
"I'm
Huskey, Bledsoe's. We're in a row out here." He stood, breathing
heavily, in the entrance, a hatchet in one hand.
Ellen could
hear shouting and blows: hand-to-hand. She scrabbled in her pack.
"Here. I'm going out with this –" she picked up the
shotgun, snapped it open, shoved in two shells. "– a little
ways off. Cut his throat, just in case, then count to ten –"
she handed him her only flare. "– smash it down on the wall
here, like this. Hard, 'k? Don't look right at it, but
hold this end, and run out and throw it as high as you can. On
ten. Got me?"
She could feel him grinning in the dark. "Yes, ma'am!"
Jeeah, she thought. A few more like this one, pretty please. She stepped out and limped to the nearest boulders. If anybody was there, they had better know the effing password.