Ellen
Murchison rode, pain stitching her side, on a plow-gaited farm horse,
her crutch behind her back on an improvised sling. She was in too
much pain to wear a belt and holster, so an improvised saddlebag made
from greasy cloth bumped along by her knee.
Ah
well, dignity was never our strong suit around here,
she sighed – which led to another coughing fit. It would take
almost three hours at her present pace to get to Wilsons' from Hall;
she bespoke everyone she encountered, looking for soldiery, and had
collected surprisingly few – an even dozen marched along
desultorily behind her: a few bows, bush-hooks and improvised spears.
Murch was a good Marine, but he was armor – armor tended to think
geography. Ellen had been MEU, and her war thoughts turned more
naturally toward sociology. The invaders, she reasoned, would keep
together whenever possible, to concentrate force. If they had been
seen at Lawson's, it would be an acceptable risk to draw personnel
from Bridge, Ball Butte, and Maggie's Hill and seek out and destroy
this enemy there, or meet them decisively should they force the
saddle. Where did not matter nearly so much as who. Make
guess, take risk.
This enemy must be seen off to non-personhood at the very first
opportunity. But where was she to find enough people? It was already
too late to bring back everyone from all the uncontested
positions.
The
Creek had always struck her as the longest of long shots; as command
structure had disintegrated following the failure of the last several
resource wars, she and her husband, the two remaining security guards
at the Ridge facility, had at last accepted that no one was coming to
relieve them, and finding the entire valley abandoned with most of
its resources intact, had persuaded, over the years, a number of
people to settle there rather than keep running, as everyone had
seemed to be doing, northward. The migration was understandable;
average temperatures were up – drought and radiation sickness were
a problem
everywhere to the south, along with interracial clashes and general
mayhem. Canada, which no doubt was finding its long border
indefensible, had become a kind of Mecca for most. And almost no one
had the knowledge or the means to grow
food.
Murch
had shown considerable leadership in persuading passersby that they
would find a bird in the hand worth two in a hypothetical Canuck
Land. Best to stop here and pitch in with the picks and shovels, yes?
Some had shaken their heads and passed on; some had attacked – and
become compost; a few, at first, joined the Murchison's budding
tribe, and accepted the dual roles of farmer and defender. Then more,
and then more; Ellen sometimes thought too many. There had been
mistakes, crop failures. And so many just up and died. The problems
had begun to appear insurmountable, and the winter of '46 had been
almost unbearable. For over ninety days there had been no rain; and then there
had been all of four heat waves of more than forty degrees Celsius,
in which few could do much beside go and sit in the dwindling Creek;
then there was too much rain, right at harvest, with a raging Creek
and much flood damage; then the terrible freeze; then the "flu"
thing -- if that was what it was -- had carried off many. After that, the deep snow that had stayed
and stayed; and in the midst of the snow, when everyone was hunkered
down, had come a clever group of bandits dressed in white, who had
fought their hungry way to the doorstep of the Mess Hall and been
despatched there.
Murchisons'
was the nearest farm to the Bridge, to set a standard of courage and
preparedness, from which many had willingly taken example. Yet too
few had been available to rise to the defense of too many; and her
son, to Ellen's eyes the best and brightest, had lost both his legs
in that grisly business. And
here we are again, mused
Ellen bitterly. Little
Mo blown to bits. Murch, like so many elders of the Creek before him,
at the end of his rope from "industrial poisoning." Untold
casualties left and right.
Ellen
coughed again, a long racking spell. But
I'm not the self-pity type. Better not start,
she warned herself, looking up at Savage Mary's on the left as she
passed the gate. That
old bat would laugh me down the river, for one. Ellen
patted the farm horse's neck. The half-Percheron gelding, tall and
deep chested, relished the affection.
"Mrs.
Murchison, Ma'am?" A couple of the Mary apprentices had come
down to the gate.
"Yes?"
Ellen begrudged reining in, but perhaps she could use these two –
and any others they might bring.
"Dr.
Mary's compliments, and could you use some bottles of black powder?"
asked one, a small red-haired young woman. The other, a very
dark-skinned young man with a high, thin nose, added, "Captain
Murchison asked for 'grenades' and this was the best we could do at
short notice."
They
hefted a small wooden crate of what looked like wax-stoppered 750ml
wine bottles, with several inches of stiff cord protruding from each
stopper.
"Yes,
we could. How many have you?"
"Five
BP, right now," said the lad. "We feel badly about the
glass, but metal containers were not ready to hand. These are packed
with all our current powder and some old laser toner, and a bunch of
broken glass, pebbles, and such. And the other seven, the green ones,
are Molotovs, mostly vodka and sheep fat."
The
lass added, "Those have a powder charge at the tail of each
fuse. Untested, sorry to say, ma'am. And we have a box of brand-new
matches, with strikes, tested!"
"It
will be very much appreciated. If those bombs break, I think they
will still go bang." Ellen saw that they were both wearing
swords. "Young lady, could you run up and ask Mary to send along
anyone she can possibly spare, including anyone from
Rogers',
with all possible weapons? And that includes you."
"She
said she expects that. 'Now is the time for every good man
...'"
"Yes,
I know that one. Hop!"
"Yes,
ma'am." Red hair flying, the girl ran up the hill.
Ellen
had slowed her horse, but not stopped. Turning painfully on the bare
gray back, she addressed the young man. "I think it will rain
again. Do you have a cover for those?"
"Yes,
but it's okay, the fuses are genuine pyro, waxed. Fizz a nice purple
color."
"All
right; well, come with us. Protect the matches carefully; as we go
along, distribute and explain the bottles and the matches to
everyone, and get them to take about half an inch off the fuses; we
don't want any of those thrown back at us."
"Yes,
ma'am." He smiled, showing two rows of shining teeth; better
looking teeth than almost anyone at the Creek had, these days; Ellen
included. Hope
you get to keep that lovely smile through the end of this day.
:::
Wolf
was as satisfied as he could be under the circumstances. He was down
to nineteen men, two of whom were chewed up some but could put up a
fight if necessary, and he'd managed to conserve ammunition well. Lo
and behold, so had Cougar. They'd made hash of that new bunch coming
up the trail, mostly with arrows, bolts and knives. No way to know
the numbers, but it had looked like about ten, half of whom must be
dead and the rest non-ambulatory – there had been too much hurry to
double-tap – so along with that pugnacious lot on the hill, he
reckoned the farmers were down by about twenty. With whomever this
lot lost on that first night, they must be carrying a third of their
good fighters on casualty lists, tying down quite a few more. Odds
had evened a bit, yes.
He
looked around him. Such high living he hadn't seen in a very long
time. If ever. Even the homesteaders back in the stone house had a
primitive set-up compared to this! Here was what had been a "living
room" in days gone by, and it was a living-it-up-room, so far as
he could see, to this day. What looked like fresh paint or whitewash
on the walls, ceiling. There was a mauve couch with matching plush
chairs, patched on the arm-rests. With them there were polished
wooden lamp tables with real lamps on them that smelled of vodka. The
wells of the lamps had been stuffed with bits of red flannel to look
like old-time red lamp oil; a feminine touch. The whole place smelled
of women; not the bow-carrying kind they'd been encountering, but
breeders and curtain-washers. Incredible! Over here were paintings
hanging, framed no less, of landscapes and animals and people's
faces, done in what looked like berry juices on parchment; but done
with care for all that; someone had had the time. And over there was
some kind of skinny thing like a guitar, mostly soundbox, along with
two gourd rattles and a small drum, all hanging from the wall, each
decorated with beads and little chicken feathers.
Dubyah-tee-eff!
Looked they'd been leading the good life for decades! While he, Wolf
the Lucky and everyone he knew was living from hour to hour, skulking
from ruined warehouse to shattered office building day in and day
out, living by necessity on long pig. To heap insult upon insult,
outside the window – through real glass no less – stood an
effing orchard –
pruned
and somehow mowed – apples, he recognized, some still unpicked,with
a lot of other things – grape vines, and some kind of nut trees.
With barns, and sheds, and gardens, and somewhere around, clucking
chickens. It boggled the mind. An effin' insult,
what these people were! Death would be too effin' good for
'em.
Cougar
came in, the Glock stuffed in his belt. "Wolf."
"Coug."
"Boys
are pretty riled."
"Don't
blame 'em."
"Wanta
know, so can we have a go at th' girl arready?"
"Nah,
hold 'em for a bit, yah? Reasons of state. Y'all've felt 'er up a
little, but bring 'er in here in one piece now, so's she an' I c'n
have a little chat; detail a few ta watch, so's y'don't think I'm
pullin' rank fer a joyride."
He
waved the AK at the walls and window. "This buncha farmers is
a unbelievable effin'
deal; I wanta know what she knows about what's downstream here;
numbers 'an disposition an' layout, an' what all's goin' on up on
that mountain up there."
"Thinkin'
'bout Magee? Wanna bring him in?"
Wolf
narrowed his eyes. "Don't let's get ahead 've ourselves, son. We
play this right, we might be able to make him ours 'stead'a us his,
if ya follow me."
Cougar
dropped his gaze. "Wolf, that's why we're your bunch."
"Right
y'are! Sorry to lose Hein an' th'others, but we're sittin' pretty
compared to how we might 'a been. Get'er in here, an' some witnesses
– an' get these outbuildings occupied, we need a welcomin'
committee fer anybody tries to come here, either from that bridge up
by th' road, or behind us from th' trail."
Cougar
touched his forehead. "Wolf."
"Coug.
Oh – Coug."
Cougar
pulled up short by the doorway to the hall. "Wolf?"
"Yer
man Mellow's good w'locked doors; have him bust open th' pantry an'
give ever'body a good feed."
"Wolf."
"Coug."
Wolf
leaned his rifle against the wall. Almost time to turn the two
duct-taped magazines around. He'd wait a bit before shedding his
Kevlar. Comfort was just not to be thought of. Wish
t'hell I'd brought more stuff. Was no way t'do it, though. If it gets
hairy here, I might have to go to Magee all alone. Not a very nice
thought. Not a very nice thought at all.
:::
Billee
came bouncing up the slope in the late-morning sun, chasing her
foreshortened shadow from boulder to boulder. Avery, watching through
the bomb-proof window, admired her boundless energy and verve. All
the best runners were around that age; good for the Creek, but at
what cost? He'd had a childhood. Billee was childlike in many ways;
but in some ways she'd been an adult since day one. She'd never know,
very likely, what she had missed. He wheeled around and awaited her
entrance, which, as usual, came sooner than he could quite
anticipate; she stood breathless before him, cheeks red from the
climb, her new bow in her right hand, strung. He waited as she caught
her wind. "Want some water?" he asked.
"M'fine."
Another series of deep breaths.
"No
one chasing you, I take it?" "Oh! No, I don't think they're
thinking about me at all now! They've – whew! – headed east, like
you said, and I heard some gunfire –"
"Toward
the saddle?"
"–
Mm-hmm, but I kept my eye on the house like you said, and there
are, I'm pretty sure, just two of'em left down there." She
grinned. "One's hurt, I think, and the other one's Mr. Squinty,
who got all bee-stung, and now he's itching a whole lot, haha.
Creep."
"Weapons?
Gear?"
"He's
got my beautiful binoculars an' he's looking out for me, but in the
same place – not too bright! And s'got Mr. Lawson's
lever-action."
"Don't
think you were spotted, then?"
"Aww,
he's only glassing a little, they've got'm both doing housework –
cutting up that awful meat, n'running the smoker."
"All
right, so time is wasting and I think I see an opportunity here. Get
your feet under you and go have some lunch and then, right away, go
tell all this, word for word, to Mr. Huskey, he's the whistle of
Bledsoe's. Met him?"
She
nodded vigorously.
"He'll
be right down the west face about a quarter mile from here, waiting
for you; he knows what to do. Word to go on is smart and the response
is aleck."
She
bolted for the door; then turned halfway with her hand on the jamb,
eyes wide. "Hey, is that about me?"
"Only
if the shoe fits."
"Huh?"
"Hop!"
"Yessir!"
She vanished down the stairs. Avery wheeled round and faced the
console, chuckling. Then he looked down at his stumps. Shoe,
my effing ass. What I wouldn't do for a good pair of legs right now.
(To be continued)