"K,
folks, council of war time, seeing as we're all here." Ellen
Murchison looked round the room. She, the Chaneys, Emilio Molinero,
and Guchi Yamaguchi, the young substitute runner for Hall, had moved
indoors to escape the chilly afternoon weather. Everyone was having
cold oatmeal with fruit and solar tea of one kind or another; as were
the warriors who'd remained out-of-doors.
She'd found a
large sheet of scrap paper, an old soil survey map of what had been
an adjacent county. Spreading this, upside down, on the dining room
table, she picked up a tiny watercolor brush, made from some Beeman
farmer's hair, and dipped it in a jelly glass of charcoal water. She
drew the brush along the paper in a wavy line, lengthwise, then
dipped the brush again.
"This is the Creek. And this is
the road, running along the north bank of the Creek." She dipped
and painted rapidly, as everyone craned their necks to see. "Here
we have Maggie's Hill and the Butte on the north, the Ridge on the
south, with the saddle here, and all off to here is the Cascades."
She waved the brush at the terra incognita on the right. Heads
nodded.
She dipped the brush and dotted along both sides of
the creek and road. "'K, here's all the farms, starting with
Hall and Murchison across from each other on the west and Ames and
Wilson ditto on the east. Wilson is occupied by that ugly-faced
horde." She made an "X" on the dot representing the
orchard farm, then looked to Emilio.
He nodded. "Yes.
They have had casualties. We think they are down by a third of their
original number, with at least two wounded. They have two rapid-fire
weapons, experience, and enterprising leadership. But their reasoning
in being here seems to me obscure."
"I'm guessing
they had sort of no choice," put in Tom Chaney. "Our
scorched earth policy in the approaches to the west has been
effective until now, but we may not have anticipated that such a
large and determined group would penetrate this far across the flood
plains – they had no way to go back, only forward."
"Good a guess as any," said Ellen. "So, we have a
little over thirty of us here, with some grenades and Molotovs, and a
revolver." She dipped another small brush in
blackberry-elderberry juice for a different color, and drew a circle
around Beemans. "Twelve at Ames, or, really, en route to Jones,
with six badly hurt people on stretchers." She drew an arrow
between Ames and Jones.
Tom's brow furrowed. "Elsa and
I should be on our way there right now. With one or two fresh
volunteers."
"May I recommend?" asked Ellen.
Tom raised his eyebrows, expressing assent. "You'll be too
exposed at Jones' and with insufficient protection. They get wind of
you, they're apt to come across the Creek and double-tap the lot of
you. I know your people are pretty much exhausted by now," she
turned to Emilio. "But if we can get everyone to here, they'll
be 'inside the lines,' as we used to say, with a better kitchen, more
medical supplies, rested personnel to lend a hand, and a chance to
bring the stretcher bearers back up to speed and back into the
action."
"This is good," said Emilio, rising.
"I should go back right away and bring them."
"You
look pretty all-in yourself. How's about we send the runner?"
Guchi nodded. "I can go on the pony; it will be faster, and
I'm supposed to see all I can for the Captain anyway. With your
permission?"
"Go; and thanks for your report.
Stick to the north of the hedges, and stay low and quiet, 'K?"
Guchi, who'd remained standing, nodded, raised his hand in farewell
and strode to the door.
"Nice kid. Now, according to
him, the western group that's been watching the Bridge has been
turned loose to pitch in for us; they've captured and burned Lawson's
and are heading for here." She drew a circle around the
trailhead behind Wilson's. "Guchi says a runner came in from
there, who asked us to go to your aid at Jones'. That turned out to
be redundant, but who knew?" she grinned.
Elsa watched
her. Quite a performance, girl; I happen to know your fever is
about a hundred and three by now; how long can you keep this up?
But she kept this to herself.
"So, she's on her way
back there with a few, a very few reinforcements. And now I think the
bottom of our barrel has been scraped. How many people are down there
at present, and what have they got?" she asked Emilio.
"I no longer know, ma'am, but there should be more than ten. We
have, also, there and on the summit, at least thirteen dead of our
own and three of theirs."
"We're going to become
aware of that at some point; it will be a sad and hard winter no
matter how this goes. But those will have to wait awhile. What 's the
armament picture over there?"
"There is a
revolver, with I do not know how much ammunition. Two muzzle-loading
rifles and about forty balls and powder, and many more bows,
crossbows and hand weapons than people to wield them."
"So they have the back exit reasonably plugged, but they're well
outnumbered. We also have no way to co-ordinate with them. Folks, I
have to admit this looks iffy to me; they're tired, we're tired, it's
getting colder and wetter out, and somebody is going to start making
mistakes. We're wide open in all directions except the saddle and
right here at Beemans'. They take it in their heads to try just about
anything but stay put or come after us here, they'll get away with
it.
"So." She put down the brush, and picked up
her tea, sipping it to put off the advent of laryngitis. "In the
time-honored tradition of Council and GM, the table is now open to
suggestions."
Elsa pointed to Holyrood Farm on Ellen's
map. "If they go on a burning campaign, it would make sense to
them to go this way. No one is there; and they could destroy four
places in a row unopposed. That's, that's a fourth of our resources
right there."
"But destruction may not be the
primary consideration," objected Mr. Molinero. "The burning
building at Wilson's is only one; I think it may be a challenge only,
to come and have it out, so to speak."
"I think
so, too," Ellen agreed. "Tom?"
"I think
if we sit tight, they will come look for us, and in some way for
which we, as the less imaginative side, will be unprepared. The
semiautomatic weapons give them advantages in this mixed terrain."
"That's so; what would you do?"
"Well, I'm
a medic and a vet; I'm distracted by all the hurt that's coming at me
from Jones'. And I hate to propose something that will likely cost us
even more. But I think if I were you, I'd get someone over to
Wilson Wilson with a proposal for a coordinated attack on their
position at night, first with the grenades, and then at close
quarters, hand-to-hand. We ought to have better odds in the dark on
our own ground."
"Yes! I think so, too. If these
men realized just how stretched-out we are, and had any kind of an
idea where to go, they could, right now, burn their way all the way
to Hall and march up the Ridge, practically without a fight. Even if
we could keep up with them, they'd be able to hold us off in daylight
the whole way there."
"And then it would be
over."
"For the Creek, yes. But, Tom and Elsa, you
both know, and Emilio here might as well know, it could potentially
make matters much, much worse."
She looked around at
the three of them. "For Murch and me, this is priority one:
these tattooed yahoos must not see the installation on
Starvation Ridge. We move against them after dark. Tonight. Agreed?"
:::
Mary
Savage, Ph.D., was getting bored. It's all well making slow fuses
and stuffing bottles, she thought, but making primers would be
more fun, and we just don't have the micro capability. Also, with
more than half her people run off to play hero, she couldn't even get
more powder done; no one to run around scraping up the delightfully
evil ingredients. And there seemed to be hardly anything in the
kitchen; she'd looked, and had had to make do with the damned eternal
oatmeal, cold.
This here rheumatoid arthritis is the
bitch.
"Selk! Selk! You around here
anywheres?" She thought she heard something respond to that;
like a squirrel backing itself out of a nest. Presently the back door
banged, and feet came pattering down the hall.
"Yo?"
Selk peered at her through the thick glasses.
"'Yo,' he
says. You pick up all my worst archaisms. Listen, most everybody here
is gone to try and win themselves some medals; who have I got here
besides you?"
"Mmm ... well, there's Ollie; he's
still making Molotovs. With rag fuses; we're out of the good stuff,
and powder, too."
"How many has he got?"
"About three by now, I think. The trick is to find anything
that will burn right. And all the matches – and the matchmaker –
went with Mrs. Murchison, anyway."
"Well, tell him
to leave off. I need transportation, and you two are it. Are there
any wheelchairs in inventory?"
"There's the
medical one that came over from Chaney for repairs – big heavy
thing. Folds flat. The brakes wouldn't set."
"Right,
the ugly gray vinyl thing. Well, never mind the brakes; let's deliver
it as-is to Hall, with me in it."
"Umm, you want
to go to the Mess Hall?"
"What's with the
eyebrows? I'm even less mobile than I let on; I want to chew the fat
with Murchison, who is not likely to be enticed here from
there just now; and the alternative is a garden cart, assuming
we can find one. Or do you think you can rig up an extension for that
godawful phone system of his?"
"Not enough good
wire handy, no dynamic handsets."
"Chair it is,
then. Fetch!"
:::
Wolf
walked out to the crow's nest and tipped back his head. "Give it
up, Coug. They ain't comin.'"
"Wolf. 'K, girl, ya
just got a reprieve; climb down th' ladder, slow-like."
"I can't move." Derisive hoots came from the two
nearest blockhouses; from where Wolf was standing, the female
sounded, to him, too, more petulant than hurt. But that might be a
matter of perspective, he realized. The human animal is a
mysterious thing.
"Sure, y'can. Seven more
fingernails says y'can go down that ladder even faster than y'came
up."
She complied. Wolf held her by the wrist as Cougar
came down. By now there was not much fight left in the little
redhead; but unnecessary complications were always best avoided.
"Swap weapons, Coug, and lock her in the outhouse; I'm going
up and look around fer a minute."
Sure thing, Wolf."
"Coug."
As they left, Wolf could hear her:
"Water? Water?" – and Cougar's reply. More guffaws from
the blockhouses. He'd have to make the rounds and sharpen them up
again soon – they all had poontang on the brain.
Wolf
popped the magazine and counted rounds, snapped it back into the
magazine well, tucked the pistol into his belt, and set his hands and
feet to the skinny little ladder. It was one of those household
fire-escape things, with two parallel chains and the narrow PVC pipe
treads, with cable threaded through them. The treads were cracking
with age, and climbing took more concentration than he'd realized. He
wondered if he'd find it hard going to get through the little hole in
the crow's nest floor, but the Wilson farmers had thoughtfully run
the ladder right up to the ceiling.
There were four windows,
open to the elements; each ran the length of a wall and was about
eight inches high. The walls, only four feet high, were made of
stacked four-by fours; decent cover with a good view. From the north
window, Wolf saw that two hulking redwoods blocked much of the
view, across the roof of the big house from the crow's nest. But he
could make out three large frame houses through a skein of
cottonwoods and ashes along a small river; none of the chimneys were
smoking. The valley's road was across the river as well, and seemed
to be mostly lined with what looked like fruit trees and grapevines. Two of the houses
were two stories high, like the one in hand, and all were
whitewashed; they all had outbuildings and barns and were spaced
about half a klick apart. Things were closer together than he'd
realized; but there were impedimenta in all directions.
On
the one hand, not too cleverly, the farmers had re-roofed the old
houses in cedar. An attack with torches would be definitive. On the
other, there were fences everywhere; the few gaps in vegetation
showed that they were made of barbed wire, and taller than old farm fences elsewhere. And the gaps were few. A
deliberate effort had been made to hide the fences in an impenetrable
thorny growth, six to eight feet thick. By leaving a few archers at
each gate, the locals could hold up an advance in any direction long
enough to get reinforcements. But perhaps they hadn't thought much
about that. It might have more to do with limiting the escape of
stock and/or crop predation by deer.
The quick way to get
around would be that road. So it was probably well defended somewhere
off to the left; perhaps at that third house. Wolf dug out his 4X
rifle scope, uncapped it, and gazed in that direction. Uh-huh, a
lookout just like this one. And occupied! Why hadn't they sent out
skirmishers when his men had torched the building? They should be
frantic at losing their stuff. He swung to check out the other two
places. Didn't look like there was anyone home. The noisy cow had
been turned out, though, and was grazing on a rise between the house
on the right and a very large barn toward the long, low hill in the
background. Someone has been there this morning, very likely. Maybe
some of that bunch they'd punched through getting to here.
Why hadn't they driven off the animals and emptied the larders? Maybe
they'd put off decamping until the last minute – put a lot of faith
in the defenders on the hill.
He lowered the scope, swung
around, and scanned the "south forty." Near at hand on the
right, the cowshed was still pumping out prodigious amounts of gray
smoke, which drifted left across his field of view. But the woods
stretched across the entire scene, from the mountains at left to the
big ridge, covered with timber on this side, on the right. Whatever
was up there could not be seen from here, or, no doubt, vice versa.
It would have to be investigated from up close, if at all. Raising
the scope, he glassed along the edge of the woods between the billows
of smoke. Nothing to be seen, but he felt watched. There couldn't
more than a dozen farmers over there as yet. Might be worth sending a
sortie against them; perhaps at night?
A look to the east
was unproductive; pastures and woodlands, and taller and taller
mountains that way. It would all be wilderness, and for his purposes
impenetrable. There is never as much game under such a thick canopy
as there is in open country; his crew would starve if they tried a
breakout in that direction. Heck, they could starve anywhere but
here.
Wolf one-eightied on the small bench and peered west.
Two farms, both of which seemed evacuated, could be seen that way,
nestled against the big ridge. He was not a farmer himself, but he
sensed the mountain's shade would limit productivity of long-season
crops. He expected to see mostly pastures and hayfields, and that was
what he saw; with sheep. There were fewer fences, fewer gates. The
farmers would not, he felt sure, have had the time or manpower to
close off this route. With the cable cutters out front and the Glock
and the AK in the rear, a sortie in this direction could be
productive. His archers could burn some buildings, and with any luck
provoke the yokels into charging across those bridges, so that they
could be picked off.
He heard someone messing about at the
bottom of the light pole. Drawing the Glock and keeping it ready but
out of sight, Wolf looked down through the trapdoor opening. It was
Cougar, back from the outhouse, AK in hand.
"Coug."
"Wolf."
"Swap back. I've filled the mag
for ya; put together a quick little expedition. Four men and a can of
alkie; an' break out th' Bics."
:::
The
wounded had arrived, and the medical team had swung into action.
Ellen, realizing sadly she had taken herself to the limit, was going
to be one of the patients.
Once again using the crutch, she
gathered her forces for a short lecture. They were all tying on
armbands of old white linen for quick identification in a night
fight. She'd explain to the grenadiers in detail what must be done;
then describe to everyone how they would ford the creek, using the
dark shapes of the two skyline redwoods to find their way into the
inner grounds of Wilson's; tell them about ignoring pain; about
closing fast and striking home, first with their arrows in the
firelight, then bush hooks and swords; knives last. Incapacitate
whomever is right in front of you before running to a whistle. Three
long blasts would be to retreat across the Creek and fall back on
Beemans', with a rear guard. Emilio would take the old Navy, all six
chambers charged, and would lead. What was she forgetting? There was always
something. They all looked up at her on the top step of the porch,
expectant and trusting.
But suddenly they all seemed
distracted. There were gunshots across the Creek, through the
cottonwoods below. Something went boom, and echoed against the
hills. A grenade? Dynamite?
The lookout came to his west
window and shouted down to the house. "There's a fight!"
"We know that, where?" croaked Ellen.
"It's down by th' burning shed! There's some running around
going on, too!"
Ellen backed up to the chair by the
porch table and sat down. Oh, shit! Who's doing what to
whom, and why now?
Wilson, quite apparently, had not
gotten Ellen's message.
"Emilio!"
"Ma'am?"
"Take over here, please. Give 'em a
quick refresher on cover and concealment, run 'em across the creek
out of sight of the bridge, over by the west hedge – cover the
crossing with the revolver – and watch for an opportunity. Stick
together. If Wilson's bunch has them engaged, one Molotov into the
main house might be all we need."
Neither spoke of the
obvious – as a daylight scenario, it could be costly.
Cost
would be measured in friends and neighbors.
:::
Karen
alternately crept and shuffled, crouching, along the eastern hedge of
Holyrood Farm. Her sandaled and stockinged feet were damp; a misty
rain was beginning to fall on the barley stubble of the field. Ahead
of her, across the cottonwoods along Starvation Creek, she could see
the late afternoon clouds dragging their ragged skirts through the
firs on Maggie's Hill. In her left hand she carried her longbow.
Across her back she carried a borrowed quiver of better make than
hers, with a side pocket containing a small water bottle, some bean
cake, and a few possibles. She checked, for the fortieth time, the
long cedar arrow, tipped with a broadhead pounded from a
stainless-steel washer, nocked to the waxed string of her bow. At her
belt was one of the smaller of the Savage Mary short swords and her
skinning knife. In an inside pocket of her leather jerkin, stitched
into place, rested a holster made from a pre-Undoing
Tyvek/bubble-pack envelope, which she'd gladly received from Mrs.
Ames. In it rode the tiny pistol. With any luck, her sealed primers
were still good. There was no testing them; in all the world, so far
as she knew, there were only thirteen rounds left in her caliber, and
all of them were on her person.
"Hold up!"
whispered Huskey, behind her. She stopped and looked back briefly; he
carried the Winchester, which he'd explained had belonged to Mr.
Lawson, and in a holster on his right hip, the Ruger BP revolver with
which Avery Murchison had entrusted him, along with a half-size
crossbow slung on his back, bolt-loaded and cocked. On the left side
of his belt, he carried another of the swords. In a pouch, he kept
food and water, and a jar of alcohol and bear fat, brought from
Lawson's, in case they found an opportunity to fire the house at
Wilson's.
This venture was, as they and everyone in the
woods behind them knew, a massive risk. Between the two of them, they
carried nearly a third of the Creek's lead-throwing firepower –
assuming, as Wilson had pointed out, the Winchester, with its six
.30-30 cartridges, was in actual firing condition. Should they, and
their equipment, fall into the hands of the invaders, it could well
spell doom for the Creek. As things stood, very likely the invaders
represented doom anyway, should they break out across Holyrood's into
the farms toward Hall. The risk had appeared acceptable to them, and
to Wilson Wilson.
"You get into too much trouble,"
he'd said, "You had better fire every round you have, or,
failing that, get into a building and burn yourselves and the guns
down with it. We might be able to back you up and get you out of
there – but we most likely won't. 'K?" They had nodded
soberly.
Huskey caught up to Karen. He noted with approval
that she continued to watch ahead, with her head half turned to
listen to him. "We're almost to the second gate into Wilson's,"
he said quietly. "That what you wanted?"
"Yes,"
Karen replied. "There's a mixed yard of young apricots and
nectarines here, and we're shielded from the buildings by a big
compost bin. The fire is on the other side of that. There is some
tall grass, not scythed yet, to hide us, getting from here to there."
"Sounds good." 'K, I'll go point, and open the gate a
bit, and we'll crawl into the grass. We're liable to cut a wide
swath, though, with all this gear."
The gate was a
typical Creek concoction of steel posts cannibalized from the old
Ridge security fence, and barbed wire, with a swath of blackberries
encouraged to grow along each side, trained to both hide the gate and
allow it to swing. Black hawthorn trees had been encouraged to
provide additional camouflage, blending the site into the long hedge.
Only one gate in each of the border hedges had been kept clear; and
each of the obvious gates had been placed so that it was covered from
a house, a blockhouse, or a crow's nest.
Huskey pushed
through, stopping every few seconds to examine the surroundings,
while Karen watched behind them, in case the bandits had also
invested Holyrood's. Eventually he beckoned to Karen. "All
clear." She replaced her arrow in the quiver, so as to be able
to travel on all fours.
They
lay down in file in the rain-jeweled autumn grasses and crawled,
bellies off the ground, weapons awkwardly pushed ahead of them, for
what seemed a very long time. At length they came to the edge of the
scythed ground around the compost bins, structures made of
small-diameter logs stacked like log houses, but left unchinked to
admit air to the rotting vegetation piled within.
Aiming for
an unpiled bin with the side toward them open, they rose as one and
walked almost tiptoe across exposed ground among the apricot trees,
and with a breath of relief reached the limited cover. Karen
habitually re-nocked her arrow and moved to the straw-bedecked gaps
in the opposite wall to examine the ground between herself and the
smoldering stamping shed.
To her horror, she saw five bald
men, with black-painted cheekbones, all armed and wearing pre-Undoing
clothing and boots, walking toward her along a farm path. They would
reach the compost bin in seconds!
Karen pirouetted carefully
to face the open side, arrow drawn, her eyes wide. This was all the
information Huskey needed; setting aside the suspect rifle for the
moment, he silently slid the crossbow from his shoulder and aimed to
the same place.
The men ambled, single file, past the corner
of the compost bin, aiming for "gate number three," the
main undisguised hedge gate to the right of the one the Creekers had
slipped through. The "tail-end Charlie," carrying a
laminated fiberglass compound bow with a ready carbon arrow,
remembered at the last moment his role as rear guard, and turned
nonchalantly to look into the bin.
Huskey released his bolt
into the rear guard's chest; the man gave an alarmingly loud sigh and
released his arrow as he fell into the man behind him; it passed
weakly between Husky and Karen. Karen aimed for the man at the head
of the procession, catching him in the buttocks with her arrow. He
whirled with a shout, brandishing a large and businesslike pistol,
which let off a round into the air with an ear-shattering bang, then
fell to his knees, reaching for the arrow behind his back.
Suddenly the scene became a blur in Karen's mind, despite her best
efforts to concentrate.
The remaining three bandits had the
presence of mind to grab their hurt companions, including the one
with the pistol, and make for cover around the compost bin to the
right.
One of them stopped to fit an arrow. Huskey dropped
the crossbow and drew and fired the Ruger, which then somehow fell
from his hand. The man looked at his now useless drawing arm, threw
the bow at Huskey and ran to join the others. Huskey snatched up the
Winchester, hauling back the hammer with his thumb as he did so. He
triggered the weapon at his foes through one of the gaps in the logs,
but had a misfire. He tried again, and there was a loud report; the
space filled with dark and acrid smoke.
Someone replied with
the modern pistol, and Huskey ducked instinctively.
Karen
briefly remembered her father's admonitions about earplugs – "if
nothing else, chew some leaves and stuff them in your ears" –
too late, of course. Her ears were ringing and she felt disoriented.
But she drew another arrow and ran round the compost bins to the
left.
Twenty - thirty - forty steps, turn, ten steps. Hop
out, drawn and ready.
There they were! Release. Grab another
arrow. Nock, draw, release. They were busy fighting Huskey; one of
them had the big pistol and fired it into the bin; the carbine fizzed
again in reply. Another arrow, nock, draw, release. A foe discovered
her; he'd dropped his crossbow but drew a long Bowie knife and rushed
her.
No time for an arrow; no time for the sword either! Her
old training kicked in.
Karen waited at the corner till the
man was within striking distance, knife extended, and gripped his
forearm, turning on her back foot and helping him on his way. The
momentum carried him halfway to the apricot trees. When he recovered
and came running back, yelling, he faced the small muzzle of the tiny
green pistol wrapped in both her hands. The pistol jumped; the muzzle
flash was bright even in daylight.
A miss? From three
meters?
He was almost on her again. Remembering not to try
to fire until the trigger had cycled, she stepped aside again, and
ran round him in a half circle. From almost behind him, she gave her
trigger another long, smooth pull, and the tiny, unbelievably loud
weapon squirmed back in her hand a second time. The bandit had swept
at her with the wicked knife blade again as she went by, and she
discovered her left shoulder had opened and gone appallingly numb.
She switched to a one-handed grip, tracking the man's trajectory.
He hopped strangely, struck the wall, bounced off, turned toward her
again, but sagged back against it. Light was going out of his eyes.
No miss – she'd shot him twice, but adrenaline had kept him going.
He changed his grip on the knife for a throw. Karen shot him again,
almost dropping the Kel-Tec. A deja-vu of a similar fight, in
the snows of the northern Sierra, crossed her mind for a brief
second, and then she remembered to stay aware. Stepping past her now
sitting, and very quiet, opponent, she checked again around the
corner.
There had been gunfire during her altercation with
the lone bandit; ending with an eardrum-shattering boom. All of their
present foes were lying on the ground, two of them convulsing. She
should "double tap," but this position was exposed to other
buildings, and even as she considered this, an arrow arrived, burying
itself in the wood only inches in front of her. Holstering the pistol
and picking up her bow, Karen ran back around toward Huskey's hiding
place. She drew another arrow from the quiver as she did so, but her
left hand, which held the bow, could not sustain a draw. Dropping the
bow at the corner of the empty compost bin, she drew the sword and
rushed in.
Huskey lay on the mud floor, fouled with mud and
blood. Karen stuck her blade upright in the compost, ready to hand,
and knelt over Huskey. Big man. It would take time to check over all
of him.
"Where are you hurt?" Karen asked.
"Huh! All of me." He tried to grin, but it was more of a
grimace. "I got them, they got me, they got me again, I shot
again and it blew up on me."
Karen looked at the
Winchester. Its barrel had bulged at the front of the receiver and
blown apart. Squib round? She looked at Huskey again. Both his eyes
were closed, and he was bleeding from beneath the lids. It looked
like they'd been spattered with something from the explosion. He was
also clearly bleeding from his right arm and somewhere around the
inner thighs as well. She pulled up his jerkin and pulled it back
down again, pain searing her from her left arm as she did so. "I
don't think you got it in the torso, sir; you might just live."
"Not worried about that, though the Creek does not need a
blind man. Make sure they're not rushing us, that's th' main thing."
Oh! right! Karen stood up and peered through the logs. No one in
sight.
Something punched her, hard, in the left arm again.
As she heard the shot, she looked, bemused, down at her arm. There
was a hole in one of the small logs, and another in her forearm, with
Douglas fir splinters embedded all around it. Bleeding had already
commenced; dark. Not arterial; small favors.
They can
see me. Karen sat down, hard, in the mud, and drew the Kel-Tec
again. She squirmed backwards against the upright in the corner for
what concealment she could find, and peered through one of the lowest
gaps.
Still no one coming, and no one visibly moving among
the bodies just in front of her. Where had the shot come from?
The little log beside her face bloomed splinters and a hole
appeared. A small geyser of mud spattered her legs and Huskey's. This
would be the repeating rifle they'd heard about, up high. Second
floor or attic dormers of the house, perhaps?
This isn't
cover. Now what?
Huskey spoke. "Karen, we
done good. That was a fourth of 'em. But you aren't gonna live
without us foxin' him somehow. Can you move me?"
"Maybe
a little. My arm ... " She pointed, then realized he could not
see the gesture.
"Brace yourself along the wall and
pull me upright. No argument; put me where you are now! ...
and get around the corner into the compost."
Karen
understood; sinking lower, she dug her heels into the muck, locked
her good arm with Huskey's and heaved him to her. Splinters flew
again at the movement, and Huskey flinched and grunted as the report
sounded. "Where's th' wheelgun?" She found and handed it to
him. "Now go!" She went, forcing her left hand to
take the sword, pistol in her right hand.
The Ruger fired,
blindly, in the direction of the farm buildings. The bandit rifle
fired again, twice, and Karen, huddled behind a heap
of straw mixed with apple pulp and veggie parings, heard nothing more
from the bin to her left.
She popped her magazine,
one-handed, and counted peeps of brass through the holes. She'd fired
three. She thought so, but it was always good to check. Reaching into
her other "vest" pocket, hands trembling with shock and
dismay, she found her film can of spare rounds and counted out three
new rounds; these she loaded into the magazine with her right thumb.
It was taking much, much longer than she expected; and she dropped
the last one twice. Each time she had to pick it up with the magazine
seated in the palm of her hand, which was amazingly sweaty, and line
up the round with the steel lips again. Sweat was in her eyes, too;
she knew it wasn't the rain by the way it stung. Remember to
breathe.
The last round snapped into place just as her
hand was giving out. She seated the magazine gently, and became
puzzled as to how she was going to rack the slide. Then she
remembered there would be a round chambered already. If she'd shot
the magazine empty she could not have reloaded the pistol, not with
her left arm in this condition. How much blood was she losing? She
must try not to slip from consciousness.
Wait, what was
that? Someone was crawling toward her bin! She aimed, wobbling badly,
at the corner. Was it Huskey? Let it be Huskey! No. A hand appeared,
then another, with the big ugly pistol in it. Then a head came round
the corner, bit by bit. Bald.
(To be continued)