Near
winter is a eff of a time to go campaignin', Wolf thought. But
if anybody is out there, now is th' time to hit 'em up.
He surveyed his crew. Not much, but where can one find enough men to
achieve anything when there's never enough food or potable water and
so many diseases keep popping up? And what's the fun trying to build
an army when there's almost no ammunition around, any more?
If he hadn't lucked into that intact gun shop in that ghost town in
the boonies, he wouldn't be running any kind of serious operation by
now – or maybe any kind of operation at all.
The former
owners had opted to dome the whole place with steel-reinforced
concrete, leaving one opening that was covered with a well-hidden
door salvaged from, apparently, a bank vault, presumably with intent
to return and use the building's contents as trade items. Or for
their own use over time.
They must have possessed a
bulldozer and a crane and fuel to run them with, as well as
considerable single-mindedness. He admired them, but there would be
no hope of meeting them, no doubt. As usual, they hadn't returned.
With the aid of some terribly crystallized stump powder, his last
live cap and a car battery still holding a weak but sufficient
charge, and with wire harness ripped from the same car and spliced,
he and Mac had made their way in.
Correction. He, Wolf, had made his
way in. Mac had not survived the break-in.
Oh, well. He
wasn't such great company in that jee-dee prison, either.
It had taken so long to find, train, dominate his small army –
everyone has to sleep sometime – that the ammunition and working
primers had begun to run low at last, and he'd had to resort to
scrounging crossbows and selfbows to keep things hopping.
I
s'pose we'll be down to spears and clubs before this is over, he
thought wryly. Bet I oughta be looking for guys with bigger
shoulders now, stead'a sharper eyes.
Wolf climbed up on
a stump and turned around. The column halted. It was a good spot for
counting heads; an opening among the copses of ash and cottonwood,
and although there was, as there was nearly everywhere now, an awful
lot of Scotch broom and teasel crowding the trail in a tangle eight
feet high, he could see everyone from the stump.
Twenty-eight. Good, no one had slunk away. 'Course, if they tried,
the first one to claim the kill would get the liver. But he didn't
expect much trouble; morale was high since they'd landed on that last
little pocket of pilgrims. Always going north! What did the pilgrims all think
they were all going to find up there? Klondike gold?
"Hey
y'all, an' how ya' doin?"
"We're real good, Wolf,"
they replied in unison.
'Course you're good, you're alive,
ain't ya? Who deserves to live?"
"The living!"
"Yeah, cuz' the dead are in no effin' shape to deserve
nothin'. An' that. Is. A. Fact; you ever heard the dead
tellin' ya 'bout their rights?" Scattered chuckles, not many;
they'd heard that one too many times. "Break, till we come get
ya. Use th' shade of this maple, an' keep the chatter down to a
gentle roar. Secure all your loads and gear. Willits, point. When
Burgoyne catches up to us, Bucky, swap with 'im an' go out fifty
yards. 'K?"
"S'good, Wolf." Unison again, but
not as loud. Mention of the maples showed Wolf's mind: Keep low and
quiet and out of sight of any line of fire. The spot offered no cover
but fine concealment.
And the ground was dry.
Though it had been a droughty summer, as usual, they had found entire
days of monotonously wet going. Without anyone to maintain ditches
and drains, many of the abandoned farms had quickly reverted to
wetlands, a problem compounded, though Wolf knew nothing of this, by
the absence of personnel at flood regulation dams in the huge
watershed. Nothing had stopped the rivers jumping their banks in
winter, and often the resulting sheets of water had had nowhere to
go, covering roads as well as fields.
Wolf didn't care if he
never saw another blue heron as long as he lived.
All sat
down, keeping weapons close at hand and unshipping loaded pack frames
or pack bags and tumplines. They sipped at water or traded
differently-textured bits of jerky.
The men, ranging in age
from fourteen to nineteen, were all veterans, proud of their
association with Wolf the Lucky, and had adopted several means of
quickly distinguishing themselves from potential foes. Few of them
had yet grown the luxuriant beard, black streaked with gray in his
case, that adorned Wolf's scarred and pitted face; but all sported
closely cropped hair in imitation of his premature baldness, and had
adopted his practice of streaking his cheekbones with lampblack.
They also had crudely tattooed one another with needles or safety
pins, and had learned to tuck bits of ash under the skin of their
foreheads, raising welts that saluted Wolf's status as a smallpox
survivor.
Their devotion pleased Wolf's vanity, but he was
more interested in their relative lack of focus. The more extreme
forms of discipline, in the early going, had been constant, thinning
the ranks and forcing up the recruitment rate. Things had improved,
but still! The nonsense he'd had to put up with would strain a saint.
He remained standing, eyes saccading continually over the nearby
brush and woods, with his prized AK in hand.
Not that there
hadn't been a lot to choose from in the shop. He could have gone with
one of the many models of AR; they'd even stocked that lovely HK. But
he appreciated sturdy and simple and he appreciated the extra hundred
yards of reach. His entire life of some twenty-four years – getting
old, jee-dee it – had been one long shot anyway.
Everything else he had cached, and doled out over time, but much of
it was gone or out of commission now.
Burgoyne, a feral slip
of a youth who'd proved useful in culverts, sewers and "rat
holes," reported in. He carried his favorite (and now rare)
weapon, a Stoeger coach gun Wolf had entrusted to him, with a
bandolier of assorted shells, each lovingly encased in plastic wrap.
"Heyaa, Wolfie, all clear in back."
"Sure,
it's all effing swamp anyways. Take a breather here with th' boys,
I'm gonna follow up Willits for a bit."
Wolf didn't
have to go far. Willits, a cautious and reliable scout, had holed up
in a copse of willow and other trash trees, on the edge of an
unexpected expanse of grass.
"Whatcha got here,
dubyah?"
"Wide open; no cover, no housing. That
mountain we've been aiming for comes down to a gap on the other side
of this; and there's a bridge out there."
"Lemme
get a look at that." Wolfie reached into the back pocket of his
cruiser's vest, and produced a small rifle scope, which he preferred
to the binoculars he'd found in the shop. He'd fitted the scope,
side-mount, to his AK, and so the scope could serve dual purposes.
But for moving targets he liked iron sights. Unwrapping the scope
from its protective bag, he swept the horizon with it, then grunted.
"Not enough elevation; there's a lot of dead ground here. Ya
done right ta hold up. Gimme a leg up into this effin' tree here."
From his perch, Wolf studied the bridge. Too clean. It oughta
have more crap growin' on it by now, even though it's all steel and
asphalt around there. Hmm.
He swept the horizon again.
To the south, woods over to the base of the mountain, the slopes of
which were grassy, and rocky at the top. Might go that way and get a
look from up there at the valley behind; lots of exposure, though. To
the north, where, he knew from the map, the freeway had swept in
close to the foothills, stood one of the ubiquitous cell towers. Out
of habit he scoped that.
Something about it didn't quite
look right.
Wolf packed up the scope, grinning at Willits
who was standing by his knees, below.
"Dubyah, call up
th' boys and form column on me; we'll make for that cell tower
through th' woods. Let's keep out of sight of it, though, long as we
can. Savvy?"
"Savvy, Wolfie." Willits,
crossbow in hand, disappeared into the short green shadows of the
willow thicket.
:::
The
ancient telephone in the command post rang twice.
This
startled "Captain" Murchison.
The phone system, a
closely guarded secret, had been assembled by Murchison and a couple
of technically teachable youngsters from gear they had found in what
might well have been a ham radio museum. Powered by a twelve-volt
solar panel salvaged from a roadside signboard, and a rotated set of
of deep-cycle RV batteries, each of four stations held a doorbell
button, a doorbell, and a dynamic handset with magnetically-driven
microphone and speaker. The range of operation, assuming enough
suitable wire could be found, probably was no more than ten miles.
A weakness of the system was that all four posts could listen in
on any conversation, like a party line; another was that anyone
sufficiently trained and equipped, and patient enough to sort out the
wires, could theoretically patch in, using a sufficiently
old-fashioned headset and a pair of alligator clips. But the wires
had been buried; Carey Murchison regarded the system as relatively
secure.
It was, however, to be used only in extremis.
This had as much to do with the state of the batteries as any
security consideration. Good stuff could not be had anyway, as the
farming limited one's options. Divided attention was the Creek's
bugaboo.
Two rings meant Mo-reen, in the advanced lookout.
Doubleyou-tee-eff?
Carey picked up the handset and
pressed the button in the handle as he held it to his ear. Click.
"Go ahead, over." He released the button. Click.
Click. "S'Mo. Over." Click. A whisper,
heard on two mountaintops and in the command post.
Damn
it all. She's keeping her voice down. Trouble!
Click.
"S'up, Mo? Over." Click.
Click.
"Position may be compromised. Over." Click.
Click. "Describe. Over." Click.
Click. "Body of at least twenty advancing on position,
direct heading, no bye, all on foot, armed, rucksacks, camo. Over."
Click.
Too far and too many to mount a rescue in
time. And they might be advance echelons of a larger force; a full
engagement might compromise the whole valley. If only the few horses
weren't harrowing for winter wheat this week!
Click.
"Got 'em, Carey." This was Ellen's voice on the Ball Butte
station. "One point man, main body twenty-five, twenty-six, ahh,
twenty-seven ... twenty-nine, thirty. And ... one rear. Over."
Click.
Shit. Click. "Describe
weapons, Mo. Over." Click.
Click. "Bows,
crossbows. Umm, one rifle! with banana mag. Over-r-r." Click.
A desperate child's voice. But disciplined. Still whispering and
holding to protocol.
Click. "Confirmed, Carey.
Rear has a firearm as well. They are less than one hundred yards from
Mo and closing, double pace. Over." Click. Ellen
Murchison again, steady as ever. But this information, assuming Mo's
hideout had somehow been made, was a sentence of death, and all four
stations knew it.
Click. "Advise; drop and run?
Over." asked Murchison. Click.
Click.
"No, sir, can't run; they're on my ladder side. May be forced to
secure, drop items, engage. Love ya!"
Click.
:::
Under
the canopy of a long copse of ash and willow, which followed what had
once been a drainage ditch, Wolf's small army had made for the cell
tower as a point of interest in a practically featureless landscape.
Sometimes nice things could be turned up inside those inevitable
chain-link fences.
If nothing was there, they could have a
go at the small hill in the middle distance, from the summit of
which, no doubt, they could see into the valley behind that bridge
and decide if it was worth investing.
Wolf stopped a moment
and studied the cell tower. It was one of the tube type, common
enough along the freeway corridor. There would be a tool shed, a
bunch of conduits coming out of the ground by the shed, leading into
a junction box with a door on it, like a circuit breaker box, and,
beginning about fifteen feet up the side of the tower, ladder rungs,
made of steel, going up to the microwave antenna array.
It
was the antenna array that had captured his attention. On it was an
eagle's nest, a six-foot deep pile of branches and twigs, with lots
of bird shit all over the top. More of the white stuff had streaked
the tower on its lee, or southern, side, covering some of the ladder
rungs, and spattered on the leaves of the Himalaya blackberries that
had taken over the chain-link fence.
Wolf turned to Willits,
who stood near his elbow.
"Dubya, get me Burgie. Nah,
scratch, get me Cougar; he's been achin' to show off for weeks."
Willits smirked his approval; Burgoyne, like himself, was too
valuable to throw away on a maybe. Cougar was reliable enough for
some recon, if it didn't get too complicated, but was much more
expendable. Wolf had the middle management touch. Willits saluted
with a finger to his forehead. "Wolf."
"Willits."
Willits departed, low and fast.
Willits found Cougar in the
middle of the column, on one knee with his chin on his compound bow.
"Cougar!"
"Willits."
Willits
jerked his thumb. "Wolf."
Cougar left his pack,
brought his bow and quiver, and ran with Willits to the lead.
"Wolf." Cougar's eager, wide face appeared through the
brush. A good worker, thought Wolf. Just a hair on the whiny side,
though.
"Coug, got a job."
"S'good."
"Yeah, so, what do ya see over there?"
"Uhhh,
cell tower, fence, gate in them briars, padlocked. Uhh, door open, no
windows."
"Padlock, new or old?"
"Umm? Uhh, can't really tell from here. Too shady."
"'K, what I want ya ta do, leave your bow and shit here and run
over and look at that padlock And see if y'c'n look inside that shed.
Then grab me a leaf – one 'a the ones wi' birdshit on it – and
bring it back here."
Cougar looked like he'd like to
question the bit about the leaf, but he remembered his protocol in
time and dropped the bow and quiver. "S'good."
"Gotcha covered. Go!" Wolf pulled the bolt on his AK and
sighted vaguely on the eagle's nest.
Cougar zig-zagged
through the Scotch broom in what had been a small parking lot, stood
up by the gate, snatched a leaf, and brought it back.
"S'good, Coug, what'd ya see?"
"Old padlock,
rusty. Nothin' in th' shed."
"Hmm. 'K, arm and
fall back."
"S'good, Wolf."
Wolf set
down his AK and sniffed the leaf as Willits watched. Then he reached
into his vest pocket and peeled the plastic wrap from a much-beloved
disposable lighter. He flicked on the flame, scorched the
white-spattered leaf, and sniffed again.
"Sonnabitch."
"S'at, Wolfie?" asked Willets.
"This
here's paint. Wonder how they're gettin' in and out?"
"Ladders, maybe? Throw one in, throw it out?"
"Yeah, team effort. Willits –" Wolf pointed up to the
eagle's nest "– that there is a lookout. An' it won't
do no good as a lookout 'nless they c'n talk to each other. Occupied?
Maybe. I'm declarin' a high-value-objective. Get me Burgie. I want
his shotgun, too, 'n the magnum slugs; seven-six-two might not have
enough penetration."
:::
Mo-reen
had stripped off her shirt, wrapped the precious handset in it, and
dropped it through the toilet seat, down the long shaft of the tower
into the noisome glop below.
She lay back on her sleeping
bag, took up her crossbow, set it against the wall, put her foot into
the stirrup, cranked the string back to the notch, and rolled up to a
crouch over the trapdoor, on one knee.
There was no room to stand up in the "eagle's nest."
Through the loophole in the trapdoor, she could see that a small
man had already popped the padlock with a huge bolt cutter, wrenched
open the gate, and run to the base of the tower with a grappling
hook. He got the bottom rung on the first try, and began swarming up
a knotted rope. She could see a hatchet and a handgun, tucked in his
sash.
Mo-reen leaned back and picked up a bolt from her
stash. She'd made them herself, from hammered coins for heads, turned
cedar shafts, and chicken-feather fletching. Grandpa had been so
proud.
There was a startling explosion, and the
two-inches-thick hatch leaped in its bar and hinges. A hole appeared
in the hatch, and splinters of wood embedded themselves in Mo-reen's
arm. The pain, combined with her primal fear, made loading the bolt a
chore. Her breath rasped and her hands shook uncontrollably. She'd
have to position herself over the loophole again; that might still be
concealment, but it was clearly not cover. She felt naked to all the
world.
Leaning over the loophole, she found the climber
already twenty feet away and ascending rapidly. His feet, as they
slapped the rungs, made echoes in the tube tower. She set the stirrup
of her weapon against the loophole, locked the stock into her
shoulder, and aimed.
Another hole, with an ear-splitting
impact, appeared in the hatch. Half-dazed, Mo-reen was aware she'd
been shot in the hip area with something heavy, as well as more
splinters. Staying put, she checked her aim again.
The man
below was right beneath her. He had one hand on the top rung and with
the other was reaching for the pistol. Her blood was already running
across the floor and dripping onto his helmet. Armor! Professionals
at last – but no way to tell the Creek.
Mo-reen waited
till he looked up, and loosed the bolt. In slow motion, he began a
fall of more than a hundred feet, with her fletching of chicken
feathers protruding from his throat, just above the top of the zipper
on his Kevlar vest. One for the Marines!
She checked
her hip, where the numbness was spreading. Not good. Not good at all.
Shit.
My life. Could have been kind of nice one.
S'over. Thank-you-Jeeah-for-all-that-was-good.
She
reached for another bolt, but things were already shading into a red
dream. And how would she crank the bow, anyway? She wasn't even sure
she had legs.
Nothing for it; must pop now while she still
could. Maybe something will fall on somebody and ruin his day.
That would be nice. She opened the box on the wall beside her as
another slug and yet another came through the trapdoor to her left,
showering her with splinters. Red to red, black to black.
She'd already connected black. Holding one red wire in her shaking
right hand and the other in her left, she stroked the stripped ends
across each other, and had the momentary satisfaction, in the
darkness of her cramped and final abode, of seeing a tiny spark.
:::
In
the command post beneath the Starvation Creek Mess Hall, Captain
Carey Murchison was watching the voltmeter on the wall of the battery
station. The needle flickered, dipped, and rose back to thirteen
volts. A slight tremor reached his feet through the packed earth
floor.
He turned away. Soon there would be a column of black
smoke, miles away to the west, beyond the reach of the little valley.
A runner, a boy of about ten, stood by his side.
"I'm
sorry, sir."
"Yes. But she was a volunteer. We
can't play favorites, as you know."
"Yes, sir."
"Go and call a General Meeting. Entire length of the Road,
everyone not exempt or needed to cover the approaches. Condition
red."
"Right away, sir." The runner turned on
his heel and ran.
Murchison sat down heavily and put his
head in his hands. People would begin arriving from the nearest farms
in ten minutes. He must do his mourning between now and then, and not
give in to the darkness. That much, and no more, he could do for
his only granddaughter.
(To be continued)