by D B Bray
“I keep getting excuses. Stand up, Vern.”
Vern looked confused. “Stand up?” he asked.
“Yes, Vern, stand up.”
Red glanced at the door. “Caleb, get in here.”
Caleb walked in, carrying a rope and stood next to Vern, who eyed him warily.
“Bring Vern into the square,” Red commanded.
Vern took a step back. “Wait, boss, wait.”
Caleb threw the rope around Vern’s neck and dragged him from the room. As they entered the square, all of Red’s men formed a semi-circle.
Red cleared his throat and took a sip of water. “We are here to vote on whether Vern dies today,” he said, void of emotion.
Vern stared at him, eyes wide. The men stood at attention and saluted. Caleb threw Vern onto the broken cobblestones and yanked the rope tighter. Vern gasped and clutched at his throat as it burned a ring around his neck.
“My second in command has failed me twice.” He scanned his men’s faces. “Who among you will vote whether he lives or dies?” he asked.
Red’s tribe, The Rulers, had a strict code; some would even argue tyrannical. There were three rules among them to define law and order. He was told of a man who once conquered the known European continent, a man named Napoleon Bonaparte, and aspired to be like him.
Red stepped into the square, and his men circled around him.
He shouted, “What’s the first rule?”
His men shouted back. “Never fail your Chief.”
Red stepped around Vern and asked, “And what is the second rule?”
His men shouted in unison. “Never fail your comrades.”
Red’s lips turned into a sneer as he contemptuously looked at Vern. “And the third rule.”
“Those with the money make the rules,” they shouted again.
Red lifted Vern’s head up and slapped him.
“Those who have the money make the rules.” He knelt next to Vern. “I am the chief of this tribe, and you, you failed me,” he whispered.
Caleb yanked the rope tighter. Without glancing over his shoulder, Red asked his men, “Who among you will vote, life?”
A few hands went up, the others grumbled. Red turned and counted the hands. He waved the men forward who voted life. They slowly stepped out of line and stood next to Vern.
“Vern, because you have been with me for so long, these men who are loyal to you will die in your place.”
Vern tried to shout no, but the rope tightened. Caleb kicked him to the ground and held his head up. “Watch what happens to those who support failure.”
Before the five men could defend themselves, they were hit with quills from crossbowmen who walked to the edge of the square. Red laughed as the blood-soaked through his makeshift leather boots.
“Release him, Caleb,” Red said with a wave of his hand.
Caleb dropped the rope, and Vern gasped for air as he tried to claw himself free. He spat and sputtered and finally cleared his throat.
“How… how could you?” he asked, holding his brother’s head in his lap.
Red stared down at Vern, his brow furrowing. “You will live because I make the rules.” He grabbed a tuft of Vern’s hair. “Go now and never come back. You owe me your life,” he whispered into his ear.
A man walked up with a glowing orange branding iron. “And this will mark you as a failure.”
Vern screamed as the man walked forward. He would receive the mark of death, and if he was ever found among slavers again, he would be executed.
Red glanced at his men. “We move out in the morning.”
A few days later, Red stood on top of the turret and scanned the horizon. They tracked their prey to the tent city, and after asking a dozen people, they found the man who sold them the horses.
He wasn’t forthcoming with information until Red tied him to one of his own horses and drug him around his field for a bit. The man told them all that he knew, from Jack’s features to the horses they purchased. They had a three day head start on him.
“Caleb, get up here,” Red shouted.
Caleb rode to the front of the column on a new mount courtesy of the horse. He slowed as he reached the front and pulled beside the turret.
“Chief?” he asked.
“How many miles until we reach New York?” Red asked.
Caleb pulled the map from his pocket. “Around ten.”
“Good. I want you to take a few of the men and scout ahead. Report back to me on anything that may impede our travel,” Red said.
Caleb signaled a few of the men to come with him and rode into the valley below. Red signaled for his men to pull the old half-track tank off the path. He waved one of his commanders’ over to him. The man rode up next to him and saluted.
“Tyson, I need you to read something for me,” Red said, handing him a map. “The horse seller told us they were headed to New York, right?”
“He did,” Tyson said.
“Where do you think it is?” he asked.
Tyson studied the tour map intently and shrugged. “Chief, there’s too many places to count. The place is small but packed. How would we even know where?” he asked.
Red sighed and pulled his binoculars down around his neck. “Think, man, think.” He handed Tyson the history book. “What does the book tell us?” he asked.
Tyson flipped to the glossary and inched his fingers down each bullet point. He sounded some of the words out he didn’t understand, often repeating them to himself, trying to understand them. He only had the reading compression of a small boy, having been in Red’s infantry since he was nine.
“Look for the men who wrote a Constitution,” Red said, pulling the binoculars back up to his eyes.
Tyson whispered to himself, found a spot, and flipped to it. “Says here that fifty-five men attended some kind of signing, and only thirty-nine actually signed it on September 17, 1787,” he said, trying to hide the confused look on his face.
“Who was from New York?” he asked.
“A guy named Hamilton, Yates and Lansing Jr, only one of them signed it though,” he said.
“And who was that?” Red asked.
“Hamilton.”
“I see, and does it tell you if he liked libraries?” he asked.
“I don’t see any—-. Wait, it tells about him on a different page,” he exclaimed, flipping to it. “Ah, here it is. He seemed to have been famous. It says that he, a guy named Washington and Madison frequented a library called, The New York Society Library.”
“Then that’s where we go. Keep reading as much as you can. I think we’re going to need it before we get to our destination,” Red said, slapping the side of the half-track to roll forward.
Chapter 10
“What did he say, Jack?” Toby asked once they were settled into their private tent.
“He told me where his great-grandfather hid their piece of the document,” he said.
“So, where is it?” Lucy asked.
“A library called The New York Society Library, in a place called Manhattan on East 79th Street. Wherever that is.” He rubbed his hands together and flexed his fingers. “It’s on the fifth floor, but he didn’t know where it was hidden,” Jack said.
Jack pulled one of the tour guides out of the front pouch of his knapsack. He scanned the key at the bottom of the page, identifying the different historical buildings. Pursing his lips together, he pinpointed where they were going and showed the others. Quill walked into the tent and sat on the edge of a cheap card table with a few candle wicks on it. He unzipped his black sweatshirt and laid it next to him.
“Where you headed?” he asked.
Jack picked his knapsack up and shouldered it. “A place called Manhattan to The New York Society Library, the oldest in the city,” he said.
“I’ve heard of it,” Quill said, digging in his pocket.
He pulled a silver locket out of his pocket and handed it to Jack. “I’ve made a few forays into the city with my men to
scavenge supplies. You’re heading into a war-torn part of the city, a place where the animals outnumber the people, and the tribes value silver more than gold. If you get in trouble, this will buy you time,” Quill said.
Jack took the locket and nodded. “Thanks, Quill, I appreciate it. What can you tell me about the Constitution?” he asked.
“I’m afraid I don’t know as much as you would like to know. Just what I heard from Frank over the years. Obscure facts mostly,” Quill said.
“Like what?” Toby asked.
“Frank learned a few facts, not many people knew. For example, a guy by the name of John Dayton was twenty-six when he signed, the youngest of the signers. And the oldest was someone named Ben Franklin who was eighty-one,” Quill said.
“Anything else?” Jack asked.
“If it helps, Frank said something about the word democracy doesn’t appear once in the four thousand four hundred words, the length of the document. It’s only mentioned in the Declaration of Independence, whatever that is,” Quill said after taking a sip from his canteen.
“I’m still struggling to figure out what this all means,” Jack sighed.
“I think we need to repair this paper and see where it goes,” Lucy said.
“Agreed. We have one piece already, so let’s find out where else it goes,” Jack said.
Quill pulled his sweatshirt back on and stood up. “Where there’s a will, there’s a way. I’ll give you everything I can to help with your mission.” He headed for the door. “When you find what it is you’re looking for, The Statue’s will help you any way we can. Come with me.”
He led them to a guarded hut and waved the guards out of his way. He unlocked the chain, hammered across the door, and walked in. The shelter was grander than it appeared on the outside. It led to another door built under the statue itself. Quill headed to a wall, pulled a lever, and a trap door swung open.
“We have to hide everything we own. The other tribes would wipe us out if they knew what we have collected over the years,” Quill said, standing by the door frame.
The room was more of a closet than an actual bedroom. There was barely enough room to stand in the aisle without their shoulders touching the opposite walls. Jack stared at the extensive collection of rifles along the wall, most in desperate need of repair. The other side of the room was the storage for all their pickled goods. The Statue’s pickled everything; beets, cabbage, tomatoes, potatoes, and a slew of others.
Jack felt the bile rise in his throat from the pickled smell. Toby turned a light shade of green as he checked the contents in the jars. He covered his nose, choosing to breathe through his mouth, gagging every few seconds. Lucy walked in behind them and breathed the pickled air.
“Oh, I love the smell of pickled stuff,” she said, picking up a jar of pickled herring.
Jack shook his head and walked over to the rifles. He picked one up, and the stock fell off.
“Where did you get all these?” Jack asked, putting what was left of the rifle back where he found it.
Quill glanced over his shoulder as he rummaged through the jars, looking for a particular one. He glanced at the rifles and rolled his eyes.
“When the war ended, and the government folded, those were left behind in warehouses around the cities. We don’t have the skills to fix them, so we stored them,” he said.
“I can help,” Lucy said, picking one up.
“What do you know of rifles?” Quill asked with a chuckle.
“More than you think. And I know what side of one I’d rather be on,” she said.
She slid the bolt action back to clear the chamber of one to emphasize her point. “The sites are off, and the trigger mechanism is broken. I can cannibalize the others here and rebuild what I can. But I have to go with Jack and Toby,” she said.
“I’m going alone, Luce,” Jack said, calling her by her new nickname.
“What do you mean you’re going alone?” Toby asked.
“If Quill will keep you safe, I’ll go and fetch what I need and meet you back here after it’s done. The more of us there are, the better the chance we will get caught,” Jack said.
“He’s has a point. No need risking lives unnecessarily. You’re welcome to stay with us until he returns. And if Lucy can fix our problem, we will be better able to defend ourselves. I have one question, though, Lucy,” Quill said.
She picked up another rifle and stared down the barrel. “What?”
“How does a girl know how to fix rifles?” Quill asked.
Lucy chuckled. “First of all, I’m a young woman, not a girl. Secondly, you don’t need to know how I know, just be happy I can help,” she said, returning to her inspections.
It was Jack’s turn to laugh. “Careful Quill, I’ve seen her kill a two-headed black bear.”
Jack loaded his own rifle with ammunition in a wooden crate by the door.
“I don’t like you going by yourself,” Toby said.
Jack walked over to him and pulled his forehead to his own. “Little brother, I wouldn’t know what to do if something happened to you. Stay here with Quill and Lucy, and I’ll be back before you know it.”
Quill handed Jack a few pickling jars filled with fish and vegetables and some oats for his horse.
“Good luck, Jack. I’ll take care of them for you until you get back. Remember, silver is the currency, and so is war.”
“Thanks, Quill. Could I have a moment with Lucy, please?” he asked.
Quill and Toby left the room. Lucy put a rifle she was inspecting down on the bench and exhaled loudly. “Jack, why are you doing this?”
“You know why Lucy and I can’t bring you two with me, especially because there are known slaver tribes roaming the city. But if something should happ——.”
Lucy put her finger to his lips. “Don’t even talk like that.” She lowered her finger and kissed him for a long while. They broke apart, and she said, “Just bring back what we need and don’t be a hero.”
Jack lowered his head and kissed her hand and put it to his forehead. “You know I never kissed a girl before you. I’ll be right back to practice some more,” he said, turning around and walking out.
Jack walked over to Quill and Toby. Quill handed him a tobacco leaf. Jack nodded his head and slipped it into his gum line. He gagged for a moment, then vomited. He kept vomiting until Lucy walked out of the tent. Quill moved over to her and pointed in the direction of the armorers.
Quill walked back over to Jack and burst out laughing. “Be careful, Jacko. Tobacco will put some hair on that chest of yours.”
Jack spat, then took a sip of water. “I already have hair on my chest.”
Quill roared again.
“What did you tell Lucy?”
Quill patted Jack’s shoulder. “I asked her to see the armorer for me, so she wouldn’t see you puking your guts out.”
“Thanks.”
“No worries. Now to business, my men will take you by rowboat to a slave colony at Battery Park. It’s the last stop before you reach the other tribes.”
“Who are the other tribes?” Jack asked.
“The Battery Park tribe are slavers who venture into the north country for any unlucky soul who they find on the road. The other two tribes we haven’t had much contact with. They are very isolated in the north of the city. I’ve never seen them personally, but my father told me they are called The Greenwich’s who live in the high rises and The Metro’s who live underground in the tunnels,” Quill said.
“Thanks for everything, Quill,” Jack said.
Jack walked over to his horse, mounted it, and rode for the boat. He waved to everyone as he strolled onto it, attempting not to look back.
God, I hope I make it back home.
The boatmen rowed him across the choppy brown water, the waves crashing over the bow.
“So, what’s this all about, boy? My wife has dinner waiting for me,” the boatman muttered.
“You don’t want to know,” Jack snipped as
he checked his saddle straps.
“Got plenty of time.”
Jack shook his head with a sigh. He filled the boatman in on everything. The wolves, The Taker’s, Jasmine, his crush on Lucy, all of it. After he finished, the boatman smiled.
“Sounds like you’re lucky to me,” the boatman said.
“Oh yeah? And how’s that?” Jack asked.
“It’s full of adventure. I’ve been rowing this boat since I was eleven years old. Met my wife when I was thirteen, had my first of five sons when I was sixteen. Folk don’t live very long on the island, and those who do usually wish they didn’t.”
“And where are your sons?” Jack asked, cleaning his rifle.
There was an awkward silence. Jack eyed the boatman. “They’re dead.”
Jack swallowed the lump in his throat.
The boatman pointed. “See the lights on the horizon, Jack?”
Jack squinted; his eyes felt like sand was being rubbed in them. “Yeah, I see it.”
“Hold on, Jack.”
The boatman swung his paddle hard, nearly lifting the boat out of the water. When the bow hit the surf again, Jack stood. The boat lurched to a stop, and one of the other men threw a line up to someone above them on the deck.
“Welcome to Battery Park in lower Manhattan,” the boatman said, helping him up onto the pier.
Jack peeked over his shoulder as the boat turned around.
“I forgot to ask your name,” Jack said.
He made eye contact with him. “Does it matter?”
Jack shrugged. “Nah, I guess not.”
A tall man with one ear made his way over to him. “Help you with something, boy?” he asked, turning his head to hear.
Jack turned and stared up at him. He grabbed his horse's reigns. “I’m heading into the city. Why do you ask?”
“It costs money to travel through this village, and none of that gold garbage the other tribes use,” the man said.
Jack reached into his pack and handed him a fistful of rifle bullets. “Will these do?” he asked.
The man smiled wide, his broken teeth jutting from his gum line. “They’ll do just fine.” He moved aside and said, “Welcome to Battery Park.”
