by D B Bray
Adam snickered as he made eye contact with Jack. “Adults.”
The trip was slow; the boats not built for so much cargo. As they crept across the water, a whale jettisoned to the surface, his blowhole expelling its contents.
Jack looked at the painted faces of his comrades. It would be a hard fight, and no matter how much he tried to block it out, he knew some would not see the sun rise in the morning.
A terrible price to pay for freedom.
The boats made it to the middle of the river, and everyone tensed up as the bull sharks surrounded them. Quill tied an instrument to a rope and dropped it in the water. The sharks thrashed beside them and fled.
“What was that?” Jack asked.
Quill rubbed his hands together. “Oh, that’s just a little treat for our hungry underwater friends.” He laughed. “They won’t be back.”
The rest of the trip was uneventful, and as the boats reached the shoreline, hand signals were given on where to disembark. Silently, the Blades huddled at the beachhead, some sweating in the cold night air, others swallowing the imaginary lumps in their throats.
Adam knelt in the center and drew in the sand. “Charlie and I will lead the group from the north. Quill and Fred come in from the south. We meet here,” he said, pointing to the center.
Jack whispered, “I want to thank everyone. I will see you at Fort Camden after I find the last piece. If this battle goes badly——”
Quill smiled. “We got it under control, Jack.”
The faces before him should have been frightened, terrified even, but they weren’t. Many of the young people had seen terrible things. Death was nothing new to them. Jack shook the different commander’s hands, standing around him. He picked up some wet sand and sniffed it, then rubbed it between his fingers and sighed.
This will be soaked with the blood of innocents. I hope this thing is worth all this pain and suffering. Edward, help protect me.
He watched as the two groups split up and headed to their positions. He shouldered his pack and sprinted across the sand and headed north to New Milford, Connecticut.
Adam watched Jack’s silhouette disappear over the hill and then pulled his bat from the sheath strapped across his back. He buried himself further into the sand; his chin buried to his lips. The plan was to wait until just before dawn and then swoop down on the slavers as they slept.
The slave auctions always started at first light. Many of the slaves were kept in cages stacked three high near the square. The waste from the other cages falling between the slates above them, soaking those below.
Adam waited for the signal from Quill’s group. He scanned the horizon and saw a torch rise from behind the hill. Its flame disappeared as fast as it was raised.
It was silent, too silent for Adam’s liking. Charlie lay next to him and sniffed the air. “Something doesn't feel right, Adam,” he said.
“You’re right, but it’s too late now,” Adam hissed.
At first, the sound of the southern group charging in was faint. The war cries grew louder as they burst through the back of Battery Park, nearest the water. Before Adam could watch them attack, he was up and sprinting down the hill with Charlie close on his heels. Their war cries echoed through the camp.
The slavers ran out of their tents, their clubs, and guns at the ready. A man stepped in front of Adam and swung his club. The blow went wide, and Adam stepped closer to his attacker. He lashed out and struck the man across the knees, breaking them. The man howled and fell over. Adam sprinted by him, stepping on the man’s crotch in the process. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Charlie clothesline two men into a fire barrel.
Shots rang out from behind him as they reached the auction square. He formed his men in ranks, pushing some of the frightened young people to their knees. Alarms sounded, and dogs barked as the invaders overtook the tents. An explosion killed several of the Blades on his left. He could hear the screams and moans as they died at his feet.
“First rank, kneel,” Adam shouted above the din of battle.
The Blades followed his orders as more slavers rushed into the square.
“Fire!” Adam shouted.
The shots flew downrange, taking a handful of slavers off their feet. Adam glanced over his shoulder, looking for Quill. The southern group burst into the square in one moment; the next, clouds of dust hung in their place. Charlie ran up to Adam, a large gash across his forehead and cheek.
“Where’s Quill?” Charlie shouted.
Adam drove his bat into a man’s ribs. “Find them!” he shouted back as he hit the man in the groin.
Fred appeared out of nowhere, several wounds around his torso. He staggered over, his bat dragging behind him. He stood next to Adam and leaned on his bat. Adam tried to help him, but Fred shook him off.
“I’m done for,” Fred said, his voice surely.
“Let’s get you back to the boat,” Adam said, slamming his bat into another slaver.
Fred pointed to several slavers guarding a large group of cages. He smiled, blood collecting at the corner of his mouth.
“I’ll take care of them. Make sure you get the slaves out,” he said.
Another set of explosions ripped through the front line, killing more of the Blades and distracting Adam. Before Adam could stop him, Fred gave an animalistic war cry. He watched Fred disappear like a ghost as he charged headlong into the mist and his destiny.
Tears streaming down his face, Adam scanned his surroundings and saw one of Red’s men holding a smoking rocket launcher. The dead Blades were spread out in front of him, their bodies broken. He picked up a pitchfork at his feet and ran through the cloud of smoke settling around him.
As he cleared the smoke, he observed them reloading. He hefted his weapon up and threw it at them. It hit the man loading it, knocking him down.
As he fell, the man pushed the shooter off balance. The man squeezed the trigger, and the rocket exploded at his feet. Adam watched a wall of fire exploded around him, and then it was silent again, ever so silent.
Jack slipped through the weeds and vines, blocking his path. As he left New York City, the road had been full of marauding creatures looking for their next meal. His mouth was dry, a cottonmouth made worse by whatever concoction Quill brewed for his journey.
He spat twice. Ugh, that brew was terrible.
He sat down on a rock and took a deep breath. His leg radiated with pain; every step felt like a brick was tied to his foot. The last several miles had been arduous, and he seemed to step in every hole he walked near.
His mind raced, thinking about the battle he should have been a part of. He knew Adam made the logical call, not an emotional one that plagued him. He peered into the shrubbery to keep an eye on any animal straying onto the path behind him. He heard a howl in the distance and shuddered. The idea of wolves circling him made his neck ache.
The map he was reading showed New Milford was around eighty miles from New York. Clearing the city, Jack found a lame horse near the Bronx River Parkway. He saw the horse's hooves were in bad shape and used some Manuka honey Quill procured in his travels and given Jack’s for his journey.
He spread it on the horse's hooves that were peppered with boils and then wrapped them in a torn shirt. Rector Wallace had shown him how to nurture horses as a child, along with teaching him to ride. From what he could gather, the horse was a colt, barely able to support his weight on the treacherous ride. He limped beside the horse to help him heal faster.
He named his new friend, Boils. Jack could hear him snort behind him as it nipped at the nape of his neck. Jack laughed and held an apple over his shoulder, so far, his favorite treat.
Boils, what have I gotten myself into?
As if sensing his thoughts, Boils nudged him again, his wet nose pressing against him. Jack ran his fingers through his mane. He picked up the reigns and led him down the path. They walked for miles over every hill and into each valley. He examined the expanse of land in front of him, most of it da
rk and bleak. He saw a single hut in the middle of the next valley surrounded by stakes.
He knew he should move on, but the off chance of it being deserted was too good for him to pass up. Sleeping in the elements by a horse had few if any benefits except a cold night, followed by a dreary tiring day.
He approached the hut and stopped fifty yards short of the entrance. Two bear skulls were mounted on a barb wire fence, none too inviting.
“Anyone here?” Jack shouted.
After a few minutes, a man came to the door, a rifle barrel as his greeting. “What do you want?”
“I need to trade for supplies if you have any,” Jack said, holding several bullets up for the man to see.
“What else do you have to trade?” the man shouted back.
“I’ll show you. I just need a place to rest for the night out of the elements,” Jack said.
Jack saw the door open, and the man waved him forward as he unlocked the gate. Jack led Boils to the gate and tied him off.
He stuck his hand out. “Jack Madison of Zone Ten,” he said.
The man chuckled and stepped aside. “I don’t shake stranger’s hands in this land.”
Jack walked into the cabin and rubbed his hands over his upper arms.
Cold.
The man peeked out the door one last time and shut it. He walked over to a worn-down rocking chair and motioned for Jack to sit. Jack sat on the couch, the bottom nearly falling out.
“Never sit there myself,” the man said.
Jack frowned and rearranged the cushions. The cabin was well stocked with supplies. Matchbox cars lined the shelves near the ceiling; rifles were stacked neatly in the corner, and clothes of every color and size were shoved against the far wall.
“Nice place,” Jack said.
The man nodded, the gray in his goatee and temples strangely peaceful. “Been here a long time. What you got to trade?” the man asked, leaning forward, rubbing his hands.
Jack eyed him wearily. “Depends on what you have.”
The man spread his arms wide. “You see what I have, boy.”
Jack reached into his pack and pulled out his bullets, the honey, and a silver flask of whiskey he brought with him. The older man eyed the whiskey with a smile.
“That what I think it is?” he asked, licking his lips.
Jack tossed it to him. “Sure is.”
The man took a sip, his lips tingling. “Haven’t had a drink in a long time.” He licked his lips with a sigh as he looked at the bottle. “Name’s Rufus. So, what do you want in trade for this?” he asked.
Jack searched the room. “Got any books,” he asked.
Rufus stared at him shrewdly. “Books are a little hard to come by, but I may have one or two.”
He walked over to a wall safe with a turn dial, glanced over his shoulder at Jack, then unlocked it. He pulled out three books and locked the safe again. He laid them on the table in front of Jack.
“My father gave me these before he died. It’s all I have to remember him by.” He sighed. “But he would think it’s a fair trade.”
Jack picked up the novels and read the worn spines. The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain, The Lord of the Rings by J.R.R Tolkien and A Song of Ice & Fire by George R.R. Martin.
“Fair trade. I need more dried food, got any?” Jack asked, gently placing the books in his knapsack.
“I’ll trade you some for the honey,” Rufus said.
“Haven’t got a whole lot of it. My horse and I are wounded. I still got thirty miles to go, and then I have to come back,” Jack said.
“You want to trade or not?” Rufus snapped.
Jack pushed the honey forward. “Got any soap and bandages?” he asked.
“Over on the wall,” Rufus said, picking up the bottle.
Jack packed away what he could find, and as he returned to the couch, Rufus tossed him a feather stuffed pillowcase and an old gray wool blanket.
Jack thanked him and went outside to tend Boils. Rufus leaned out in the doorway and said, “Bring the horse to the back. I got a small shed where you can stable him and tend his wounds.”
He led Boils to the back and untethered his bridle. Boils shook his mane and snorted. He ate a few oats and berries; Jack gave him from the palm of his hand. The sores on his hooves were healing, and Jack hoped the honey was soothing them.
Sharp pain pounced through his leg again. He leaned against Boils in an attempt to ease it and almost knocked him over. Rufus walked around the corner and saw him.
“Hurting bad, eh, boy?” he asked.
Jack bit his lip and growled. “Name’s Jack, not boy.”
“Let’s get you inside to rest. The horse will be fine out here.”
Rufus helped him back in the house and laid him on the couch. He placed the pillow under his head and then tossed the blanket over him.
“See you in the morning,” Rufus said, walking back to his rocking chair.
Jack tossed and turned the whole night. His leg felt like a hot poker was being twisted in it. Rufus checked on him a few times during the night, readjusting his blanket when necessary.
When dawn finally broke, Jack lifted himself off the couch and hobbled outside to check on Boils. He found him eating out of burlap sack, Rufus, by his side.
“This is a good colt. Reminds me of a horse I used to have.” A sadness clouded his eyes. “Pretty lonely out here some times,” he whispered.
Jack nodded. “There’s a place called Fort Camden that I’ll be going back to after I finish my journey. If you want, I’ll meet you there. No one deserves to die alone in the wilderness,” Jack said.
“Jack, I spent my whole life here. My family is buried behind me in the forest. I only want to rest with them when my journey is done. It’s all a man can really ask for,” Rufus said.
“I would have agreed with you before this adventure, but I’ve seen some terrible things since then. And now I say the only thing that matters are the people who have suffered the indignity of slavery and their quest for freedom.”
“You’re wise beyond your years, Jack. Wise beyond your years. I guess this world of ours isn’t really all that great after our so-called organized society dissolved and left us nothing but chaos and war.” The hint of a smirk crossed Rufus’ lip. “You know, the only thing I miss about being with other people?” he asked.
“What’s that?”
“Conversation. Until you showed up, I hadn’t spoken to anyone in years. I forgot how to be civil, to open my doors to those in need. The basic necessities of being human. And even if it was only for a night, it will comfort me going forward,” he said.
Jack rubbed Boils in silence for a long while. He handed the bridle to Rufus. “Rufus, the greatest thing we can do is what you just said, but if we don’t give from the heart, then we have nothing to give. Take Boils, he’s a good young horse, and you need him more than I do,” he said.
“Jack, I can’t do that. You’re wounded and need to ride. Where are you going next?” he asked, attempting to give him back the reins.
“I’m heading to New Milford, Connecticut, but I’ll be alright. It may take longer, but if you don’t have a companion, you may not last much longer, either. Besides, now you have a way to Fort Camden if you choose to go, it’s my gift to you,” he said, lifting his pack onto his shoulder.
A single tear fell from Rufus’ eye. “May God protect you, Jack,” he whispered.
“Same to you, Rufus. Thanks for the hospitality,” he said, turning to leave.
Rufus placed his hand on Jack’s shoulder as he walked away.
“Hey, Jack, one more thing,” he said.
Rufus nudged Boils over and scraped the dirt under him away. He pulled out a small chest and opened it. Inside was a crispy folded flag. He closed the lid and handed it to Jack. “This flag has been passed down from generation to generation in my family since before the Cataclysm. It’s supposed to be a flag of great importance, and since my son and wife died of the G
reen Shakes, I have no one to give it to.” He licked his lips again and smiled, tasting the salt from his tears. “Bring it to Fort Camden and fly it high in the air, so the whole world knows there is still hope. I pray our paths cross one day, young Jack. Until then, keep your eyes vigilant and your heart pure,” he said and walked away.
Chapter 14
The rows of dead stretched across the square, arms folded over their chests. Quill scanned the young faces, their deaths heavy on his heart.
A young man walked over to him; a body draped over his shoulder. He lowered the body and crossed his arms like the others. He placed his hand over the boy's eyes and slid them shut.
“Are you the only commander left?” the young man asked without glancing up.
“Not sure, I haven’t seen the others. Actually, most of the dead are from the northern group. There are more bodies north of the slave block, where the thick of the fighting was,” Quill said.
They stared into the smoke and mist hanging over the camp. A tall man walked toward them, one body over his shoulders, the other being dragged by the throat.
“Charlie,” the young man yelled, running to his side.
As he approached, Charlie tossed Red across the square at Quill’s feet and lowered himself to one knee. The young man talking with Quill a few moments before raised his bat over the man’s head.
“Never strike a defeated enemy on his knees, no matter what,” Quill said, yanking the bat out of his hands and shoving him back with the other. “Now, take him to the boats.”
The boy glared at him, grabbed Red by the throat, and dragged him back to the pier. Quill glanced at Charlie’s face, which was a mess. His nose was smashed to the side, and a gash ran from the top of his head to his jawline. Several of his teeth were missing, and his shirt was drenched with sweat and blood.
Charlie lowered Adam to the ground and sat down next to him. Adam’s clothes were scorched, his face waxy. “Is he dead?” Quill asked, kneeling beside him.
After he asked the question, Adam let out a long sigh. “Not yet, but I should be,” he whispered, his voice raspy and clogged with dust.
