by D B Bray
“We might miss.”
The bears circled them, expertly navigating over and around the downed trees. Jack scanned the landscape, looking for any means of escape. In the distance, he could hear the faint sound of musical instruments, a resonating sound of low pitches climbing to higher ones.
What is that sound?
“You hear that, Jack?” Rufus asked.
The music crept closer, and a few seconds later, they heard a horn, then another and yet another following the same sound as the previous ones. The sound resonated around them, along with the light tapping of drums. The bears glanced at the noise and froze in their tracts.
Jack and Rufus glanced at each other, their eyes wide. They took their moment to escape to the first floor of the mansion. Their gun barrels jammed out of the deteriorating windowsills, aimed at whatever was coming through the woods. The bears bolted as the first sounds of music came through the underbrush.
Jack gawked at the blue-painted faces with unique designs etched on them. The boys spread out in front of the tree line and raised their weapons. Some pulled long rifle barrels to their shoulders, while others swung crude handmade clubs, pitchforks, and gnarled tree branches.
Jack’s eyes were drawn to the boy’s faces. All were white with dyed blonde hair, their tattoos intricately woven over their eyes, lips, and chins. The older boys he noticed had half their faces painted, some with the left side painted, the others, the right.
The horns and drums stopped, and the boys snapped to attention, then parted down the middle, making a path. A lone boy around the same age as Jack walked down the trail wearing a white bear pelt draped across his blue and black tattoo-covered shoulders.
The closer the boy came to the front of the organized mob, the more pronounced the tubular bumps covering his entire body showed on him. He only wore a pair of blue jeans and sandals, the rest of his chest naked.
Jack cut his eyes at Rufus, whose jaw was wide open. Jack pushed his mouth closed and then raised his rifle above his head. He stood up and walked out from behind their cover.
“Jack!” Rufus hissed.
He winked at him. “Don’t worry; I’ll be right back.”
As he stepped out of the doorway, a few boys broke ranks and whooped, their lips turned into snarls. With cat-like reflexes, they crossed the ground between the two sides, whooping and grunting like gorilla’s as he walked closer. One boy walked in front of Jack and pushed him back, a grunt escaping his lips. He whooped and stood nose to nose with him. Jack heard a roar from behind the other boy. The boy dropped to his knee, head bowed.
The leader held his arms out, and his men pulled the bear pelt from his shoulders. Another boy walked over to him, holding a long box. Their leader opened it and pulled out a tree limb with notches carved into the handle. It was the size and width of a bat with a spike driven into the top. The boy licked his index finger and thumb and caressed it. Someone from the crowd threw a thin wooden bat at Jack’s feet.
The leader pointed to it and sneered. Jack shook his head no, but before he could finish the movement, he was on the ground holding his stomach. Deep coughs racked his body as he gasped for breath. He could hear the boys grunting and howling at his discomfort.
Rufus wasted no time coming to Jack’s defense. As he burst through the doorway, the leader pulled a long black fishnet from his side and threw it. Rufus stumbled, then fell next to Jack. Two boys snatched it and dragged Rufus to a tree.
Jack pushed himself to his knees and picked up the bat. Using the bat as leverage, he forced himself to his feet and took a deep breath.
So, that’s the type of fight it’s going to be.
Jack shook the fog clear, circling his brain. He picked up the bat and leveled it out in front of him in an offensive position. The leader stared at him in wonder, never before seeing a stance like Jack was in.
Adam trained Jack during the week they were on the island. He demonstrated the stance while Jack lay in bed, mimicking him. The position was called posta longa, known as the long guard, an all-purpose posture used in attacking and defending during a sword fight.
Here goes nothing.
Jack’s feet moved along the ground as they circled one another. His opponent made the first move and swung his weapon down in an arch, striking Jack on the shoulder. Jack groaned as he hit the ground and attempted to roll away. He squirmed for several moments, his attacker’s foot on the center of his back.
“Get up, Jack, get up,” Rufus shouted.
The other boys were whooping and grunting in approval. Jack’s fingers grasped the bat by his side, and as he snatched it, the boy lifted his foot slightly.
Seizing the moment, Jack rolled into his attacker’s shins. The boy fell over and hit the ground, hid head slamming against a rock. Jack yanked the bleeding boy’s head back and put his bat under his chin. He placed his palms on either side of the boy's head and pulled up on the bat a little.
“Get back, or I’ll snap his neck,” Jack shouted.
The boys took a step forward, weapons raised. Jack kneed his attacker in the ribs. “Tell them to back up and drop their weapons, or you die,” he said.
“Drop them,” the boy said.
His soldiers did as they were ordered. Jack waited until the last one dropped his weapon and then helped the other boy to his feet. Both were panting as they stared at each other. The other boy nodded his head in Jack’s direction.
“Never lost before,” he said, brushing himself off first, then Jack. “My name is Paulie Bear-Killer of the Blue Faces.”
Jack felt his shoulder and winced. “Jack Madison.”
“Don’t you have a tribe?” Paulie asked.
“They’re dead,” Jack said.
Paulie nodded. “Well, Jack, usually we enslave people, but you have caught my interest. Most people don’t have friends out here in the wildlands.” He pointed and waved his finger to let his men know to release Rufus. “Your friend attacked us without thought of his own welfare. I respect a warrior like that, so we won’t sell to the Northern Tribes, yet. Why are you out here in my jungle anyway?” Paulie asked.
“Long story,” Jack said.
Paulie nodded to one of his men standing by him. “Let’s get back to camp,” he said.
“We need to get what we’re looking for and get back home,” Jack said.
“We eat, then we talk,” Paulie said, walking away.
Chapter 17
Quill glanced up from chopping wood when he heard the boat pull into shore. The rider led his mount over to where Quill was standing. “I tracked Red for days. He’s an elusive one. I finally closed in on him as he entered The Taker’s camp. I waited two days in the weeds for him to come out, but all I saw was the slavers mobilizing. I watched them ride out yesterday and then rode behind them to see what direction they were heading,” the scout said.
“And which way is that?” Quill asked, knowing all too well the answer.
“Toward us.”
“When will they be here?” Adam asked, walking up to them.
“Doesn't matter. We’ll be long gone by the time they do get here,” Quill said.
“What do you mean?” Henry Shawn asked from where he was sitting.
“We’re pulling out and heading to the place Jack talked about, Fort Camden,” Quill said.
Henry looked confused. “But——.”
Adam interrupted him. “We freed the slaves, Henry, and most of them have joined us. It’s time to get out of here before we become slaves again,” he said, the others nodding their heads in agreement.
Henry stood up from the log he was sitting on. “My brother died for those slaves, and now we’re leaving?”
“Yes, and when you become an elder, you can have a say. But for now, sit down and let your elders decide,” Adam chided him.
Charlie walked over to the fire and sat next to Adam. He handed him a bottle of honey for his burns.
“What’s the decision?” Charlie asked.
Adam glanc
ed around the fire. “Let’s decide. Who’s coming with us?” he asked.
The men and women eyed one another, their glances a mix of fear and despair. Charlie stood up. “I’m going. There’s no chance we can fight The Takers where we are standing and win, without major losses. They’re the worst tribe I’ve ever seen. And they have no problem killing those who resist.” He paused and took a sip from his canteen. “They enslaved me near the abandoned city of Boston and then killed my parents on the journey to Battery Park. So, I vote to meet Jack in Camden and find out what this Constitution thing can do. If we can, we free as many slaves as we can once we unite. Alone, we stand no chance but united as different clans. We can reclaim the land from the slavers.”
Charlie had a miserable existence as a boy. He was beaten every day of his life with The Takers. So, he developed a hatred for any tribe that sold flesh. There would always be terrible, horrible things men would do to survive in the world, and he knew that, but if he didn’t stand for something, then he stood for nothing at all.
Quill warmed his hands by the fire listening to the exchange between Charlie and the others. He always knew this would happen. As his eyes lingered on the different memories of his childhood, he knew he would miss the solitude of their island, but his tribe shut themselves off from anyone or anything that could cause them harm. They grew accustomed to the screams from across the water, and their indifference made it worse as he tossed and turned at night.
But he was the lone elder who said his tribe should help the people being sold on the auction blocks. But he had been overruled. He told the other elders all they would do was row, and by the time they landed, it was too late. Now the others were dead or dying.
Quill walked over to Henry as he fidgeted, his fingers interlocking. Quill unscrewed the top of his canteen and handed it to him. “I’ve lost brothers myself, Henry. It’s painful not to have a family. But The Blades did help you escape at some point, right?”
Henry nodded.
“Trust that they know what they’re doing.”
“Trust? Trust in what. This world has taken everything from me. I don’t know you, and I don’t want to,” Henry hissed.
Adam stretched and watched the crows fly from branch to branch, their jet-black feathers a welcomed sight. He listened as Quill tried to calm Henry down and then walked over to them to end the conversations.
“Quill, can you take me to your storage area?” he asked.
Quill glanced up, then at Henry. “We’ll continue this conversation later. Until then, pack your belongings; we move out at first light.
Quill and Adam walked through the camp, checking on those who were leaving with them. A few lost souls were going to stay behind on the off chance. The Takers would pass them by in their search for slaves.
They walked into the makeshift armory, and Adam picked up a rifle to inspect, staring down the scope. They had all been polished and fixed by Lucy before she left. Each of the guns would be assigned to all the Blades before they left in the morning.
“I hate guns,” Adam said.
“I don’t. They’re a means of survival here. Baseball bats don’t kill deer, Adam,” Quill said.
Adam smiled. “Yea, you’re right.” He pulled his bat from its holster and pressed it against Quill’s neck. “But it’s faster than your rifle up close,” he said, returning the bat to its sheath as quickly as he pulled it free.
Quill swallowed the lump in his throat, then cleared it. “Quick isn’t necessarily the best. Why wait for an enemy to approach you up close when you can end the threat from a distance?” he asked.
Adam just shrugged. “Because I love the sound of battle.”
They left the armory and headed to where the older men were making armor out of any scrap they found throughout the compound. They built shin protectors, shoulder pads with spikes, courtesy of The Blades. And breastplates of corrugated roofing with nails protruding from them.
Quill picked up the pieces and instructed the men on how to fix the small problem areas where an arrow could slip through. One of the craftsmen stopped him and showed him his work of art. He handed it to Quill with a wide smile. Quill stared at it, rotating it in his hands, the old man watching his every move.
The chest piece was woven into a large tanned elk pelt. The sleeves fit just right, and the wooden toggles on the front slipped into the holes almost entirely. He tried it on and felt along the flawless stitching.
The old man smiled. “It isn’t much, but it will help stop a bullet. I sewed multiple layers into the chest piece with different types of pelts. The last layer is made of bearskin. It’ll be hot when you fight in it, but I doubt a bullet will go through,” the man said, knocking on the front of it.
Quill pulled a revolver from his waistband and handed it to the man and smiled. “Thank you. Gather the troops. I want to meet them tonight by the fire. I have a song I want them to learn,” Quill said.
The army of ragtag boys and girls stood at attention in front of the Statue of Liberty. Quill glanced at their determined, dirty faces and saluted.
“At ease,” he said.
The army relaxed into parade rest. “I have a song we will march to when we leave here.”
He motioned the kids forward who were holding musical instruments. “This a song my father taught me long ago. I wrote all of the lyrics on pieces of paper. Please follow along.”
He nodded to the band and cleared his throat. With all the musical talent he could muster, he hummed the beat.
“Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord;
He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored;
He hath loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible swift sword. His truth is marching on.
Glory, glory, hallelujah.
Glory, glory, hallelujah.
Glory, glory, hallelujah.
His truth is marching on.
I have seen him in the watch-fires of a hundred different camps;
I can read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps: His day is marching on.
Glory, glory, hallelujah.
Glory, glory, hallelujah.
Glory, glory, hallelujah.
Our Tribes are marching on.
A dead silence greeted Quill when they finished singing. After a moment, Adam stepped forward out of the first rank and pounded his bat against his newly fastened shield.
“Freedom or death!”
The army behind him cheered, the sound nearly deafening Quill. He smiled, saluting them again. A look of relief crossed his face, they were ready, and he knew it.
Chapter 18
“What brings you to the jungle, Jack?” Paulie asked, the blue war paint streaking down his face.
“We are searching for a document called the Constitution,” Jack said, handing his bowl to the boy serving gruel.
Rufus looked at his with disgust and dumped the contents behind him and licked his lips. He held the bowl up to the cook with a smile. “Great gruel.”
The Blue Boys had taken them back to their camp roughly a mile into the underbrush. Jack glanced at the trees as he passed them, some over one hundred feet in height. The jungle Paulie mentioned was a forest overgrown with green, blue, and red ivy. The encampment wasn’t anything special, but well-fortified, nonetheless. Sharpened stakes surrounded the grove and ropes hung from tall branches as escape routes for them should wild animals attack in the middle of the night.
The other Blue Boys eyed them warily, most sitting in their own section with their backs to Jack and Rufus. Paulie handed Jack a steaming cup of liquid made from the bark of a birch tree.
The wintergreen flavor slid past Jack’s teeth, and he let out a long sigh. “That’s good.”
“So, this Constitution thing you mentioned. Does it have special powers?” Paulie asked.
Jack did his best to refrain from laughing after he noticed Paulie wasn’t joking. The look of wonderment was innocent, almost childlike. But he didn
’t look like a child. Like most kids in the Zones, he had a hard edge.
“No, there’s no magic in it. It’s supposed to help us create a better world. Our mission is to reunite the tribes and end the slavery rampant around us,” Jack said.
“End the slavers?” Paulie pulled a long knife from behind his back and slammed it into the earth. “My tribe would never let that happen or for you to leave if you plan on that,” Paulie said.
Jack glanced at Rufus, who slid off the log he was sitting on, ready to spring at the first signs of trouble. Jack readied himself as well. The boys in their own area turned around and pulled their weapons-free.
“We have no quarrel with you, Paulie. I only need the document, and you won’t ever hear from us again. I can even trade to help you let us go,” Jack said.
The tension in the air dissipated as Paulie pondered the offer.
“What can you trade?” he asked.
Jack dug into his bag and pulled out ten gold coins and offered them to him. Paulie took one and bit it. He eyed Jack, then the bag, and tossed the coins back at his feet.
“I hate the city dwellers and don’t deal with their fake money. I deal in flesh and weapons,” Paulie said, pointing to a hidden cage with people they had caught to sell to The Takers.
Jack stared at the cage he hadn’t seen before. “What do you want?” Jack asked.
“I’ll take that rifle slung over your shoulder,” Paulie said.
Jack sighed and hung his head. He was tired of the danger, animals, slavers, and the pain in his leg. He shook his head, trying to hold back his tears. Unslinging his rifle, he took one last look at it, rubbed the inscription on the stock, and then handed it over to Paulie, stock first.
Paulie put it to his shoulder and looked through the scope. He felt the engraved lettering running along the stock and looked at Jack.
“What does this mean?” he asked.
“It says, thou shall not kill in combat, only to eat,” Jack whispered, fighting the tears.
Paulie laughed. “That’s a good one. So, this is the price of your freedom. We will let you go, but if you ever cross us again, we will sell you to The Takers,” Paulie said before walking away.
