Similar stories were unfolding across the land: power struggles were commonplace, as resources dwindled and like-minded individuals clustered together for safety and support. The hope of a resurgent society of order and government had fallen along the wayside years ago, giving way to every-man-for-himself and survival-of-the-fittest. Deaths were mounting; one could smell it on the wind. Maggots and magpies ruled the highways and forgotten places, devouring bits of flesh and spreading disease.
In Juanita’s sliced-out portion of the country, whispered small talk of unexplained deaths and vanishing workers was spreading like pouring gasoline on a grassfire, fueling the flames of discontent and building rumors of revolt. Among the lowest of their company a hero had recently emerged, one with the guts to stand up to Williams and her barbaric crew – Annie the cook.
No one could be sure, but word had it families were missing and The Normals were gone. The loose lips of frustrated searchers were unwittingly fostering a renewed strength among the oppressed. They desired something more than to be driven like cattle and treated like slaves. They longed for freedom and the will to act as Annie had apparently done. For a portion of Juanita’s downtrodden, those with strength and courage, the time seemed right to escape. They were prepared to take their chances against a world of natural predators, rather than waiting to be slaughtered by sickle-crested fiends with hearts of stone.
* * *
“What time is it?” a small man, with a balding head and missing teeth, asked his equally thin friend.
“How am I to know? My watch gave out ten years ago.”
“Everyone knows to meet here, right? You told ’em the barn – the one with the face?”
“Yes, the one with the face, just like you said. It’s the only one in town – they’ll be here,” he assured his anxious friend. Years before the Great War a farmer with a sense of humor had painted the window shutters on the side of his barn to resemble a smiling clown. Though the passing years had not been overly kind to the structure, the face had endured and was a symbol of an era gone by.
Broby rubbed his smooth, sun-blistered head and ambled about the barn. Are we alone? he wondered, realizing to break on their own was useless. In the pocket of his faded overalls he thumbed a small pistol he’d stolen, days before, in anticipation of this night. They had dreamed of it for years but Juanita walked a fine line between appeasement and cruelty, which until now had been a better alternative to death – but no longer.
“Relax, Broby. Ned and the rest won’t let us down. The moon’s not quite high enough to get ’em moving. You wait and see, they’ll be here shortly,” Aoki said, hoping to calm his more frantic buddy. Aoki was the son of Asian immigrants, who were only a vague recollection for the dark-haired man. He spoke with no accent, although a rotting tooth was torturing his tongue and skewing his speech. He had armed himself with a dandelion puller fashioned into a crude looking spear.
The hope was to leave undetected in the middle of the night – to vanish without a trace. An armed confrontation was the last of their intentions, knowing they’d stand no chance against the heavily armed and more highly trained militia, or worse, the bloodthirsty Harvesters. Regardless, they were willed to make tonight theirs. They had squirreled away supplies, a little each day, to avoid detection and collected weapons, mostly crude, useless items, but something to give them courage.
Twenty minutes later the sound of plodding footsteps, on shifting soil, alerted Broby and Aoki of their team’s arrival. Ferguson, brandishing an assault rifle, was the first through the door, followed quickly by Sarah, and then sixteen other equally disheveled but heartened men and women. They were welcomed with hushed greetings and grateful handshakes. Each freedom fighter was clothed in dark attire, a nap sack or bag of some sort tied carefully to them, freeing their hands for combat, if needed.
“Ferg, where’d you score the rifle?” Aoki asked, reaching out to touch the gun.
“I had no choice – really I didn’t,” he replied, nervously. It was then that Aoki and Broby spotted the blood covering both of Ferguson’s hands.
Exasperated, Broby jerked the weapon away from Ferg and stood on his tiptoes to face the bigger man. “You killed a guard?” he asked, not backing down.
“He had no choice,” Sarah said, stepping forward and taking Broby by the shoulder to push him away from Ferguson.
“No choice? There was to be no confrontation – no fighting. They’ll be on us like stink on a skunk if they discover the body,” Broby hissed, unsure how they might overcome the obstacle.
“I’m sorry, Broby. One minute we were alone and making our way here and the next minute he’s right there. He would have brought the whole town down on us if I hadn’t killed him. We hid the body real good. They won’t find him ’til we’re miles away.”
“Alright, alright…give me a minute to think. Do you know how to use that thing?” he asked, taking the gun from Aoki and passing it back to the offender.
“No problem,” Ferguson replied.
“And I’ve got the jerk’s pistol,” Sarah proclaimed, flashing the 9mm handgun for the others to see.
“Fine. Okay, we don’t change anything. We move out, two-by-two, along the route we agreed on earlier. If there’s a problem everyone hunker down and ride it out – if you’re able. If there’s a fight – do what you gotta do, but I’m telling you…right here…right now…I will not be taken as Juanita’s next meal. Are you with me?” he said, as loud as he dared.
Arms and an array of concocted weapons unanimously went up, strengthening their resolve to overcome as a united front. Pairs quietly split off, slipping from the barn into the night. They angled down the road to the foothills beyond the security perimeter that held them hostage. Timing was critical, each unit having to move undetected over the rudimentary fence and away from the hamlet. They understood the risks and the odds, but still felt there was no other choice – not really.
Broby and Aoki were the last to leave the decrepit structure, the clown’s face watching over their progress along the dusty lane. Six of the advancing units were visible ahead but the others were lost to the night.
“It’s quiet,” Aoki noted.
“That’s good,” Broby replied, slipping the pistol clear of his denim pocket.
The two hustled through the more densely housed area of town, moving to the outskirts and the few hurdles that lay ahead.
“Ferg and Sarah must be beyond the fence by now. They’ve made it and we will too,” Broby whispered, feeling the adrenalin filling his system.
Between the lead and tail, tandems helped one another along the way, watching with renewed caution, as their goal seemed attainable. Somewhere behind the advancing party, a bloodied security guard pushed a single piece of plywood from off his hiding place and crawled into the open. He was unable to speak, as air rushed past his voice box and out his throat, leaving his mouth and tongue void of speech. Millimeters of tissue lay intact, protecting his jugular and saving his life. However, he had lost a great deal of blood and knew he was minutes from death.
Determined to survive, he dragged himself through the dirt to a metal shed and began to kick it with his boot. The sound echoed in shrill, reverberating calls of distress, ultimately alerting a comrade and waking a sleeping hornet’s nest.
Williams’ guard was first to respond, rushing madly into the streets to squelch a mutiny, or at a minimum, capture a murderer. The Harvesters, more angered by their sleep being interrupted than interested in justice, would not be left behind. They piled from their beds, retrieving rifles and machetes in pursuit of the rebels.
The opposing forces collided on the outskirts of town where a dozen of Broby’s friends had scurried to freedom beyond the fence, leaving just a handful trapped and heavily outnumbered. Gunshots rang out, followed by screams of desperation and pain.
“Hurry Aoki. We’re in it now,” Broby shouted, churning his legs to reach the fray.
In a moonlit square of turf a battle raged. Broby
immediately recognized three of his fallen friends, twisted and bleeding badly. One called for help, but only briefly before a Harvester, clad in boxer shorts, brought a sharpened blade down briskly, decapitating the bawling woman. Broby rushed forward into the melee, dropped to a knee and fired two quick slugs into the villain’s naked chest, staggering and then felling him into silence. Aoki ran past his little friend and retrieved the machete, wielding it like a maniac, obsessed and out of control.
Small weapons and blades fought hand-to-hand, killing and maiming on both sides. Suddenly a heavy weapon opened up from beyond the fence, striking one, and then two guards, as people rushed for cover. Broby scrambled to collect another pistol from one of the downed guards, tossing his away, having spent the entire cylinder. In the brush, overlooking the restricted battleground, Ferguson and Sarah laid down fire to protect their friends. They, and many others, had been half a mile away when the shooting started and they had backpedaled in an attempt to even the odds. For a time it worked, as Broby and a few unharmed stragglers cleared the fence and hightailed it through the brush.
However, the rounds didn’t last forever and they were soon on their own, their only protection – high weeds and the black of night. They ran, their lungs sucking wind in a valiant effort to escape. Broby suddenly found himself on his own. He stopped and drew his bearings, lifting his head just enough to see beyond his immediate surroundings. The sound of gunfire occasionally split the night and he could see Harvesters walking the hillside with weapons drawn and flashlights sweeping. Thirty yards away, Aoki was suddenly bathed in light as a grinning Harvester held him transfixed in the beam.
Without thinking, Broby found himself jumping to his feet and waving wildly. He shouted, crying for all he was worth, “ Freedom or die!”
Startled the Harvester swung the light away from Aoki and sprayed a burst of shells toward Broby, kicking up dirt and painting the yellowing weeds a crimson color of precious, life-giving blood – given but not taken.
* * *
Juanita gladly received the news - the marine was dead. “Excellent,” she said, grinning uncontrollably. She patted the courier’s shoulder and asked him to wait while she penned the next dispatch. “Any trouble getting in or out of there?” she asked.
“No Ma’am, got a system and it seems to be working,” he replied. The overly thin go-between shifted nervously on his feet as Lady Williams scrawled a note and stuffed it into an unmarked envelope.
“Get something to eat, you look like death,” she ordered.
“I look worse than I feel, but I will, thank you.”
“But don’t be too long. I want you back in Logan tonight with this message. Can you do that?”
He thought for a moment; weighing fatigue and hunger against fear and devotion.
“Well,” she said, tersely. “If you can’t, I can certainly find somebody more interested in advancing their station.”
“No, no, I can do it. I was just trying to decide if I might get some sleep,” he replied, a noticeable lump forming in his throat.
“Good. Get some rest, if you must, but I want this delivered tonight.”
“Consider it done,” he replied, nodding briskly before scooting from her presence.
Williams poured a liberal shot of whiskey, in celebration, and walked to the backdoor. Growers were hefting meager buckets of water down the rows of struggling crops, a chore she generally observed with absolute indignation. Why can’t they move faster? she questioned, sipping her drink. A sense of anger began to rise within her, but she tamped it down. “Not today - there’s too much to be thankful for,” she muttered quietly. She watched for a few more minutes; recognizing the sweat, pouring from the worker’s open pores, was somehow boosting her spirits. “I do love this,” she finally said, beginning to enjoy the alcohol’s effect. Within minutes endorphins, swirling throughout her system, were buzzed to new levels by the cocktail and she mused, “It’s good to be me. It truly is.”
Having surgically removed an important member of The Ward’s security force sat well with Lady Williams, making a poor night’s sleep all that stood between her and a marvelous day. She’d tossed, never being fully drawn from sleep, as sporadic thunder rumbled the night away. Upon awaking she’d considered the ruckus but given it no further thought, until the unmistakable hum of an approaching Harvester’s motorcycle upset the morning’s calm.
Suddenly a dragon-tattooed Harley roared to a stop near the farmhouse. Finn gave it a quick, final rev before spinning the key and silencing the motor. He strained to free his right leg from the oversized motorcycle, while holding its weight with his left. He loved to ride, but being of short stature had its disadvantages. “Damn right leg,” he grunted bitterly, as he nearly toppled to the ground. Juanita watched in silence, the episode adding to her euphoria. The Harvester brushed the road’s debris from his attire and sharply stomped his way to the backdoor.
“Trouble?” Lady Williams asked.
“No. Well…yes, as a matter of fact,” he groaned.
“Do you want me to see if we’ve got a tote-goat more your size?” she joked.
“Oh, that’s rich, that is. Very funny, but we’ve got bigger problems than my short legs,” he fumed.
“Now what?”
“Some of the folks in town got word about Annie and The Normals and lit out,” Finn grumbled, waving at Juanita to join him in the sun.
She fiercely kicked the screen door open, sending the sound of aluminum pinging through the morning air. “What?” she shouted. “How many got away?”
“None,” Finn said, curtly, “but…”
“But what?” she snapped, after watching him pause briefly.
“They put up a pretty good fight and…”
She quickly cut him off and hurled the empty glass to the ground. “The thunder!” she groaned, not allowing the biker to finish his sentence.
“Thunder?” he asked, confused.
“Forget it, Finn. What were you saying? They fought and…and what?” she asked, inhaling deeply. Juanita paused, but only for a split second, before badgering the European for an answer. “For heaven’s sake, Man, spit it out. Where are they?”
“They’re dead,” he replied, coldly.
“Dead? They’re dead? Is that what you’re telling me?” she screamed, drawing attention from those in the field. “Finn, are all your men as stupid as Gerry?”
Finn jumped to the defense of his Harvesters, trying desperately to squelch Juanita’s anger. “They had no choice. It was them or the workers. I swear.”
“How many?” she hissed, beginning to walk a groove in the dirt.
“I think about a dozen…maybe more,” he said, greatly underestimating the loss of life on both sides.
“And are your men prepared to pick up the work those people did? They going to build and plant?”
A pair of William’s security personnel had overheard the shouting and ran to see what was afoot. They arrived with weapons drawn and grimaced faces. “Everything okay?” the taller sentry asked, looking quickly between Finn and Juanita.
“No, everything is not okay,” she thundered, but failed to give any further information. The guards stood bewildered, unsure what they should do next. Williams finally recognized her mistake and waved them away with a flip of her wrist. “Carry on - we’re fine.”
Lady Williams turned her attention to the nervous Harvester and sighed, “Okay, what of the rest?”
“We’ve got them locked down. Between your men and mine, they won’t be causing any trouble.”
“I see…well, and the bodies?” she asked.
“On the way here,” he concurred.
For several minutes she paced, not aiming to get anywhere, but just walking to think. Finn could hear her quietly muttering under her breath but avoided any further interaction until she was ready. She finally stopped, placed her hands firmly on her hips and faced the Harvester.
“We can’t cry over spilled milk, as my old dad would have sa
id. There’s no sense trying to undo what’s already been done. Besides, I’m in too good a mood to let something like this ruin it.”
“That’s what I was thinking,” Finn agreed, hoping the positive vibe would continue.
Juanita looked at him, rolling her eyes. “Just between you and me, these workers won’t be of much more use, anyway. Once we deal with The Ward we should have plenty of…‘helpers’,” she said, in a rather hushed tone.
“I’m glad this hasn’t spoiled your day,” Finn said. “And like one of my boys said, ‘it’s not all bad news…at least liver is back on the menu’.”
Chapter 16
The sun’s beaming rays set the eastern sky ablaze long before the searing orb made its morning appearance. Rod sat with Jeff on the steps of Old Main, staring across The Quad where too many friends lay in lifeless slumber. Their attention was uniquely drawn to a narrow trench of earth nestled among the others, which was not yet occupied. The two had gotten up early to share a quiet moment before putting Boyd to rest. The boy sat quietly, listening and absorbing every tender tale and remembrance Rod could muster.
“Men like Farrell are a rare breed, Jeff, and Boyd was cut from the same fabric. They stood for something and knew there was more to living than just surviving. Boob, you know, I’ve seen some courageous men and women in my time…”
“You mean like Mom?” Jeff asked.
“Yup, both of ’em. Elva sacrificed all for you and had a love of life that was unmatched. She took the roughest character around and taught him the meaning of love…” Rod stopped for a second to compose himself, memories flooding his mind as if they were yesterday. “Without that magic combination, you wouldn’t be here. Then there’s Allison; you know she lost a baby, years ago, just after we took over the high school. I was there and remember falling for her that very day. She’s the strongest woman I’ve ever known, and we’re lucky to have her.”
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