by Scott McCord
Scorpion arrows whip through the air, cutting down the militia guard. They go bloody and screaming to the deck of the bridge. Gas turns to his men and is struck in the thigh. Figg drops his torch, unsheathes Will’s knife, and plunges it deep between Gas’s shoulder blades. There’s a sick groan as his big body absorbs the Bowie. My brain swims to the brink of swoon. I blink, and I blink again to make all this go away. A stray arrow cuts through the darkness, barely nicking me, leaving a fine red line across my earlobe.
Gas turns on his attacker who foolishly believed a knife to the back would be enough. Torches dropped by the murder squad burn on the ground as Scorpions finish off what’s left of the militia. Figg steps back, fumbling to pull another knife, almost getting one clear before Gas jerks him off his feet like a ragdoll. Gas turns Figg over, pressing him high overhead as Scorpion arrows rain into his arms and shoulders. Gas steps to the side of the bridge, and with a roar mighty enough to break the Ark free, slams Figg down into the creek below. Figg cracks like a falling tree with every bone splintering into a dozen pieces at once. I can’t imagine what that looks like.
“Run, Mim, run!” Gas bellows. “You promised!” I take a helpless step back, watching the dogs of Community attack my oldest friend.
Gas goes to a knee as an arrow rips into his thigh and another strikes his chest. An ambitious Scorpion, believing his victim is about to lose consciousness, pulls a blade and moves in. He’s cautious, but when he draws near enough to strike, Gas thrusts out a powerful hand, catching the attacker by the throat. It reminds me of a cook wringing a chicken’s neck, only much bigger. Gas releases his grip, and the Scorpion collapses to the deck with the other dead.
The men on the far bank retreat a few steps, yelling and firing arrows as Gas comes across after them. With a swipe of his big hand, he crushes the skulls of the two Scorpions he reaches first. They break apart like melons, spilling out under the shower of firelight. Gas continues until he’s only a lumbering shadow moving along the tree-line, finally disappearing down the path to Community. Bowmen pursue him, keeping their distance, but the screams echoing through the trees say not all of them manage to stay out of Gas’s reach.
I stand gaping in the dancing shadows of the burning bridges. This has to be a bad dream. I didn’t lift a finger to help. All I could think of was Rosie and Mary and staying hidden. Scorpions burning their own bridges…murdering their own soldiers. What the hell is going on? What is wrong with these people? I can’t think. I don’t know what to do. What should I do?
“Mim.” Rosie touches my arm. “He told you to run…we’d better before someone comes back.”
I nod, not fully comprehending. “Gas was going to say yes…he was coming with me to New Hope…I’m sure of it.”
“Mim, let’s go. We have to get home.”
I stare at the empty bank on the other side of the bridge a moment more, wondering…wondering nothing. “Yes, we have to get home, and take everyone across right now. After tonight, they’ll be coming to kill us all.”
37
Will
The sun has set and the moon has yet to rise, bathing the world in pitch as the sky makes ready to change its watchman. Good air is always to be considered, so even with the war-effort, only a handful of torches are lit in Community Center. Their dim lights are consumed by the ink of night, making us more alone and more hopeless than if they’d never been struck. I prefer total darkness to pin pricks of ineffectual light.
This is the time people burrow into their tents to wait on the moon. There are no civilians out as I make my way back through the compound to give my report on Tommy. Figg was back hours ago, so Ayden, Ven, and Starter will already know about the skirmish, but I want to tell Starter about Thatcher and Knox, personally. I want to say Thatch gave his life to save a little girl, and I got the Slitter that got Knox.
The usual Scorpion guards stand post outside the individual tents of The Body as I pass. I cut away before reaching the Supreme’s tent, moving across center compound, disappearing in the night like a fish in murky water. I don’t want Ayden’s guards to see me and tell him I’m back before I find Starter.
It’s dark…almost too dark to walk. I wonder if it will be like this in the end—if I’ll be alone, measuring my steps, trying not to fall on something sharp. I proceed slowly with the ghosts of my old friends swimming in my wake. At least I still have Gas.
Midway to Starter’s tent, a yellow and pink glow appears above the treetops. I turn to stare, captured by its beauty, too hypnotized to consider what it might mean. The soft glow is like a stray piece of sun pulling itself up to have one last look at the world before slipping away. I watch. The moon peeks up behind me, casting a silver blanket over the ground, dousing us in a black and white world. The only color hangs in the distance, billowing in yellows, purples, and reds, while silhouettes of black trees look on. People emerge from their tents, turning in momentary wonder to gaze at the radiant spectacle.
“What is it?” someone at my shoulder asks, but we don’t wait long for an answer.
“Fire! Fire!”
Screaming and yelling comes from the middle of Group 8 as messengers race back to Community Center with the news.
“We’re under attack. Slitters are burning the bridges! They’ve killed a lot of men!”
Scorpions pour out from the barracks. Community Center is immediately swamped in confusion. Soldiers are running back and forth, fumbling over each other and giving contradictory orders to their men. No one seems to know what to do. No one is in command.”
“You two,” I yell at a couple of Scorpions standing nearby. “You’re with me. Let’s go!”
I don’t wait. I can’t wait. I take off, sprinting through Group 8, dodging people and hurdling supplies. I don’t know if my two men are keeping up, but I don’t slow down, and I don’t look back as I sprint through Group 9 and 10. If there’s fighting, it will be in the forward Groups, and if the Slitters are burning the bridges, Gas and his militia boys are right in the middle of everything.
Tearing through Group 11 and 12—my heart pounds and my lungs heave, but the adrenaline bubbling in my blood keeps me fast and agile. I pick up speed. Group 13 looks unscathed as people go by in a gray blur.
Into Group 14—I slow to a trot, looking around. Only an occasional person is still among the tents, moving about on some hurried errand. Everyone else is gathered at the construction path leading out to the bridges. The shouting and wailing grows louder as I approach, and the terribleness I felt with Ellie, visits me all over again.
“No! No!” I shout, barreling into the crowd, pushing past those standing and stumbling over those kneeling just beyond. My hands tremble and I lose my bow, dropping it somewhere to the ground. I’m frightened, and sick to my stomach as my worst nightmare is coming to life a few feet away. I shove to the center.
Men hold torches while women on their knees work feverishly, tending three bodies dressed in black and crimson. One is pronounced dead with a crushed skull, and the same is said of another with a collapsed torso.
“What can do that?” a man asks.
“A bear, maybe,” someone answers.
Makeshift nurses abandon the two dead Scorpions to assist on the third. The biggest one of all, lying prone, full of arrows, and my knife in his back. Four women work desperately, breaking off shafts like they’re snapping beans. Most of the arrows Gas took in the front broke off when he fell forward, but some pushed all the way through. The women take hold just under the arrowhead and pull them the rest of the way out. No one touches the knife.
“Hurry with the cloth! Where’s the water?” one nurse yells. She tears a piece of her clothing away and plugs a leaking hole in Gas’s back. The other women do the same, ripping strips off themselves until they’re hardly clothed and Gas is barely bandaged.
“Water!” the nurse screams again, and looking up, she sees me. I recognize her, but I can’t remember her name…one of Mom’s friends…maybe. Her lower lip quivers,
and fat drops fall from her eyes. Tears shimmer like wet quartz on her face.
“Will,” she says, “we can’t take it out.” She’s talking about the Bowie—the knife he used to save Thatcher in the Lopper pit…the knife that was tucked in Mim’s belt just this morning.
Gas groans. I fall beside him, put my face to his, and stroke his head.
“Oh God, Gas, oh God, please, please,” I beg. A shudder ripples through my body, and every tear I have floods from my eyes. Lying beside him, I’m intelligible to everyone but myself. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry,” I sob. “We’ll get you fixed up good as new, you’ll see. Please don’t go. Don’t leave me. Gas? Gas?”
“Will…” Gas’s eyes are closed and his voice is weak.
“Yeah buddy?”
“You’re getting snot on me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You said that already,” he whispers.
“You’re going to be okay. I’m going to make sure you’re okay.”
“Will?”
“I’m here.”
“I got most of them that got me…that’s for sure.”
“They didn’t know who they were messing with.”
He nearly smiles. “You remember when I petitioned for Ellie?”
“I do.”
“I was so scared…a lot more than I am now.”
“I remember.”
“You were a real chucklehead that day.” A faint smile crosses his lips, but his eyes remain closed.
“I guess.”
“Will, I have to tell you…” He stops.
“Tell me what?”
“Figg…” He winces.
“What about him?” No answer. “Gas. Gas, what about Figg?” But if he says anything, it’s too faint to hear. Perhaps he tells me in a momentary dream.
“Mim is a Slitter now,” he says.
“You saw her?” Again, no answer, just shallow breath and the faint whistling of lungs filling with blood.
“I know, Ellie…yes, I should have been more careful…I didn’t think they would do that…I’m sorry…yes…please don’t be mad…”
“Gas?”
“It’s okay, don’t cry…I’m so happy to see you…I can do the chopping now…”
“Gas?”
“You’re right, sweetheart…it is…beautiful.” His words are soft. He takes another shallow breath, and that’s all.
My heart melts down through my guts. My mouth is dry as sand. I put my hand on my friend’s shoulder, nudging him like I’m trying to rouse a small child from an evening nap.
“Gas? Gas, wake up,” but he doesn’t. I shake harder. “Wake up, Gas, wake up,” I sob. “Gas? Gas!”
The nurse catches my hand, and I stop. She looks at me with red, swollen eyes. She runs her wrist under her nose to take the snot from her upper lip. “He’s gone. He’s gone to be with Ellie,” she says.
The women leaning over Gas’s body, with torn clothes and blood to their shoulders, rock back, cup their faces, and weep into their hands.
The men standing with torches kneel, and the crowd behind them goes to its knees. Amid the sniffling and gentle cries, a woman wails from somewhere in the back when she realizes Group 14 has lost its favorite son.
I wallowed when Mom and Dad died, but that’s not good enough for Gas. I wipe my eyes, fold up my sorrow, and pack it away for another time…after I’m done…after I’m done with the Slitters. I stand, snatch a torch from the nearest man, “Report! Report!” I demand.
Three battle worn Scorpions rise at the periphery of the crowd. I reach down, free my knife from Gas’s body, and wipe the blade across my buckskin pants. I tuck the Bowie in my belt, and someone hands me my bow. I drop the torch and make my way to the soldiers.
“Clean up this mess and take care of these bodies,” I bark as I go.
Group 14 drags itself to its feet—hollow people, mired in grief, too stunned for a Scorpion’s orders to fully register. They do their best, but most just hover about crying. I’m only interested in the report.
“Talk,” I say when I reach the Scorpions.
“Ven was worried after what happened in the woods today, so he sent Figg to reinforce the guard at the bridge,” the first man says.
“Where is Figg?” I ask.
“Still out there. He didn’t make it,” another man answers.
“The place was crawling with Slitters. They were trying to burn the bridges. We saved all but three,” the third Scorpion says.
“How many men?”
“Twelve Scorpions, thirteen with Gas, and three militia boys, so sixteen total,” answers the first Scorpion. “They cut through the militia like they were nothing.”
“How many made it out?”
“As far as I know, just us. Did you talk to Gas?”
I ignore the question. “How many Slitters?”
“It’s hard to tell. They were everywhere…thirty…maybe.”
“Did you see a girl?”
The men shake their heads no.
“But there was so much confusion, there could have been a girl…I guess.”
The glow from the burning bridges is subsiding into thick clouds of smoke billowing through the trees. The smell of hot ash blankets Group 14.
“All right,” I say, “as soon as reinforcements get here we’ll—” I’m interrupted by the clamor of a dozen Scorpions trotting onto the scene. They come in strong, organized, and in charge. The crowd splits to make way.
“Who has the report?” Starter barks. I raise my arm to signal him. He strides over. “Go,” he demands, and the three Scorpions repeat the story they told me. Starter peppers them with questions as they talk, trying to clarify all the details of the attack. The men seem a little discombobulated as he wrings them for information, and when they’ve finished, Starter stares at them until they’re not sure if he believes them or not.
“Can we go?” one of the worn-out Scorpions asks.
Starter rubs his chin. “Yes, go get some rest. I don’t know when you’ll get another chance. It’s full out in the morning.” As the weary men drag off through the crowd, Starter turns to me. “I’m sorry, Will, I’m sorry for Gas. I would have been here sooner, but there was word of a squabble between Group 1 and a gang of shepherds. Ven sent me to put it down. It was all good by the time we arrived…nothing happening and no unusual complaints. Still, we were way out of position when this went down.” He looks around. “I can’t believe we’re the first ones here.”
“There was a lot of confusion in the compound,” I explain.
“Good thing I came up the perimeter then.” Starter looks around. “Get these people out of here,” he yells. The Scorpions take charge and begin corralling the weeping crowd back toward the tents. “What are you thinking, Will?” Starter asks.
Four men and two women struggle to lift Gas’s body before several others join to help. My friend is gone, and all that’s left is a heavy corpse that flops whichever way gravity pulls it. The sight burns me to the bone.
“I’m thinking we should hunt down the assholes that did this and kill every Slitter in the Ark,” I growl.
“Now?”
“Right now. We can catch them if we move.”
“You’re assuming they’ve gone and aren’t out there waiting for us.”
“They’re gone.”
“How do you know?”
“No more bridges on fire,” I say.
“Yeah.” Starter nods. “You’d think after beating us back, the Slitters would finish the job. Why would they leave any bridges standing?”
“Because they’re animals and they’re insane.”
The moon is bright and the fire has burned itself to nothing, only a light blanket of smoke wisping overhead and the smell of charred wood remain.
“So, you believe Figg’s men?”
“Three of my buddies are dead, Captain. I saw Slitters kill two of them. I pulled my knife from my best friend’s back right after he told me it was a Slitter. I don’t h
ave to believe those men—I already know who did this. I know exactly who did this.”
“We can’t go after them until the militia moves up to take this point. I can’t be drawn off and leave civilians open to attack.”
“Then I’ll go myself.”
“And what good would that do? You’re not thinking.” He glances at his men sweeping civilians away. “Here’s what we do. You and I slide up to the bridges and have a quick look around. It would take a helluva a lot to kill thirteen of our guys. There must be Slitter bodies all over the place out there. Don’t you think?”
I nod.
“Me too. So let’s go see what the situation is while we wait for the militia to arrive. If the place is buttoned down when we get back, we’ll take my guys and go get the scumbags that did this to Gas.”
It’s not my favorite plan, but it’s probably the best one.
“Okay,” I agree, but we don’t get the chance.
Out of the night, three hundred armed militia rumble in like thunder, surrounding the crowd, schooling us in like fish in a net. Weeping people lay down the dead when troopers refuse to let them pass. Sixty Scorpions crash through the crowd with stiff arms and shoulders for anyone who gets in the way. We watch in confusion as they sort through the men and women of Group 14, until realizing they’re looking for us. We’re not hard to find. One soldier spots Starter, signals four others, and they move in.
“Report,” Starter demands as the first Scorpion approaches. The order is ignored. “Report, soldier,” Starter repeats.
Five silent men flank us, and when he’s comfortable with his numbers, the first Scorpion says, “Sir, please come with us.”
“I’m busy,” Starter answers.
“Sir, by order of High Military Command, I hereby inform you that you are under arrest.”
“Ven,” Starter snarls under his breath.
“Sir, for your own sake, please come peacefully.”
The first Scorpion reaches out, but before he can take Starter’s arm, I pull an arrow, nock it, press the tip into the Scorpion’s cheek, and draw my bow deep. In one fluid move, quicker than a breath, I hold this man’s life in my fingertips. One flinch, and he’ll look like a bad joke. The surrounding Scorpions are caught off guard. They reach for their quivers and fumble with their bows until sixty arrows are aimed at my head.
