by G. R. Carter
*****
Julia stared down at Elton Dunn’s lifeless body, eyes bulging out in a death mask of surprise. A leather belt still hung around his neck, partially embedded into the skin over his throat where it had choked out his last breath. No one had touched or moved a thing since he was found thirty minutes before. He was lashed to the desk chair of his room, fully clothed, as though he had walked straight off the Senate floor last night and sat down here. Julia tried to recall if she had seen him at last evening’s reception, an event the scheming glad-hander would never have purposely missed.
“Doctor Glenn will be here in a moment, ma’am,” a young Red Hawk guard said.
Julia nodded and looked around the small room, once a clerk’s office in the building’s previous life. Nothing really looked out of place, no sign of a struggle at all. She thought back to the old crime shows that had dominated pre-Reset TV, remembering the plot twists. No sign of a struggle means the victim knew their killer…that was probably bunk, just like everything else had been on the idiot box. Still, the lack of conflict probably did suggest there must have been some sort of conversation before the final act. This wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment crime; this was well thought out, that much she was sure of.
For no one to see or hear anything in a world without electronic distraction would mark the work of someone good at covert operations. Couldn’t have been him, he would haven’t done this. She pushed the thought from her head. Still, he said he had suspicions about there being a traitor in our midst. Would he have done this to find out who? She struggled against the notion again. Martin Fredericks was a lot of things, but a cold-blooded assassin was certainly not one of them. Unfortunately, she knew there would be those who suspected, based on the previous day’s argument and Fredericks’ sudden departure last night. The last thing Alex and the leadership needed was distrust amongst the provinces with trouble on the horizon.
Dr. Glenn appeared, taking a few moments to examine the body. He carefully removed the belt, looked down Dunn’s throat, checked for any other wounds, and then gently closed the man’s eyes. Turning to Julia with a shrug he asked, “What do you want me to tell you? Someone choked him with a belt while he was bound to a chair?”
Julia fought down the anger matching with her stress level. “I already figured that out, Doctor, thank you. Is there anything of value you can tell me? Anything that could indicate who killed him or how long ago?”
Glenn shrugged again. “Never my specialty. Since the Reset there haven’t been too many murders to solve. Most of the time we knew who was killing us, and we were trying to kill them first. These civilized times leave me a little confused.”
Julia gasped for a moment, but Glenn’s personality never changed. Gruff and emotionless, apparently even before the Reset, bedside manner was never his strong point. Still, doctors able to remain effective without computerized tools and prescription drugs were at a premium.
Glenn softened a bit. “I can tell you, Senator, that he’s definitely been dead since last night. Twelve hours, minimum. Other than that, I don’t detect any other wounds, internal or external.”
“Thank you, Doctor. I appreciate you stopping by.”
Glenn simply picked up his bag and walked back out. Julia returned to her thoughts, trying again to piece together who might be interested in Dunn’s demise. There wasn’t even a chance to question the rest of the Senate or their escorts. Most had left for home at first light. Only when the rooms were being cleaned did one of the maids enter his unlocked room and find his body.
Logically, Julia knew this disaster wasn’t her fault. Still, Alex had put her in charge of making the Senate work. For her efforts and his trust, she had watched the Senate embarrass a Hero of the Republic, reject her recommendations for the annual budget, vote down a call for mobilizing the militia, and then seen the man leading the opposition to her initiatives killed in his own room. People would be suspicious. Rumors still circulated to this day that Alex intentionally left Clark Olsen to die to consolidate Hamilton family claims to the Founder’s Chair. The leap to one of his top aides killing another voice of dissent wouldn’t be tough for some. Would any other Senators be willing to voice an opinion if doing so got you killed?
The consequences could be terrible for their dreams of a unified republic. Inconvenient timing…or convenient, if the goal was to destabilize their efforts right before an attack. Dirty deeds, and the cost might be terrible.
Forgot how much I hated politics, she thought dejectedly as she turned to leave. Time to go home and start over again.
Chapter Eighteen
South of the Former Quad Cities
Near the banks of the Mississippi River
One Week Later
“Careful, Wasson. The demons outnumber us. We cannot win this fight. Not yet.”
Wasson ignored his Brother's whispers, watching the carnage below. He could smell the destruction, hear the screams of those unlucky enough to still be alive.
“Wasson, Brother, there's only four of us. We have our own mission.”
He looked at Brother Cobden, the light of the burning village casting shadows on the man's face—a mask of nightmares to their enemies.
Wasson felt hate creep into his heart. Oaths to defend the weak and helpless strained at his soul, urged him to action. “Surely death is better than living with the knowledge we did nothing to help.”
Cobden shook his head. “Our Founder reminds us the war may still be won, despite the loss of a battle.”
Wasson looked back at the horror. A row of villagers hung crucified, highlighted against the fires. Some were too small to be adults, but thankfully too far away for their faces to be seared into his memory.
He reluctantly agreed. His Brothers needed his mind present to lead. To accomplish their duty, and to return alive, required belief. Belief in his Brothers, in the Faith, belief in their cause. Wasson did believe in all of those truths, plus one more: pure evil.
“I will be the terror of the terrible,” he whispered to Cobden.
Cobden nodded in agreement. “And I will be the hope of the hopeless.”
They both slid back further into the brush, crawling slowly to get out of any light. Even though Trackers seldom worked in groups, they still shared the same training, allowing them to feel more than communicate what another would do. They rose to a crouch-walk, then single-file running silently. After a few moments Wasson stopped, whistling with a slight gurgling sound. He waited a moment then repeated the call, finally getting an identical sound in return. Wasson and Cobden quick walked a while longer, finally stopping in a small clump of oaks surrounded by dense brush. Two more Brothers appeared from the branches like specters—without a word, all four settled into a crouch, back to back, facing different directions.
They made no sound, said no words, settling into a slightly meditative state. They could hear the animals, feel the breeze, sensing the movement of even the smallest insects. Finally satisfied no other two legged animals were present, Wasson began to speak in short, clipped whispers.
“We must warn the Red Hawks,” he said. “The demon horde is unleashed.” Wasson crossed himself instinctively against the thought. He didn't need to see his Brothers to know they did the same. Each had witnessed the evil of the Northern Caliphate's clerics. No human was capable of such heinous acts; surely forces more sinister were at work.
“This is why they sent us here. We have the information they require.”
“Agreed. I will make the journey. I can reach their nearest fortress in two sunrises,” Cobden said. Wasson nodded. Cobden's skill with a blade would be missed for what he had planned next, but no one could keep up with their Brother in the woods.
“Go now. God be with you,” Wasson whispered, crossing himself again as all four men grasped hands in a quick silent prayer. Then like a flash, Cobden was gone into the dark.
“What of us, Brother?” Olmstead asked.
“We're going back to the village. We will seek i
nformation from the demons, learn more of their plans.”
Wasson felt Brother Ridgway tense slightly. He was a cousin of Wasson, a couple years younger but several pounds heavier and longer in frame. He was a skilled fighter, a true credit to both his birth family and the Brotherhood. Ridgway was a man of few words, but well-crafted ones when they came. “What of the villagers, Brother?”
“We will save all we can. I do not believe we can get in front of this horde. Otherwise we would go downriver first.” Wasson argued with himself silently. Trackers were the best at operating under cover in the forest, but there was a limit to how fast they could move without being discovered.
“We can kill them one by one, hit them where they’re not expecting. The demons will have their eyes forward, they will not expect threats from behind,” Olmstead offered.
“Then that shall be the way,” Wasson agreed. “Once we can gauge the scope of the horde, we will cause a big enough distraction to slow them down. Give the Red Hawks more time to prepare. This will be our offering to the Cause. May the Creator grant us strength and skill, and forgive whatever sins we may commit.”
All three crossed themselves, went to their knees and then lay prostrate on the forest floor. Wasson breathed in the aroma, feeling the wonder of Creation surge into his veins. Creation cleansed the workings of man. He saw it everywhere. Less than a lifetime since the human world crumbled and already the artificial gave way to the natural. Areas appearing to the untrained eye as untouched forest held the skeletal remains of dwellings and automobiles. The river washed away more evidence of the past every year. Villages that showed up on ancient maps—suburbs, Elders called them—were now brushy overgrowths stumbled into by accident. Even the Red Hawks and ARK with all their mechanical powers could not stop Creation’s march, erasing the work of millions of lost souls.
Wasson didn't regret the victory of his beloved forest over the ugly remnants of what a previous generation considered progress. But he prayed for a more peaceful transition. He could feel the pain and torture associated with this forced cleansing. He loved the simple folk making their living by accepting Creation’s gifts from the river, the woods, the sky, the land…as surreal as the life before what the Red Hawks called the Reset was to him, this life was quite real indeed.
Wasson and his Brothers were moving now, again single-file, in a crouched run that others would find difficult to match on a clear field at full gait. The leaves of the undergrowth gently grazed his face as he darted back and forth, feeling more than seeing the branches on the path ahead. He worked to keep his emotions in check, focus on what he needed to do instead of what his wanted to do. Vengeance would have to rest with the Creator; Wasson would only commit violence to help save others. That was the vow he took at his age of reckoning, when he left his home with the blessing of his family.
His memory of the dying days faded a bit more every year. Whatever had taken his mother and father was only whispered about by the rest of his family. He sensed they hadn’t meant to hide the details from him, only protect him from the pain. But he knew full well the hatred his beloved uncle felt towards those who made their living stealing from those who toiled for theirs. The Church only disagreed with his uncle to a point; the preacher men worked just like every other man Wasson knew, swinging axes, working on old machinery to carving the heavy clay soil, or grabbing a weapon to fight the night terrors when they appeared.
Gradually ditcher demons attacked less often, after the Red Hawks showed up to help his people. They were impressed with what his uncle had done to help folks. Wasson still remembered the pride he felt when the first green-and-silver clad preacher from the Church told him how his family had saved more people than anyone except the Founder himself.
The Red Hawks were kind to them all, bringing much-needed supplies and the armored machines that scared the ditchers away from good folks. When his age of reckoning came, his uncle and aunt let him join their scouting service, which then became the Tracker Brotherhood when Governor Olsen arrived and made Wasson's homeland officially part of the Republic.
He would avenge his Governor’s wounds and at the same time kill the idol-worshiping demons from what Founder Hamilton called the Caliphate. A different type of evil this time, far deadlier than the ditchers. He was hundreds of miles away from his homeland, but the demons were headed south, and they would continue south until the Shawnee was threatened. Wasson would do his small part to see Satan fail in his quest to subjugate decent folk.
The glow of the burning village was once again in sight. The three Trackers spaced about ten yards apart, each searching a different area for any signs of movement. Wasson looked past the slaughtered villagers, focusing on any hint of survivors. A little movement caught his eye, next to the only building not on fire. It sat away from the rest by a hundred feet or so; apparently a storage building of some kind, perhaps a barn. Another shadow floated alongside the building, definitely the shape and size of a human. Wasson gave a low alternating whistle, then a subtle point to where he wanted his Brothers’ attention. Alone he worked his way to the closest point of cover, then shot out to the structure's corner.
Wasson gave the hold sign to the two remaining Trackers still in the tree line. He crawled to the shattered window facing the woods, then held perfectly still while listening. Muffled cries filtered out over the crackle of the surrounding fires, along with shouts in accented English of adult men. He picked out two distinct voices, laughing and swearing at the same time. A quick signal back to his Brothers let them know the situation, then he tilted his head back and gave a high-pitched cry, “Help! Help!” After a moment, a head popped out of the window, looking toward the tree line where Olmstead made an intentional ruckus in the brush. The man in the window leaned out a little more, straining to decipher who was in trouble.
Wasson sprung straight up, hooking his right arm around the head and neck of the lookout, then locking his left hand to keep the man from wrestling out. Wasson fell back to the ground using his weight to lever against the window’s edge. Physics demanded something give, and a sickening pop through his arm brought a lifeless body out beside him. Without looking back, he moved quickly to the corner closest to the building's door. He pressed himself against the wall, blade in hand. As expected, the other demon appeared, trying to determine how his partner had vanished. Wasson broke his nose with one punch, then thrust one rough hand over his mouth. The smell of urine, blood and shock filled Wasson’s nose as he pressed a razor-sharp blade against the demon’s neck.
“I won't kill you if you don't move,” Wasson growled into his ear. He could see the fear as the demon-man shook his head up and down, his whole body trembling. Olmstead and Ridgway joined him, grinning at the look in the eyes of their captive. Wasson drug the man back into the building, throwing him to the ground and placing a single finger to his lips. “Make a sound, and I’ll gut you. Do as I say, and I’ll let you live. Are we clear?”
The demon-man nodded his head again. Wasson noticed him glance nervously to the far corner of the barn, then back at the terrifying faces of the Trackers. Without a word, Olmstead tiptoed back into the dark, under the hayloft. When he returned, he had a woman in his arms, bound and gagged. He gently laid her down on the ground in front of them, then sliced the ropes holding her hands. He removed the gag, cradled her head and poured a small amount of liquid from his water skin into her mouth. She coughed and cried, looking up at Olmstead and letting out a hoarse scream. He shook his head, showing her the cross tattooed on his left arm. Ridgway did the same thing, then pointed to the demon-man Wasson held his knife to. The woman's look changed; a mixture of rage and revulsion filled otherwise soft features with a homicidal edge.
“We are here to help you, sister,” Wasson said softly. “We wish to stop these demons from moving south. Can you help us with the information we need?”
She nodded her head, not taking her gaze off of the captured Jiji. Without another word, Wasson turned and sliced the demon-man's t
hroat, then turned back. He ignored the look of surprise and betrayal as life slowly faded out the man’s eyes. Wasson and Olmstead turned their attention to the woman while Ridgway disappeared out the door.
“Sister, I am sorry for what has happened to you. But the horde is moving south and we haven't much time. What can you tell us to help stop them?”
The Trackers witnessed the woman stiffen, bravely overcoming certain torturous death just moments before to pull herself up into a sitting position. Olmstead took his bedroll and covered her with it, allowing her to regain warmth and modesty lost with her tattered clothes.
“There was no warning,” she rasped. “So many of them…they came in from the river and from the woods.” She tried not to sob, but the emotion overcame her. The Trackers began to cross themselves and pray, hoping to encourage her. Their strange actions seemed to shake her from the shock fighting for her mind. She sniffed and cleared her throat.
“There were thousands of them,” she replied. “First came the soldier types, they killed everyone who tried to resist. But most here were older folks, and mothers…we all tried to fight them off. Our husbands died first, out in the dark…we women know how to handle weapons, too. But we stayed back here to protect the children. They just kept coming…”
“Where were your militia?”
“When ARK pulled their Peacekeepers out, they took all the young men and women with them. “Said they were going to give them a better life, that we should be thankful. Said we didn't have anything to worry about since they had run the Jijis back north. Told us they'd be back at the first sign of trouble.”
She finally looked up and made eye contact with Wasson. “But you're the first real soldier I’ve seen in weeks.” Then she looked at his strange clothes, up and down his tattooed arms and then his face again. “I guess you're a soldier?”
