Blood Harvest

by James Axler

  Goncalves was shuddering on the floor in a fetal position while two blind men pounded him mercilessly with their fists. Apparently their job had been to tackle anybody who came out the door unannounced, and they had succeeded. “Moni,” Ryan said.

  The men stopped pounding as Moni spoke their names. “Braz, Martym.”

  Purple froth bubbled out of the corners of Goncalves mashed lips. “Listen, Ryan, I tell you—” The one-eyed man drove the sword down through the healer’s chest and gave it a twist. Goncalves shuddered and died.

  Ryan yanked the blade free. “Told you I’d chill you.”

  With Moni’s help Ryan rummaged through drawers and found dressings. Moni got the bleeding stopped, bandaged his arm and put it in a sling. Ryan took a lantern and they opened doors until they found stairs to the basement. The old generator had been moved out, and now it was a cold room lined with shelves of Mason jars. Many were filled with blood. They hobbled upstairs and Ryan threw his lamp against the wall. The oil ignited and the flame crept upward. He broke the rest of the lanterns and spilled oil barrels. Black smoke began to roil against the ceiling, and Ryan motioned it was time to go. He kept his arm over Moni’s shoulder, while Thais led Braz and Martym. Both men were loaded down like pack mules with weapons.

  Moni pointed up toward the hills as they walked outside. Ryan pointed at the ambulance. Moni and Thais were dumbstruck at the idea. He tugged on Moni and they limped over to the med wag. Ryan tried the door. It was open and a starter blaster was in the ignition. He and his little band of revolutionaries piled in. Ryan looked at the clinic as smoke began oozing out of the eaves. According to Doc, the blood was a craving for the ville rather than a necessity like the drug, but the clinic was where the blood was drawn and the slaves were mutilated. It wasn’t strategically as big as blowing up the powder mill but it ranked pretty high on the symbolic victory chart. So would his escape.

  Ryan slid behind the wheel and pulled the trigger on the starter. The med wag’s engine turned over and roared like a champ as he gave it gas. Ryan wondered whether they processed the Lotus drug up in the hills or in the ville. He knew without doubt that would have to wait. He had to rest. The next load of rock salt would put him on the ground and the next beating or bleeding would put him under it. He was no good to anyone right now except the four survivors of the clinic battle who had saved his life. There was nothing he could do to stop Sylvano’s fleet from sailing.

  The next move was Jak’s and J.B.’s.

  J.B. WALKED DOWN the firing line. The air buzzed with the whirl of scores of slings and downrange the smack of the stones. J.B. narrowly avoided being brained several times by an overeager islander’s backswing. Doc had produced better than J.B. had dared hope. The old man had arranged two simple ranges. Fifty yards away he had laid several dozen cloaks in a line on a steep hillside to represent the enemy. The slings hummed and snapped in rapid succession. An embarrassing number of stones impacted the turf all around the cloaks, but by J.B.’s estimation a good half were hitting home, as well. At fifty yards the stones would break bones and crack skulls. Most of the men were getting off an aimed cast every seven to ten seconds. That would undoubtedly be a whole lot slower under combat conditions, but the islanders would still be releasing rocks far faster than the ville’s single-shot blasters could be reloaded.

  That still left their supporting fire to be dealt with.

  The second range was a hillock at one hundred yards. It represented a landing ship or artillery emplacement. All the islanders had to do was to hit any part of it. At a hundred yards the slinging went from direct to arcing fire. J.B. watched the island men let fly. The sling stones were losing a lot of velocity, hardly hitting much harder than a strong man could throw them. Still, even without a head shot two or three thrown rocks would take most people out of a fight, and the islanders would be raining them down by the hundreds. The men of the island had been broken up into three detachments of 250 each. They were taking turns slinging. More than a few were sporting bruises where they had smacked themselves midsling or had improperly loaded and slung their stone into their neighbor.

  Nevertheless, the islanders were going at it with a will.

  The ones currently firing stuck their spears into the ground beside them. The island had been denuded of every straight tree limb and fallen branch of the right size. Each was cut to the height of the man using it and whittled to a needle point. The points were black from being thrust in fire to harden them so they wouldn’t blunt and deform after the first thrust. They were still hundreds of spears short and almost a third of each detachment was armed with clubs instead.

  J.B. watched a little while longer. He had none of the island language, but he walked the firing line, careful to not get his head taken off, and clapped men on the shoulder who made good casts and gave them encouragement. A woman came up and offered him a half gourd filled with millet beer. J.B. drank and called together his generals. Jak and Doc left their men to their practice and gathered for the final strategy session.

  J.B. plucked a blade of sea grass and chewed it reflectively. “We can expect it any time now.”

  “Figure dusk or dawn,” Jak said.

  “That’s the way I figure it, too.”

  “I would suggest dusk,” Doc said. “We know the men of the ville will prefer to stay out of direct daylight lest they are forced to it. The days have been clearing. Tomorrow may be sunny. The men of the ville do most of their work at night, and they must surely be counting on our army having been taught to fear the dark all their lives.”

  “They still can’t see in the dark,” J.B. countered. “Hard to shoot what you can’t see. It’s in our favor. We scatter, they hunt us by night. By starlight it’ll be nose-to-nose fighting, and we have the numbers.”

  “That’s not the way I see it.”

  J.B. waited for Doc to go into some diatribe about generals J.B. had never heard of. Instead Doc looked at him very earnestly. “I have spoken with Mildred today, and before I took ship with Jak, Ryan told me of his own experiences on the main island, come the night.”

  J.B. spit on the ground unhappily. “You’re talking nightwalkers.”

  Jak shook his head as he saw it. “We scatter. Sec men march. Take the villages.”

  “And the nightwalkers take the night, hunting our people,” Doc continued. “Our people will scatter once more, but this time in blind panic, fleeing toward their homes or the last redoubt of the church. The sec men will be there with torches and fires, offering to protect them if they surrender, or drive them back into the dark at bayonet point to be slaughtered should they not.”

  “They take church—” Jak stabbed a knife into the dirt “—they take women, kids.”

  J.B. nodded. The enemy had all the cards except surprise. “We gotta win the first engagement. We gotta win big and win quick.” J.B. took out his knife and drew in the dirt. “We lie low in the dunes. Three columns. Loose spread. Doc, you take the center. Your boys keep slinging. Jak, you and yours take the left flank. I take the right. We all sling them as they come off the boats. Doc, you and your boys are arcing for the cannons nonstop. We take two of their volleys. Hoping we get off five rocks for every one bullet of theirs, then Jak and I charge both flanks in a pincer movement. Doc, you keep slinging, but you’re the reserve. If we get bogged down, you come in. Right down the middle.”

  Jak took a long breath and slowly let it out. “Rough.”

  Doc nodded. “We shall have surprise, my friends. We shall have numbers. Yet I fear it shall all come down to our men’s morale. They must stand and sling in the teeth of the enemy guns, and then they must charge. Should they falter, all shall be blood and horror.”

  All three men knew what that meant. They would have to lead from the front. And in the event of collapse? They were outlanders. They could be abandoned and later blamed as scapegoats. In the end the islanders were just going to have to want it.

  “Got something on that angle,” Mildred piped up.
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br />   J.B., Jak and Doc looked up from their scratches in the dirt strategy session. Mildred and Krysty were smiling. “What’ve you got?” J.B. asked.

  Mildred held up a rolled piece of native homespun and snapped it out. It was a three-foot by two-foot square of the usual dun brown, but stitched in the middle was a yellow sun with eight triangular spokes.

  Doc smiled. “Dear Mildred! You have woven us a war banner! I did not know you were seamstress!”

  Mildred gave Doc a tolerant smile. “I’m a woman, Doc. I know something about sewing.”

  J.B. looked at Jak. Jak was grinning. In spite of the lack of good spear material, Krysty held a mostly straight twelve-foot length of tree bough that had been shaved down to a flagstaff.

  J.B. nodded. “Do it.” Krysty threaded the flag onto the pole through the loops Mildred had sewn and tied them off with leather cords. J.B. looked to Doc. Whatever else you could say about him, Doc had a beautiful speaking voice and he had more local speak than the rest of them. “Doc, say something inspirational.”

  Doc took the flag and raised it high. Many of the islanders who weren’t actively practicing their slinging skills had been watching the meeting that was deciding their fate. The wind was always blowing across the island. The flag fluttered and snapped in the breeze. Those watching stared, awestruck. Doc’s voice rolled out at parade ground decibels. “Filhos do Sol!”

  “Meaning?” J.B. asked.

  “Sons of the Sun,” Doc whispered. He bellowed again. “Filhos do Sol!”

  Seven hundred fifty faces turned and gazed at the war flag. Doc planted the pole by his heel and drew his sword from his cane and held it high. “Filhos do Sol!”

  Ago drew his new sword and thrust it high. “Filhos do Sol!”

  Other islanders took up the chant. Doc dipped the banner toward the assembled islanders and then thrust it up at the yellow sun breaking through the clouds. “Sons of the Sun!”

  The islanders got it and seemed to like the alliteration. “Sons of the Sun!” they roared.

  Doc cut loose in the native lingo. The 750 warriors of Sister Isle wept, roared and shook their spears. Mildred watched in awe. “God…damn, I wish I spoke Portuguese!”

  J.B. held up his arm. “No need.” He had goose bumps.

  Doc strode out among the masses waving the standard from side to side. The mob surged around him. They lifted Doc up on their shoulders and marched him and the war banner around the slinging range chanting their lungs out. J.B. nodded to himself. They would have numbers. They would have surprise. Now they had morale. The enemy would have discipline and firepower.

  The revolution would live or die by the setting of the sun.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “Behold their armada in mighty array,” Doc said.

  The baron’s fleet had come across the strait in the late afternoon, just as predicted. They hovered offshore waiting as the setting sun turned from gold to orange. J.B. watched the invasion force through his binoculars with more than a little trepidation. The fleet was a hodge-podge of whalers and fishing feluccas and a pair of barges. He had been expecting that, but it was the flagship that was making J.B. nervous. It was a small tramp steamer, but you could fit a lot of men inside the hold. The sides of the ship were strung with heavy nets for the invaders to climb down. The port side deck was lined with cannons in heavy wooden running carriages.

  Jak sighed unhappily. “Gunship.”

  “Indeed,” Doc agreed. “They have configured the vessel for shore bombardment. Note the devices amidships.”

  J.B. took a look at a series of oversize wheelbarrows loaded with long wooden racks. His heart sank. “Dark night.”

  “Any culture that can produce black-powder cannons and small arms has the capacity to manufacture artillery rockets,” Doc stated.

  J.B. imagined rockets screaming into the men standing and slinging in the dunes. “Our boys aren’t ready for rockets.”

  “No choice,” Jak said.

  Doc continued his discourse. “Note also toward the back of the steamer, six more cannons up on field carriages. Our enemy intends to bring artillery upon the shore.”

  J.B.’s brow furrowed in thought. “Whole lot of powder on that deck.”

  “Ryan demolished the enemy gun emplacements upon the main isle with incendiary rifle fire,” Doc mused. “However, I fear we have no such armament to hand.”

  Jak looked at the ville men in their long black coats and broad hats swarming the deck. “I can.”

  “Can what, Jak?” J.B. asked.

  “Get close. Wear black. Battle starts, go aboard. Burn it.”

  “You got black?”

  The islanders were using blankets to transport their stockpiles of sling stones and supplies. Jak unfolded the one closest to him and revealed his stolen cloak, a pair of shades and Father Joao’s hat.

  “You figured on this all along,” J.B. concluded.

  “Figured mebbe,” Jak admitted.

  “My friend,” Doc said concernedly, “you may well be subject to friendly fire. No one shall be calling friend or foe whence we are engaged, and you may well be misidentified, particularly by the slingers at a distance.”

  Jak shrugged. “Better’n facing cannons like you.”

  “Hmm, well, yes, perhaps.”

  J.B. had to admit Jak might actually have the easier job. Except for one little detail. “Jak, you blow that boat, you’re taking that boat west.”

  Jak tapped his temple. “Do it smart.” He shrugged fatalistically. “If I can.”

  They both knew Jak would blow the boat up any way he could even it if cost him his life. J.B. looked around at his forces. The dunes were full of islanders lying out of sight in the sea grass. The center was one hundred yards from the beach. The right and left flanks were at fifty. Some of the leading elements were even closer. It was a classic crescent formation. He looked long at the left flank. “Who’s going to lead your men, Jak?”

  Krysty piped up from right behind them. “How about me?”

  “Ryan wouldn’t like it.”

  “Ryan isn’t here, and we only get one shot at this. They release the nightwalkers, and mebbe our boys see a woman going forward with the flag, mebbe taking one or two out?” Krysty flashed her smile. “Might be enough to keep them going.”

  J.B. looked at Jak, who shrugged. “Right,” J.B. agreed. “But, Krysty, you take the center.” He looked at their dwindling supply of blasters. “Take the longblaster with the bayonet. Doc? You take the left flank. Give them the swivel blaster and the nails if they charge our center. Jak, get in black, take one of the auto-blasters and start creeping forward. Do it careful, let our boys see your hair till you get close. Don’t want any itchy sling finger accidents.” J.B. took a final look around. Once the action started just about every contingency plan they had would probably go out the window. They all had to get it right the first time. “Let’s get in position.”

  Jak was already dressed and began kneeing and elbowing through the dunes toward the beach. Krysty moved to take the center with the flag. J.B. put a hand on Doc’s arm. “Doc, you tell Ago he sticks with Krysty, and sticks with the flag, no matter what.” It wasn’t much of an insurance policy, but it was all J.B. could do for Ryan. “Issue him the last two short doubles.”

  “Color Sergeant Ago, then.” Doc nodded. “So be it.” Doc grabbed Ago by the shoulder and had a short exchange with him. Ago nodded confidently, took the weapons off the blanket depots and crawled after Krysty with the war banner.

  “What about me?” Mildred asked.

  J.B. sighed. Everyone was sneaking up on him today. “Field med.”

  “We only get one chance at this.” Mildred pointed out. “You need every gun you can get.”

  Everyone seemed to feel that J.B. needed reminding of that.

  J.B. looked at the remaining auto-blaster and the two bolt-actions. “Take the auto, deploy the bipod, fire from right here. Rake the decks till you’re out of ammo. Then you run. Take one
of the bolt blasters with you. If we lose, you manage the surrender, and you surrender.”

  Mildred gave J.B. a hard look.

  J.B. couldn’t help but remember their night in Ago’s hut. He looked out at Barat’s fleet and knew all too well it might have been their last. “Promise.”

  “I promise, J.B.” Mildred crossed her heart. “Cross my heart and hope to die. Now give me the goddamn blaster.” J.B. deployed the blaster’s bipod and handed over it and the spare mag. Mildred took a prone shooting position on the dune. J.B. took a long last look at her. Mildred smiled back from her shooting position. “J.B.?”

  “Yeah?”

  “We’re going to be all right. Now get to your people and let’s chill these ghost-faced sons of bitches.”

  J.B. scooped up the remaining bolt-action blaster and began weaving through the dunes toward the right flank. He reached his position just as the steamer’s foghorn lowed three times. The whalers plied their oars and ground right up onto the beach. Sec men leaped into the surf with bayonets fixed. The right flank’s second in command was a strapping blond islander named Davi. Davi was shaking in his sandals. J.B. clapped him on the shoulder as more and more sec men deployed. “Sons of the Sun.”

  “Sons of the Sun,” Davi replied, but without much enthusiasm.

  The afternoon breeze seemed to die of its own accord. Except for the sounds of the debarking sec men, the shore was eerily quiet. A sec man stood alone at the front of the beachhead. He carried an auto-blaster and wore white cross-belts over his black tunic, and had a plume in his hat. The scout was one of Sylvano’s elite cadre. The scout scanned the dunes, but there was nothing to see. J.B.’s army didn’t need much encouragement to lie as quiet as rabbits in sea grass. They were scared out of their minds. The scout turned back to the steamer and made a cutting motion with one black-gloved hand. Davi flinched as a sound like a thousand hissing snakes came from the deck of the steamer.