Some of the structures were obviously residences with their white window curtains, screen doors, and spacious front porches sitting on a raised deck.
Each porch had the same amount and style of outdoor furniture—a pair of high-back rocking chairs, a three-person wooden bench, and a plain rectangular coffee table. About half of the furniture was occupied with elderly members of the Fisher clan, some smoking pipes and chatting with one another, while others stared ahead in silence, watching the buzz of activity.
All of the homes appeared to have been built to face the interior of the property, forming a circle around a central point. Her eyes took a quick survey, realizing the gap in the fencing ahead was the central point of the homestead—an efficient hub and spoke design.
She imagined what it would be like after a long, hard day’s work—all of the residents sitting on their porches at sundown, sipping lemonade and smoking their pipes. All the while each Amish was staring across the courtyard at another in silence, like some demented gawker fest.
Stacks of firewood sat in front of each home, clearly the source of heat in the winter. Nearby, she watched young, beardless Amish males delivering powerful strikes with an axe to split the next log on a chopping stump. Then, after the maul found its mark, one of the children would scramble to gather the two halves and various splinters, carrying them swiftly to the pile. Then the process would repeat, starting with the axe wielder adjusting his trousers and suspenders before placing another log on the stump.
She glanced at two females standing near a central water pump that looked to be made of cast iron. It was painted black and rose up from the ground about three feet. One of the women was busy hand cranking its gooseneck handle, while the other held a bucket under the pump’s turned down spout.
Wicks could feel the eyes of many weighing on her chest as they continued their trek to the central dining hall for a meal with the elders. Some of the gazes belonged to women who were tending a clothesline, hanging the day’s wash to dry. Others were curious children, who’d stopped playing to watch the outsiders.
“Now I know what monkeys feel like at the zoo,” she whispered to Slayer, who was now walking next to her.
Slayer laughed. “Yeah, no doubt. Creepy to say the least.”
Simon had moved two steps ahead and was following Sister Hannah as she slipped through the gap in the fencing, then turned right and headed along a different path that took them across an adjoining grassy area.
The group passed an herb garden, two washboards, a pull-behind cargo wagon, and a pen of horses, then the edge of a massive corn field. A few minutes later, they arrived at their destination.
Hannah went up the front steps and stepped through the front entrance.
So did the Pandora crew.
* * *
Dixie was on her knees with Sean’s shotgun aimed at the back of her head when Sebastian returned to the front of Wyatt’s farmhouse.
Following behind Sebastian were four other men carrying weapons and boxes. One was a man called Snake, but she didn’t know the names of the rest because they hadn’t said much since the kidnapping began back at Pandora.
“Like I figure, nobody here,” Sebastian told Sean as the other men walked past and put the guns and other items into the back of the one of the International trucks.
“Did ya search everywhere?” Sean asked his brother.
“Ya damn right I did. Kitchen, bedrooms, basement, closets . . . everywhere, even what’s left of that there barn.”
“I see ya found some guns.”
“Oh yeah. There be ammo, too. Must of been in a hurry, ‘cause who leaves dis stuff behind? Some of it look brand new. Still in they boxes. Them UPS stickers everywhere.”
“Musta been a delivery here, too,” Sean said.
“Except they got a lot better shit dan we did. Snake even found one of them Russian AA-12 shotguns. Fully auto.”
“Any ammo?”
Sebastian nodded. “Found six of them thirty-two round drums already loaded. I know how much ya like scatter guns. I’m guessing ya gonna want it.”
“Hell yeah.”
“I’ll tell Snake. He ain’t gonna care. There be lots of shit to choose from.”
“Which way did dey go?”
“Tracks head west. Looks like dey ran over the back fence on da way out. It be possible whoever attacked dis place went after ‘em.”
“How long ago this be?”
“Hard to tell for sure after all da rain. Tracks be washed out. All run together like.”
“Musta been a while ago, before dat rain stopped.”
“Yep. But we did find us some blood. Lots of it and it ain’t been washed away. So it ain’t near as old.”
“Where?”
“Basement and kitchen. It leads to a barn.”
“No bodies?”
“Nah, but dey buried some. There be signs of diggin’ out back—three of them holes. Want me to dig ‘em up and see if we find Wyatt or his sister?”
Sean’s eyes narrowed before he nodded. “Let Snake and da other boys do it. I need ya to watch da bitch while I check all da blood. You said it went to da barn?” Sean asked, pointing.
“There be a pool inside, next to a bloody towel.”
“Someone got treatment then, huh?”
Sebastian nodded, raising his gun at Dixie.
“Put her in da truck,” Sean said, walking away.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Slayer waited in silence near the middle of a long, dual pedestal table in the dining hall of the Amish homestead. Wicks was rubbing elbows with him on the left, while Simon stood motionless directly across.
Slayer brushed the tips of his fingers across the smooth, polished surface as he admired the symmetry of the china and silverware on the table. Each of the fifteen place settings included a neatly folded cloth napkin on the right and an empty water glass waiting at eleven-o’clock high.
Down the middle of the table was an alternating series of quart-sized glass pitchers filled with water, and four gas-powered lanterns—all burning brightly. The combination of the darkened room and the flickering light made him feel like he’d stepped back in time to the medieval days of ancient Europe.
Brother Joshua and nine other Amish men were also standing in silence around the table, each in front of a pulled-out, high-back chair. This was the first time Slayer had seen any of them without their black hats and dress coats on, making them look a lot less intimidating.
The youngest looking of the group, maybe forty-years-old, was standing next to him and fidgeting with his suspenders. Then his hands moved to the tuck of his dress shirt, then his hair, and finally his zipper. At least the man had put his cane against the wall, leaning it carefully before he stood in front of his chair. Otherwise, Slayer figured he would’ve been smashed in the shin by now.
Slayer peered to his left, taking a few moments to observe the apron-wearing women working around another table in the adjoining kitchen. One was slicing meat from a good-sized turkey, while the others were tending to other preparation duties.
A few seconds later, Sister Hannah appeared, wheeling in the senior elder of the household, Isaac Fisher. The balding, gray-haired man looked to be in his eighties with hanging, weathered skin on a face covered in brown, irregular-shaped spots. His chin was squared off across the bottom and carried a raised scar that ran from right to left.
The old man’s seasoned eyes found Slayer’s, lingering a bit as Hannah rolled him forward in the wheelchair. She slid Isaac into place at the head of the table, then stood to his right, taking position in front of the lone empty chair.
“Please sit,” she told the group.
The Fisher men sat in unison, leaving the Pandora crew standing for a few moments until Wicks took a seat. Simon followed a second later and so did Slayer.
Hannah remained standing as she addressed those in attendance. “Let us pray to God.”
The Amish men closed their eyes and lowered their heads,
dipping their beards into their chests. Hannah and old Man Fisher closed their eyes as well, titling their heads down.
Wicks followed suit, as did Simon, but Slayer kept his open. He didn’t like the idea of sitting blind in a room full of strangers. Someone needed to keep an eye on things.
About thirty-seconds of silence ticked by before Hannah spoke again.
“We who are separate give thanks for our allotted time on this earth. Give us strength to bring forth the bounty that you have so generously provided.”
The Amish men responded in unison. “Amen.”
She continued. “We pray for our day of redemption—the moment of release.”
“Amen.”
“We pray for those troubled souls who live in the darkness beyond our stead. May they someday find the path to righteousness and eternally prosper through you, with a meek and merciful heart.”
“Amen.”
“Let us eat,” she said, opening her eyes.
The men did the same, then the women brought the food out and put it on the table, all within arm’s length of Hannah.
She sat down and dished up a plate of food in front of Isaac: one slice of turkey, a smattering of green beans, and a single homemade roll.
When she was done preparing his plate and then hers, she passed the meat tray to the man on her right. An assembly line process started, whereby each person took turns taking some food and then passing it to the right.
Eventually the meat, veggies and rolls found their way around to Slayer. He dished up a heaping plate of grub and dug in to fill his starving belly, occasionally glancing over at Hannah to watch her methodically spoon-feed the patriarch of the settlement.
First, she’d deliver a bite, then wait for Isaac to slowly chew with his mouth open while drool ran down his chin. She’d finish the round with a quick wipe of the cloth napkin, then start the process over.
Slayer held back a laugh. It was like watching a retarded zombie gum his food.
* * *
Sean Carnegie kicked at a bloody towel in Wyatt’s barn, checking over the scene while Sebastian and his guys were digging up the bodies outside. The blonde girl from Pandora was back in the truck and tied down with the others.
Next to the towel was a pool of blood next to some used bandages. He bent down and checked the blood with his fingers. It had soaked into the dirt about half an inch but wasn’t completely dry. Someone was treated here, all right. No doubt about it.
Whether it was one person or more, he couldn’t be sure. There were lots of footprints around, but Sebastian and his men were just in here checking the place, so he didn’t know which prints were new and which were old.
He stood and continued to look around, seeing two piles of wood shavings and several pieces of cut rope on the ground. There were two drag marks sitting heavy in the dirt, about four feet apart, never changing their spacing the entire way from the towel to the door.
To the right was piece of tarp. It had been cut, all precise like. The hole in it showed a triangle. He figured someone cut it and used on a contraption they built. Probably a pull-behind to carry something heavy. Something heavy enough to make deep grooves in the dirt, like he’d done many times to haul elk meat from the forest after a kill.
He figured the sled was used to carry a person based on all the blood. A live person since nobody carried away a dead body when there were fresh graves out back. That meant at least two people survived—the one injured and one who built the cargo sled.
Sean wondered if it was Wyatt and his sister. But she was too small and not heavy enough to make the heavy drags, so Wyatt must have been the one injured and she was carrying him away.
He followed the trail outside. The grooves looked the same outside as in, so the rain didn’t wash them out. Not like the tire tracks to the fence, so the pull-behind came after.
Maybe Wyatt and the bitch stayed behind after the others left in the trucks. Makes sense, he thought. Wyatt was their leader and might have wanted to make sure his men were okay. Or his men chickened out and left them behind.
He stood next to Sebastian as the final grave was uncovered by the shovels working the hole. Sebastian dropped inside and bent down to uncover the body’s face with his hand, wiping the last of the dirt away.
“This ain’t Wyatt,” he said, looking up at Sean.
“What about da other two?” Sean asked, pointing.
“Already checked ‘em. Not them, neither. What do we do now?” his brother asked.
“We follow them tracks,” he answered, thinking they couldn’t be too far ahead. She wasn’t strong enough to go fast, not when hauling her brother like that.
Sean followed the trail out front and stopped where they turned right and headed across the countryside. He turned to Sebastian, who was standing with the rest of the men.
“They stayed off da road. Smart.”
“Where da fuck dey going?” Sebastian asked.
“To da Amish next door, I figure. Lookin’ for help. Dat’s what I do if I were dem.”
“So, we walkin’?” Sebastian asked.
Sean looked to the road, thinking through the options. “Na, we take ‘a trucks. Faster dat way.”
Sebastian and his men started to move, but Sean stopped his brother with his right arm. “Wait.”
“What’s wrong?” Sebastian asked, holding his arms out to stop those behind him.
Sean swung his eyes around, feeling as though someone was watching them. He squinted and listened, checking both directions along the road, then scanned the tree stand on horizon to the left. He didn’t see any movement or hear any unexpected sounds.
The feeling of being watched started to fade so he let it go and turned his attention to the truck with the hostages tied down in the back.
“I’m driving dis time. You got shotgun,” he told his brother, heading for the road.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Sean Carnegie slowed the truck to a full stop along the country road that ran in front of the first Amish farm they came across. It was in the same direction as the tracks leading away from Wyatt’s property.
He turned to his brother Sebastian, who was holding a pair of binoculars to his eyes and looking out through the rolled-down passenger window.
“Do ya see ‘em?” Sean asked.
“Nah. Just a bunch of dem religious freaks.”
“What about da cargo sled?”
“Hang on a minute. I’m a-lookin’,” Sebastian said, moving the glasses a bit to the left. “There it be! By dat buildin’ on da far left. Just sittin’ out front. They must be holed up inside.”
“Hop in da back with them hostages and take watch over da cab. If Wyatt or his sister sticks they head out, shoot ‘em.”
“And if they don’t?”
“Grab da redhead from the back and meet me out front of da truck when we get there.”
“Just her? What about blacky and da others?”
“I’ll have da rest of da boys bring ‘em up.”
Sebastian smiled but didn’t respond.
“When Tally see dat little bitch and her other friends, she come out. And her brother, too. Then we kill ‘em all.”
“What about them Amish folk?” he said, opening the side door.
“They just a bunch a chicken shits. Be like a turkey shoot.”
“Or dynamitin’ fish in da river.”
“Either way, we gonna burn it all down.”
Sebastian put down the binoculars, grabbed his rifle and got out of the truck. He moved quickly to the rear bumper. Sean watched him stand on it before getting into the bed of the truck. The cab rocked from side to side as Sebastian moved forward, working his way around the hostages to the rear window.
Sean decided to get out, too, and visit the rest of his men in the trucks behind. He needed to tell them what to do when they approached the Amish.
* * *
Simon brought a glass to his lips and took a sip of the lukewarm water to help wash down the last
of the green beans on his plate. They would’ve tasted better with some butter and a sprinkle of parmesan cheese, but they were edible. The turkey wasn’t bad, either, but it was bland and needed seasoning. The rolls were his favorite by far—served hot and fresh from the oven. Overall, he’d tasted worse, but was thankful for the free meal and the hospitality.
He took a minute to study Sister Hannah, then the rest of the bearded men around him, lingering on each person as his gaze made its way around the table. A few of them glanced back at him for a moment before resuming their food intake.
Simon brought his eyes to Wicks sitting across from him. She made eye contact, then gave him a perplexed look and a quick shrug.
He figured she’d noticed the same thing he did—none of the Amish spoke a single word while eating.
The only sounds permeating in the room were the random clinks of silverware against porcelain, plus the busy pattern of chews and swallows. That, and of course, the occasional slurp of water.
Simon wiped his chin and tossed the white napkin onto the plate.
Slayer did the same, then sat back in the high-back chair and let his shoulders slump as he brought his eyes to Simon. He let out a long exhale, looking tired from the day’s activity.
Wicks still had some turkey on her plate, but it wouldn’t be long before she was finished, too. She finished a chew, then brought her head up.
“Should probably go check on Wyatt,” she said to Simon in a low whisper, before dipping her head and jamming another forkful of meat into her mouth.
A young girl—maybe ten years old—ran into the dining room, stopping only a foot behind Old Man Isaac and Sister Hannah. Her bonnet was tilted to one side and she was breathing heavily.
“What is it, child?” Hannah asked.
“More of the English are here!”
Redfall: Freedom Fighters (American Prepper Series Book 2) Page 19
