by D. I. Telbat
"Prisoners of war," Hank growled and struck his knee with a fist. "They got the major. That blasted Judge Grayport will hang him!"
"Grayport?" Eric frowned, remembering his meeting with a bow hunter name Joel Grayport. "Who's that?"
"The traitor of Mastover, Zachary Grayport, the honorable judge himself." Hank spit on the ground. "He's ruled Mastover since Pan-Day. He was running for political office, anyway. Pan-Day just gave him the chance to rule like a tyrant. At first, he was an organizer, then he turned on his own people. He got us all killing each other, finding any excuse to turn in anyone with opposing views."
"Opposing views?" Eric asked. "Like being a Christian?"
"We were all responsible for last year's massacre." Hank lowered his gaze. "I admit it was wrong, even if I don't like them." He crossed his arms. "The judge joined up with the Organization the minute they drove into town. That's when most of us left. We wouldn't join arms with the invading army. It's un-American, even if they are made up mostly of our old military."
"Grayport still runs Mastover," Sergeant Zellick said, "but he runs it for the Organization, not for the people of Mastover. He'll torture Major Milton until he talks. The judge will know where all of you people are in no time. Torture. It happened last year when—"
"We've got to rescue the major," Hank said, leveling his gaze at Eric. The nearest firelight flickered off his face, punctuating his features. "I've got to leave, Eric. I have to find what's left of the resistance and reorganize them."
"They've scattered." Zellick struggled with his emotions. "It'll be weeks before we pull together again. After we left the bridge, we agreed I should come here and tell you what's happened. No one followed me. I was careful."
"Let me think a minute," Eric said.
Eric stood and walked away from them. The campfires were blazing now, and meat and wild vegetables were being cooked. Crushed cattail, like flour, was added to the water that the youths had gathered. Chufa, a type of tuber, could be smelled in the thick stew, mixed with the fresh meat. The aroma made his mouth water as he stooped at the river's edge and picked up a couple of stones to toss at the water. Was this it? Was this where God wanted him to trust at the river, like Joshua had trusted Him at the Jordan?
"Lord, give me Your guidance here," he mumbled to the blinking starlight. "The safety of so many under my care is under threat. I beg You, show me what to do. Please show Yourself mighty against—"
"You're praying at a time like this?"
Hank joined Eric at the water.
"I'm praying especially at a time like this."
"If you didn't hear me earlier, let me say it again: I was part of that Christian cleansing last year in Mastover." He crossed his thick arms. "I'm not proud of the lives we took, but no religion is going to dictate my liberties."
"It's God, not religion, who gives us liberty," Eric said. "Liberty is found because of God. God wants us to be set free from the things that destroy our lives. I used to think that God spoiled all the fun I wanted to have. Now I understand He was trying to show me that He cares for me enough to warn me about the consequences of the wicked ways my old nature wanted to live for."
"Whatever. Just so you know, I don't need some religious nut's permission to leave and rescue Major Milton."
"That may be. But you'll need your wife's permission, and you'll never hear the end of it once I tell her you left to die in Mastover when God provided another way to get Major Milton set free."
"What do you know, Provisions Officer? You've lived on a mountain for years."
"Do you know Joel Grayport?"
"Sure, everybody knows Junior, daddy's spoiled brat. Quarterback and prom king ten years ago."
"What's his status under Judge Grayport?"
"He's a captain. When I left Mastover, he was in charge of security patrols around town, like the military police. Curfew and stuff."
"Mastover has a curfew?"
"I suspect every city in America has a curfew, since Pan-Day."
"So, to move around at night, people use a pass?"
"Not in Mastover. Everybody knows everybody. Strangers would be noticed immediately." He cocked his head. "What's this about?"
"I know Joel Grayport. He sort of . . . owes me."
"Well, that—" He glanced back toward the tents. "I have no love for any Grayport, but if you have something on Junior, that changes everything."
"Can you describe to me where he lives in Mastover?"
"I can do you one better." He chuckled. "I can walk you to his back door. He lives in a quiet part of Mastover with his wife—some rich girl from across town."
"Lena."
"You really do know him." A quiet moment passed. "I'd love to ruin the lives of the Grayports. The debt that Junior owes you—will it work for this?"
"It's something like a life for a life. But listen, Hank. We can't both go. You need to stay here. We can't leave these people without a leader. Is there anyone else you trust who can guide me to Joel Grayport's house? How about this Sergeant Zellick?"
"You've seen the man. He's weak and skittish. I don't think I'd trust him under pressure. Mastover was already a cesspool when we left. A year's passed, and that place literally stinks from miles away. And I haven't even gotten to the scumbags who live there!"
"I understand. Listen, I agree that we've got to get Milton free before he's forced to talk and tell them where we are."
"Judge Grayport is crazy enough to hunt us down and kill us all, just to make a point. He's afraid of that Liberation Organization." Hank cursed. "Gretchen knows where Junior lives. She catered their wedding, if I recall. But she can't go back. Everyone there knows us. They'll kill her."
"It's either her or someone less capable. She has good instincts, Hank." Eric patted him on the shoulder. "This is one of those places to trust God. Come on. Let's keep this quiet and go eat with the others. I'll talk to Gretchen when it's time."
That evening, Eric slurped deer venison stew while seated next to Andy at one of the fires. The boy barely ate, however, since he was so busy telling Eric about all of his new friends and responsibilities. Knowing everything a boy could know about staying alive in the wilderness had made him popular. Even at such a young age, he seemed to be a natural leader. He even had innovative ideas for catching wild turkeys that made Eric's own traps seem medieval. By gently corralling a whole flock of turkeys into a fenced funnel, dozens of the birds could be caught at once, supplying River Camp with eggs and the occasional turkey dinner.
That night, before Eric bedded down next to Andy, Hank approached him and spoke quietly.
"You haven't spoken to Gretchen yet about the rescue!" His anger surprised Eric. "What are you playing at, Provisions Officer?"
"I'm not playing." He smiled at the older man, though it wasn't his intention to provoke him. "I'm thinking of you."
"Me?"
"Yeah. Imagine if your wife knew ahead of time that you were allowing your daughter to guide me into the enemy's territory."
"Oh."
"Besides, the less I show myself actively concerned in this rescue, the more you'll see that it's God who has already provided us with the means to speak to Joel Grayport about the prisoners. I believe God has gone before us in this matter."
"You're so sure of this God, huh?" The man ran his fingers through his beard.
"I've been following Him for nearly six years, Hank. He doesn't speak to us in words, but by our circumstances, thoughts, and situations. It's a language that's pretty loud if we open our ears to it. He just wants us to trust Him."
"I don't know if you're crazy or brilliant." He kicked at a rock on the ground. "We can't keep this rescue from everyone for long. You'd better return with good news, or we're ruined, one way or another."
"As far as anyone knows, Gretchen and I are going hunting at dawn." Eric slapped Hank on the shoulder. "Just do me a favor and pray for us while we're gone."
Hank guffawed and shook his head as he walked up to the w
all tent in which he and his wife had claimed a small corner. Only a few of the younger women slept outside the ten tents. The wounded and children had priority space inside, then the oldest women. Tarps were laid out and lean-tos had been erected for the rest. Gretchen stayed at Eric's fire, laying a sleeping bag under a folded tarp. As a primary provider for the camp, she was quickly rising in influence among the campers. Andy shared Eric's tarp, and before the fire started to diminish, they all fell asleep.
#######
Gretchen wasn't disappointed in the least the next morning when Eric told her they were headed into Mastover rather than going hunting. She listened to his plan and maintained a brisk pace northward.
"Together, we have to convince Joel Grayport and his wife, Lena, to help us," Eric said. "If they don't, River Camp may be raided."
"Won't breaking resistance fighters out of lockup automatically bring the fight to our doorstep?"
"It would, if the resistance fighters weren't free to continue their fight. A good offense is a good defense."
"You sound an awful lot like a resistance fighter," she said.
"I guess I do. But I think there's a difference between attacking and protecting, or hating and caring. If it were up to me, I would host a peace accord, but I haven't seen how God has opened that door yet. I made it clear to Major Milton that I'm not a fighter. I'll adjust tactics toward peaceful results the minute I see a better path to loving my neighbor."
"I don't think God is paying much attention to us here, Eric. Imagine the damage we could do to Judge Grayport's forces if we put our marksmanship up against theirs. Then they'd see we're not worth bothering."
"Wait and see," Eric said. He felt God's reassuring hand of comfort—that trusting Him for what lay ahead wouldn't be wasted trust. God was about to do something unmistakably obvious.
By noon, they reached the highway. They hid in the trees until the highway was clear, then crossed it at a run. On the north side of the highway, there was only rolling rangeland, so they didn't slow their walk until they were a mile beyond the highway. If they would've been noticed, an all-terrain vehicle could've run them down, but like Eric had been telling both Hank and Gretchen, God was moving the situation in their favor.
Fifteen miles later, dusk overtook them, and the back side of Mastover came into sight. Exhausted, they lay on a bluff and looked down at the partially inhabited settlement.
"The virus killed most of the citizens six years ago," Gretchen explained between bites of spatterdock biscuits and dried deer meat. "People running from the east arrived weeks later and settled here, living in the houses of those who'd died. The fighting has killed more, mostly men. The Liberation Organization promised stability, but they only left equipment, temporary representatives, and laws to make sure the Organization's interests were maintained here. Mainly, that meant their vehicles could pass through unhindered, to keep the supply line open to the fighting up north."
"So, there's not a Lib-Org battalion here?"
"Not when we were here a year ago. It's all locals fighting for the Lib-Org. Half the people, I suspect, are caught in the middle. If they side with the resistance, then they have to face the Lib-Org. I guess the locals would rather fight us than them. And you haven't met Judge Zachary Grayport. The man's possessed by power. If we're going downtown, I'm sure we'll see his handiwork. He regularly hangs people who voice opposition to the Lib-Org. The Organization burns people at the stake, but the judge prefers hanging. I'm not sure which is worse."
"Are there people down there who aren't fully behind the judge and the Lib-Org?"
"Of course. But they still side with the judge, and the judge only sides with the Lib-Org to keep their commander from destroying Mastover. They're at peace with the Organization, so that makes them as bad as the Lib-Org."
When darkness had fully blanketed the terrain, they prowled down into the town. This was a true time of testing for Eric's faith. He'd spoken boldly about his God when there was no cost. Now, his life was in the balance with many others. He could rely on his own schemes, or he could believe God really had orchestrated his meeting with Joel Grayport.
The town they entered was a habitation of refuse. Stinking garbage was piled along every street and avenue. Only a narrow lane was provided down the center of roads for the rare vehicle to patrol through the rotting trash. No electricity had been restored to the outskirts of town, or the resistance had cut the power, so Eric's trek from house to house was in the twilight.
Through this stage, Eric followed Gretchen. She darted through yards where few dogs barked and no cats prowled; he guessed they'd mostly been eaten. Gretchen climbed through fences where boards had been removed for firewood. The town was no longer a town, but a cesspool under siege by its own hunger and garbage.
No one confronted them, and Eric began to wonder if Mastover was the fierce, invulnerable town he'd imagined. Whole neighborhoods stood without guard or patrol as they passed through them. If there were people inside the homes, they were sleeping or hiding. And starving.
Finally, they crouched behind a burned-out SUV. Around its flattened tires, weeds grew up through the cracked pavement. The vehicle probably hadn't budged since the riots of Pan-Day.
"That's his house." Gretchen pointed at a two-story dwelling, a green Humvee out front. "The judge lives across town in a mansion. He has electricity and demands tons of firewood in the winter. Joel didn't want special privileges that other people didn't get, so he distanced himself from his father by moving his family out here. It was a big controversy a few years ago between father and son."
"But Joel still fights for his father to remain in power here?"
"Of course." Her teeth shined in the moonlight. "You think he's crazy enough to go live in the woods? Besides, Lena was pregnant a year ago when we all pulled out in defiance against the Lib-Org."
Eric led the way around the house and approached a back door. It was locked, but he used his knife to punch through the rotting wood frame, and the deadbolt was freed with a muffled nudge. He would've liked to have one of Gordon Irwin's flashlights as he prowled inside, but instead, he quietly closed the door and crept into the dark with Gretchen behind him, her rifle leveled.
Silently, they approached a smoldering fireplace that crowded a cooking stove. Joel may have been a bow hunter, but living in the town had made him careless and without vigilance, just as Eric had hoped.
"Get comfortable," he said to Gretchen. "We'll wait for him to come to us."
Feeding the fire with a few scavenged boards, Eric lit the cooking stove and sat in a chair, his pack on the floor. He even leaned his rifle against the wall, which Gretchen did only grudgingly. It was all part of their plan to welcome Joel. To disarm the man they needed, they needed to be disarmed themselves.
But doubt began to plague Eric as the minutes passed. Would the plan work? He had no contingency besides what God had first given him—to meet and talk to Joel for his help. Then, a floorboard creaked above. A baby cried and Eric tensed, praying through his uncertainty.
"He's going to kill us!" Gretchen whispered and reached for her rifle.
"Stay still. He's not going to kill us." Eric's voice was normal, no longer a whisper. "There's a reason why the judge put his son on town patrol rather than on the frontlines of the fight. I don't think he's a killer."
They heard footsteps beyond the kitchen as someone padded in bare feet down the stairs, then paused. Gretchen eyed her rifle again, and Eric wondered if he hadn't dared death itself. What if Joel didn't even live there anymore? The fire flickered on his face, and the light stole his vision to see into the shadows of the living room where a shape stood.
Finally, unable to do anything through the tension, he waved toward the darkened staircase.
"Come on in, Joel. It's just me, the man who buried a dog a couple days ago."
"What does that mean?" Gretchen asked with a frown.
The shape emerged from the darkness. It was Joel, shirtless, shoeless, and
holding a handgun. He studied Eric, acknowledging their rifles against the wall, then focused on Gretchen.
"I know you. You were a friend of Lena's." He looked back at Eric. "You didn't say a couple days ago that you were a resistance fighter."
"I wasn't a resistance fighter, and I'm still not a resistance fighter." Eric nodded at a chair that faced him. "But that doesn't mean I'm a supporter of those who slaughter innocents, either."
Joel eased into the chair, his gun resting on his knee. He wore jeans, but since he wore no shirt, he probably wished he were closer to the fire's heat.
"There's been slaughter on both sides," Joel said.
"That's not true!" Gretchen scowled. "The resistance has standards. They're fighting invaders who want to suck their lives dry. How can you be helping them? Look what they've done to this town! This isn't a caring government, Joel."
"That's not important right now." Eric held up his hand. "Willingly or not, we're on the side we're on. Joel, I believe we're both in a position to help one another. Our meeting out in the woods was no accident. I need your help, and you need my help."
"You planned the meeting in the woods? I don't believe it."
"No, I didn't plan it. God did." Eric shrugged. "That's right. If you and I hadn't met, I wouldn't know that you're the one to help us, and I wouldn't be here to help you."
"So you said. How do I need your help?" He scoffed, his missing tooth more prominent in the firelight. "The nerve of you two coming here, breaking into my home!"
The baby finally stopped crying upstairs.
"I don't believe we're enemies, Joel. At a time when we need one another for the sake of our families, I'm looking for more friends. How about you?"
"Say what you came to say."
Eric read Joel's expression and posture, remembering what the others had said about his past as quarterback and prom king. In a toe-to-toe fight, he could whip Eric. He was taller and broader and probably adept at fighting hand-to-hand. Except for his missing front tooth, he looked like a flawless warrior, especially while he still held the handgun.
