by Michael Lane
“That aside, today we are not here for you to hear me, but to hear news that will impact us all.” The crowd noise abated again. “You’ve come because you’ve heard word that the valley faces trouble, and we are here to explain just what that trouble is. You are here to decide what to do about it.
“Doctor Lawson has asked to speak first, and I’ll give the floor to him now. I have something to add later that I hope you’ll hear,” Dove said, stepping down.
“Wonder what he has to add?” muttered Grey as Doc rose and turned to face the room. Doc ignored him and smiled at the assembly.
“Good morning. I think you all know me, or at least who I am. Many of you have been to visit, or I’ve come by your place. I’d thought about starting off by talking about why our valley is special, and how we’ve built something in a world that was broken, but I guess you all know that.”
Grey grinned at the cross that hung behind the pulpit. Assume they agree and keep going. That was a lesson he’d learned many years ago.
“Some of you know Grey. He brought me some news a few weeks ago, and saved me from some unwanted visitors.” Grey quit listening and waited for the questions to start. When Doc finished after five or ten minutes, they did.
“So you never saw these raiders?” Grey knew the voice, but couldn’t place it until he stood and turned. It was Harwold, a fat old man whose three sons ran a small lumber mill a few miles up Mission Creek, west of the valley settlements.
“He didn’t. I did,” Grey said. “You have a question?” Grey heard Doc sigh as he set down.
“Well,” Harwold paused and Grey realized with faint amusement that the mill owner had no actual question; he just wanted to look important and be involved in the conversation.
“How do we know they were raiders?” Grey was further amused by the few actual groans that rose from the crowd and one pithy “Shut the fuck up, Harry” from somewhere in the back. Amusement would lighten the mood, and Grey didn’t want that, so his response was carefully deadpan and intentionally cruel.
“You calling me an idiot, Harwold? You think I’m the kind of fat-ass townie who can’t tell the difference between a wolf and a coyote?” Harris looked like he’d been slapped. Grey noted that eyes had widened and grins had disappeared around the room.
“I don’t really give a shit what you think, or anyone else here. They’re coming, this next summer, and they’ll kill and steal and do what they like. That’s all there is to it. You can talk all you want, and I know there’ll be a lot of it, but you’ll pick one of three things. You’ll run, you’ll fight, or you’ll let them take the lives and the things they want.”
Grey paused for the space of a breath or two and continued in a more relaxed tone.
“I like the valley, and I’m willing to fight to keep it, but I can also pack my gear and leave. I don’t have a ranch, or a mill, or a farm, or a family. So when you all decide, you let me know, and maybe I can help. Either with plans, or with packing. Now, does anyone have a sensible question, or can I go outside and have a smoke?”
Clay spoke, raising his hand.
“I got one. How many you do you think there are, and how well are they geared?”
“Their scout party was about two dozen; half or more with guns, the rest with bows and such. I’d guess their total numbers would be a minimum of four or five times that. Probably half will have guns and know how to use them.”
There was a general mutter, some of it optimistic, some the opposite. Maggie stood up from her seat beside Clay.
“There’s more guns than that in the valley, Grey. Why should these folk worry?” She asked, her eyes bright.
“You know the answer to any question before you ask it Maggie. Anyone who knows you knows that.” There were some nods and a short laugh or two. “But I’ll tell you so you don’t have to explain it.” Grey rubbed his face, hearing the whiskers rasp.
“They need to worry because these people will be together. A few guns together, used right, will kill a hundred disorganized farmers.” There was a rumble at that, but Grey ignored it and carried on. “If they burn you out of your homes, they’ll have an easy time killing you off a group at a time - or getting you to give them what they want. They’re going to come looking to hunt you. We need to turn that around and hunt them first.”
Tillingford stood up and raised an eyebrow. “You want to take the fight to them before they get up into the valley proper?”
“I do.”
“And you’d be leading this fandango?”
“I’ll want people who can think on their own if they have to, but who can listen. That way if one man goes down we won’t fall apart.”
“So that was a yes?” Tillingford asked.
“Yes.”
“As you pointed out, you have less to lose than most here. What makes you sure you’re the man to lead this?”
“Because I don’t have anything to lose, and because I’ve some experience with this sort of thing. Because I’m your best shot of keeping the body count low.” Tillingford had a pensive look that augured more questions, so Grey continued on. “And there will be a body count, and probably not just for them. There’ll be shooting if we fight, and people will die. But you’re faced with losing people either way. If you fight, you have a chance to wind up still holding your lands and homes. If you don’t, well, you all know how hard it is to start over.”
Grey sat down and leaned his head back, closing his eyes as the assembly broke into muttered conversations and debates on each pew. Doc leaned over and whispered in his ear.
“That wasn’t bad. Did you put Clay up to that?”
“No, Clay’s smart. Him and Maggie both. They know they have it good and they want to keep what they have. Tillingford’s just voicing the worries all these folk have and won’t say straight out: Will you get my babies killed?”
“Well, will you?”
“I’ll try not to. Oh hell, the Reverend is getting up to say his piece.”
Dove returned to the step below the pulpit. He held his hands up, palms to the crowd, and his boom cut across the noise like a scythe.
“Neighbors, calm for a moment. The whole day is ahead and we have time to decide this to everyone’s satisfaction,” the Reverend said.
“Good luck with that,” Doc murmured.
“What Grey says makes good sense,” Dove continued, unsmiling, “and I am glad God has seen fit to place someone like him here in our community at this time. A man who has fought before, and who has experienced the evil that these sort of men revel in.”
Grey’s eyebrows rose and he glanced at doc, who shrugged.
“We need to realize that these raiders come for their own violent, senseless reasons, and they will not be turned back by our prayers alone. Do not despise Grey’s advice because it seems dangerous. Doing nothing is equally dangerous, and his knowledge of these people will be our edge. He is the stone in our sling.
“The good book says thou shalt not murder. It also holds many examples of the faithful overcoming evil, sometimes by force of arms. To do so in the defense of your homes and families is both worthy and wise. I suggest we all take some time to discuss things, and meet again after lunch.”
The crowd-noise rose again, and people began clumping in groups or heading into the cooler air outside.
Dove descended the step and walked to where he could face Grey and Doc. They rose to meet him.
Grey and the Reverend exchanged looks.
“I didn’t expect your support,” Grey admitted.
Dove bared his teeth in what wasn’t really a smile. His reply was pitched for their ears alone.
“I don’t support you. I support resistance and admit your experience. You’re no different than those jackals from down south. They’re killers, and we need a killer. And with a little luck, you won’t be coming back.”
Doc forced a laugh as the Reverend turned on his heel and stalked away.
“I always figured you were mistaken about the Reve
rend not liking you. What the hell was that about?”
“I don’t know,” Grey said.
Oh, but you do, something giggled in the back of his head. Murder will out.
The crowd ate lunch around the long plank tables in the yard, and after Grey turned away a hundred questions the crowd returned to the church. Grey stood and faced the crowd. They quieted after a minute, but for a few continuous whispers from the rear pews. He hadn’t expected many naysayers, and the talk at lunch had reassured him. No one had asked if they should fight; just how they would do it. Grey discarded his plans to focus morale, and went straight to the meat.
“Lots of you asked at lunch how we’d put together a defense,” Grey said. “I’ll answer again so you all know. We’re not doing that yet. You’ll need to decide how many and where later, but we have the winter to plan and early spring to practice. That’s something that local leaders like Tom will want to organize. What we’ll need to know right now is what we have to defend ourselves with. That’ll answer to most of the ‘hows’. So, while Doc notes it down, I want counts of horses, guns, men and women with skills we can use, whether bow or gun or riding or trapping. I want to know if anyone has or knows where any explosives are, any chemicals, wire, rope, tools, whatever.
“People - more than a few of you in this room - have salted away things that would help. I know that. And right now you’re thinking of just staying quiet and saving it for a rainy day. This is the rainy day. We’ve got winter and then we need to be ready. Those supplies can be used to ready the Port and other strongpoints that the raiders will have to deal with before they can attack anything else.”
Grey lowered his head, eyes scanning the room from the shadows beneath his brow.
“There may be those here who are funneling info to the raiders.” There was a general rumble of disbelief and anger. Grey let it pass. “I say may; there may not be. But if I was them, I’d try to have at least one or two informers. Maybe I’d grab a kid and hold them; maybe I’d promise better land or a job once they were in charge, whatever. If you’re here, I ask this much, try to limit what you say to them. They’ll threaten or lie to get what they want from you. Your best chance is with us.”
The crowd muttered, and people shifted uncomfortably.
“He said ‘may be’,” Clay put in loudly. “And we need to keep it in mind, and stay alert, but don’t get paranoid.”
Grey continued.
“That’s another reason why I’m not answering ‘how’ here today. Whatever groups we form to do this job, here or there, will know, and I’m going to want them to keep it quiet. If you wind up a volunteer, you’ll want to tell your family and friends about what we’re doing - but you need to control that sneaking piece of pride that wants to brag, because it may get you killed.
“So, with that, let’s get stated. We have a lot to do.”
Chapter 5: The Castle
“We have a lot to do, and your scouts aren’t helping the situation, Harris,” Creedy said, staring at the man who stood before his old steel desk. Where Creedy’s quarters were well-appointed, his office was a basic concrete cube with a single window, a desk and two chairs and little else. The thirty-year-old leftovers of the previous occupant still awaited their owner on the walls and shelves.
Harris was a lank, limping, sallow man with a raggedly chewed Wild Bill Hickok moustache so black it looked like boot polish. He was in his thirties, Creedy knew, but looked much older. Creedy, in contrast, was dapper, clean shaven and neat, dressed in handmade khaki slacks and a crisp ironed shirt that fit him well. He was close to the same age, but looked a decade younger. His brown hair was short, neatly combed, and he smelled faintly of aftershave. His eyes were mild and brown.
“I know, Mr. Creedy,” Harris said. “I left them a note to catch us up as soon as they could. But we had orders to get back before the first freeze, and Trey was late getting in.”
“So my orders made you lose three scouts?” Creedy asked. His voice was disinterested. Harris paled.
“No sir. That is entirely my fault. I thought we would be late if we didn’t head back when we did, and we left on my order.” Harris stood very erect, and stared over Creedy’s head at an old porn magazine calendar tacked on the office’s rear wall. Miss April of some year or other had one leg behind her head and was intently focused on the pink dildo she was holding. Harris had rarely felt less horny than he did at the moment, but it kept his eyes safely away from Creedy’s.
“And now, weeks later, we have three fewer scouts, the early snows are on the hills, and we’ve lost one of our maps. The one, in fact, with most of the northern settlements marked on it?”
Harris nodded, his eyes still on the calendar. “Yes, sir.” Oh God, don’t let him kill me while I’m staring at a whore fucking herself with a plastic dick, Harris prayed.
“Well,” Creedy paused and appeared to think, though he’d decided his course before Harris had arrived. He could smell the acrid fear-sweat on Harris, and it amused him. “That’s unfortunate. It won’t disarrange my plans, but it will mean we move more blindly than I like. I did make it clear that I expected the maps to be treated with care when I sent you, didn’t I, Harris?”
Harris nodded in mute misery. The calendar girl was wearing sequined fuck-me pumps with what had to be six-inch heels. Harris wondered in a fragmented, nightmare way whether she could have ever walked in them.
“Gregor!” Creedy called. The office door swung open a foot and a hulking man, heavily scarred, peered around the jamb.
“Yes, Mr. Creedy?” His voice was a fitting basso rumble that sounded like big rocks rolling in a drum.
“Please escort Harris to the Quad,” Creedy said. Harris looked like he might be sick. “He has made a mistake, but I value his future here with us, with the Castle. So let’s say fifteen lashes. Try to avoid killing him, but if it happens, well, I understand it’s not an exact science.”
“Yes, Mr. Creedy,” Gregor said.
“You’ll do better,” Creedy said, staring at Harris.
“Yes, thank you Mr. Creedy. Yes I will. Thank you, sir.” Harris said in a breathy voice.
Creedy spoke a final time as Gregor took the mustached man’s arm and began to walk him out. His reasonable, calm tone followed Harris down the concrete hall with its peeling curls of green paint.
“And don’t confuse this, Harris. You’re not valuable. I just hate waste. But if you fuck me again, I’ll have Gregor skin you alive.”
Creedy spent the next half-hour organizing the information his outriders had brought him, both the group he had sent north to sweep the Okanagan Valley and the second unit, which had ridden southeast and felt out the edges of the Green forces. The second group, under the more capable command of Luke Glass, found Green scouts along the Snake River. Their main force was somewhere east of Idaho still, it seemed. It was too far to mount a raid on the Castle, Creedy reflected, but still too close.
He sighed, closed the yellowed notebook Glass had given him and listened for a moment to the distant howls from the Quad. Gregor spaced blows widely, allowing the victim time between each to recover and reflect on the next. Still, he must be nearly done, Creedy thought, starting down the hall, his mind returning to his current situation.
As comfortable as the Castle was - and it had been Creedy’s bolthole for a decade - it was time to move. The Greens, moving from the East, had been systematically exterminating larger bandit groups, raising garrisons and generally interfering in the Darwinian struggle of the survivors that Creedy depended on for his livelihood. Most annoying, they didn’t seem interested in negotiations, and their reputation was bloody.
When Creedy, then leading a band of twenty-seven, had found the abandoned training center in the arid center of the desert scrubland of old Washington State, he’d seen its potential. A complex with underground storage, miles of mostly intact fencing and the huge concrete bulk of the Castle on its hilltop surveying the surrounding countryside was exactly the sort of base r
equired to allow the shift from nomadic raider to local lordship. And it had worked, with the application of a little force. Local farmers and ranchers from the Cascades to the the old Idaho line would pay to be ‘protected’. And Creedy’s people, Castle soldiers, had done that, if only to remove potential competitors at the top of the food chain. If they’d raped and murdered when they were balked, well, it was a small price to pay for peace, wasn’t it? Creedy had guaranteed that irrigation projects went forward as needed, even if some of the labor had been involuntary. Castle guards escorted and taxed caravans, making sure they made it across the scablands to the coast, if with somewhat less cargo than they started with. His lesser outposts numbered more than twenty, each garrisoned with his men, while the Castle corps was nearly a hundred strong.
And now the Greens came, with their Continental Defense Force nonsense. But they were organized and had backing. Perhaps there really was a government, or an attempt at forming one. Creedy didn’t care. What concerned him was that the Greens had ammunition, horses, a few shielded machines that seemed to still work, and disturbing things like newly-made canned rations. That meant factories and civilization, and civilization didn’t sit well with Creedy or his business.
It was time to move, and north was the obvious route. If he was honest with himself, part of him enjoyed the thought of starting over and escaping his role as administrator. He’d earned his position in a hands-on way, and he missed the immediacy of a raid; the screams, the blood, the amusing way people reacted under the approach of the inevitable.
They had a year or two, Creedy thought. If they weren’t established somewhere in Canada by then, the band would be in trouble. There was little enough room to go further west, and the south was a patchwork of dug-in cartels, cults, gangs and warlords that would unite to kill any interloper quickly. It would have to be the north. There he’d have the space and the time needed to explore future plans.
Creedy had reached the reception hall of the building, with its sandbagged windows and trio of guards, when Gregor appeared at his side.
