by Darrell Bain
Besides, there was no good place to stop. He wanted to find some decent shelter where he could rest his leg and have Judy bandage it again. He suspected that it had broken open and was bleeding once more, though it was impossible to tell in this weather. And, he was thoroughly disgusted with young George.
“Have you ever been outside in a real thunderstorm?” He deliberately raised his voice past the level needed to be heard over the storm. “Or under a tree when lightning struck? If I can walk with a crutch, you can make it. Maybe we'll find a building somewhere that's been displaced. If we do, it will be grounded. Otherwise, you just take your chances."
McMasters hit the right nerve. George's son was scared of just about everything, lightning included. The boy turned away, hating this strange New World, but not inclined to argue any more.
McMasters moved them out, wondering how much longer he could hold everyone's loyalty. A rescue mission on a bright, sunshiny day would go over a hell of a lot better than this sorry quest where they were all soaked and miserable. He was beginning to wonder how much longer he could last. Judy's presence helped him keep going. She stayed close to him, ready to help if he stumbled. He grinned at her and got a smile in return.
Presently, they came to a small river, which he figured to be a branch of the Trinity. Fortunately, they came out at a place designed by nature for an easy crossing. McMasters had little trouble persuading the others to make the passage at that time rather than later, reminding them that with all the rain, it would only get harder. Once across, he limped on and the rest followed. The thunder and lightning moved closer and the wind increased in intensity, still blowing the rain in sheets and still coming steadily from the southeast. Finally it dawned on him. Oh, goddamn, this isn't just a storm; it's a fucking hurricane!
Michael didn't know what to do. The driving rain obscured the opposite riverbank, and it was growing steadily darker, even in the early afternoon, when the day should have been brightest. He crouched under the dubious shelter of a heavy growth of youpen, just as miserable as he had ever been in his life. He came to the same conclusion McMasters had and wondered how close the eye would pass, and how close the Gulf coast was in this era. Each factor would affect the intensity of the storm they would be subjected to.
Michael was contemplating pulling in the two women decoys from where they crouched under even less shelter than he enjoyed, but he held off, hoping he was wrong and that the weather would improve.
Just as he finally decided that the convicts would not possibly be moving in this deluge, a flash of lightning illuminated the opposite bank of the river. In that brief flash, through a flood of driving rain, he glimpsed a cluster of figures struggling with several uprooted trees. His heart skipped a beat then thumped wildly in his chest.
Oh Christ, here they are, and Breedlove still hasn't arrived, and I can't see a damn thing in this rain. What do I do? Call off the ambush? No, I told Wanda we'd be here. She'll be depending on me. There's nothing to do but try and hope it doesn't turn into a total disaster.
He moved from under the tree and rushed forward to where Jill and the revenge minded black woman were concealed. Neither heard him coming over the increasing roar of thunder and wind-whipped branches. He tapped Jill's shoulder. She let out a gasp of surprise before recognizing him.
“In case you didn't see, tell your partner the convicts are on the way,” he shouted. He couldn't even see the other woman, even though he knew she was close. Shit. Well, maybe the convicts were having their problems, too.
Jason rode the lead raft with Burley and several other cons. The only time he could see the opposite bank was when intermittent flashes of lightning lighted it. Rain slashed at them in gusts so fierce that it was hard to keep his footing and watch the approaching bank at the same time.
No way Wronsen will try an ambush under these conditions. Damn, why didn't this weather hold off one more day?
Jason had convinced himself that all the carefully laid plans were going up in smoke, or water in this case, when he spotted the two women waiting on the opposite bank of the river in the brief flare of a lightning flash. They waved and shouted, although he couldn't hear what they were saying. He touched Burley's shoulder and pointed. “Company,” he said.
Burley looked up sleepily and raised his shotgun. His movements were slow, as if he had to think consciously before committing himself to action. Good. The ‘ludes were working, but how in hell could Wronsen's people even see to aim in this crap? Jason tried to think of some way to improve the odds, then the wind-driven rain swept over them in renewed fury, blinding him to all except the nearing riverbank.
“Don't shoot, they're friendly!” Jason shouted at Burley as the two women came into view again, then repeated himself as a crash of thunder drowned out his words. The hastily constructed raft caught in an eddy and nosed into a muddy embankment.
Burley still didn't seem to know what was happening, but he raised his shotgun at Jason's call. Jason grasped at the barrel of his shotgun and forced it down. “Don't shoot, I said! Can't you see? They're waving at us!"
“Oh, yeah,” Burley said foggily. “Booger! You and Whambang get ready. Go grab them cunts as soon as we hit the shore and find out what the fuck they think they're doing.” He grinned madly at Jason and shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs from his mind.
The raft beached crazily and Booger and Whambang jumped ashore and ran forward, corralling the two women. As friendly as the women appeared, the cons gave no thought to shaking them down for weapons. As Jason, Burley and the other men waded to the bank, the two women were pushed forward. Water streamed from their bodies as if they were under a shower. Burley clutched his shotgun and strode forward. Before he could speak, Jill shouted over the roar of almost constant thunder. “We give up! Everyone else is dead! Monsters got them. Please, can we stay with you?"
“Damn straight you can stay with me,” Burley shouted back, even though as he came forward he was already close enough to touch the women. He grabbed Jill and pulled her forward into a rude embrace. Then he spotted the other woman. “Not that nigger, though. She goes to the chain gang. He reached out and grabbed at the black woman's clothing, then flung her backward. “Booger! Get this bitch tied up so we can sweat some of the fat off her.” He reached down and pinched cruelly at an ample breast.
“I'll get the rest of the rafts unloaded soon as they make it across,” Jason said. He looked back over his shoulder as he turned to the river and winked at the redheaded woman Burley was fondling. He couldn't tell whether she saw it or not, but the ploy was working. Burley didn't appear the least bit suspicious, and he had apparently forgotten that the river was where the previous ambush had occurred.
As the other rafts gained the shore, Jason sent as many of Burley's men forward as he could and delayed the strings of black and female prisoners, as well as his own followers. It was easy to do. The wind was howling now, driving huge raindrops almost parallel to the ground. Visibility was cut to yards, and sometime even less than that. Thunder crashed almost constantly, and lightning cracked through the trees like an artillery barrage. This is a hurricane, Jason thought. God help us all, how can anyone fight in the middle of this?
This isn't a thunderstorm, it's a hurricane, by God! And it's getting worse! Michael told himself, just about the same time Jason did, but he had already seen Jill and the other woman join the convicts. There was nothing to do but go on with his plan. He washed water from his eyes with a hand across his face and tried to spot one of the others. As his vision cleared, he spotted one of the men—he couldn't remember his name right off hand—and cautiously approached. “Move out!” Michael shouted in his ear. “Tell the girls to open fire whenever the cons start up the bank. Or whenever they can see them,” he amended.
“What then?"
“Just tell them to do what they can! Soon as you pass the last firing pit, work back to the river and try to flank them. I'll do the same in the opposite direction.” Michael had no idea if t
his was good military strategy or not. He suspected he was ordering his thin line of female troops into a total fiasco, but if the convicts couldn't see any farther in front of their faces than he could, maybe it wouldn't turn out that bad. Damn it, where is Breedlove?
Breedlove had sent Gerald on ahead to scout while he tried to keep his drenched file of reluctant warriors together. If it hadn't been for the urgency of the relayed message, he might have called a halt. He might have anyway, except that Carla trudged uncomplaining by his side. Her only concession to the beat of wind and rain was to occasionally run her hand down the length of her water logged hair and squeeze the moisture from it. So long as she kept going without complaining, so would he.
Suddenly, Gerald broke through the obscuring rain, running hard. He skidded to a stop in front of Breedlove. “Dustin, we're there! I think I heard some shooting, but I couldn't tell with all this noise!"
“You found the river? Did you see anyone?"
“Nothing but the river, but I swear I heard shots off to my left. I came right back.” Gerald was excited, as if he were just getting ready for a first airplane ride.
Damn, Breedlove cursed to himself. I must have let us wander off course in the rain and gloom, and now maybe Wronsen is having to fight without us. He shouted as loud as he could to make sure everyone could hear. “OK, let's pick it up! Soon as we get to the river, we'll spread out a little and head for the fighting!” He lowered his voice to speak directly to Gerald. “You lead the way and I'll try to keep the others together."
“Right, Boss.” Gerald grinned, white teeth shining. “What then?"
“Fire at anything wearing white clothes. Do good, Gerald, and hurry. I don't think we have much time."
“Gotcha.” Gerald wrung out his Afro and it was immediately saturated again. A huge flash of light and a deafening crash of thunder hurried him on his way, visions of urban warfare dancing through his mind. No gangs here, though! These were the real bad dudes, with not an ounce of mercy in their bodies. He hoped he would live, suddenly realizing that this wasn't a game, but a real live shootout to the finish.
Breedlove turned and began giving instructions to the rest of his force. They moved forward, struggling against the gale.
Booger fell backward, chest torn by buckshot, never knowing what hit him. The two Quaaludes he had taken slowed Burley's response, but even so, he had seen the ground-level flash of the shot. He fired back in that direction then the thick wall of rain obscured everything else. He ran back toward the river, calling for help.
Jason was struggling with the two files of prisoners and didn't even hear the shot, nor did anyone else in his area. He couldn't see much of anything through the sheets of rain and could only hope that the black prisoners knew they were supposed to break free now when the fighting started. Tree branches were being torn loose above him by the wind, and the beating rain obscured all but what was happening in the immediate vicinity.
Wanda was doing her best to ignore the drenching. She doubted that Michael had been able to arrange any order in this miserable weather until she saw a fat black woman passed back into the coffle and secured to the rest of the file of prisoners. That decided her. She passed the one spare pistol to the woman behind her, then a knife. “Cut the ropes, then hold them in your hand. When the fighting starts, help me take out the guards."
There was no chance of being either overheard or seen. The hurricane mounted to a crescendo of fury, isolating all but the nearest figures from sight. If nothing else, she thought wonderingly, we can split up and get away and hope some of us reach Livingston. I've told them to head for there, anyway. Maybe they won't drown on the way. She gripped her pistol, barrel down. Two yards away, the nearest guard saw nothing amiss. He walked head down, secure in his misery.
Judy was helping McMasters stumble along on his crutch, face averted to avoid the slanting wall of water beating against his body when he tumbled, crying out in pain as his abused leg took the weight of his body when he fell. At first she thought he had simply tripped, then she realized that he was struggling with a rain drenched, white-clad figure. His right hand gripped a rifle barrel, trying to force it away from his body. Neither he nor the convict, who had wandered away from his group in the rain, had heard the first shots of the ambush, and now they were locked together in a thrashing mass on the muddy ground
While Judy stared in stupefaction, the convict exerted his strength and slowly began forcing the barrel of his rifle toward McMasters head. McMasters felt the strength begin to drain from his arms. The pain in his leg shot waves of agony upwards. He gritted his teeth and blocked the movement of the rifle barrel for a moment, then slowly, inexorably, it began moving again.
The young convict felt his strength begin to overcome the older man and he surged forward. Judy leaped, forgetting completely that she had a weapon. The weight of her body broke the unequal struggle. McMasters took advantage of the sudden shift. He gripped the rifle in both hands and forced it against the convict's throat, pressing down with all his strength, pushing the man's head deep into the muddy earth.
Even as George ran forward to help, he kept up the pressure until the man was completely still then struggled to his knees, gasping for breath. George helped McMasters to his feet, assisted by Judy. For just a moment, the rumble of thunder ceased. In the distance came the sound of shouts and gunshots, barely heard above the thunder.
“That was a damn convict!” McMasters chest heaved. “Come on, let's see if we can help whoever they're fighting!” If there was one convict here, there must be others ahead, and by the sounds, maybe they were in trouble. He didn't even pause to think of what they might be getting into.
* * *
Chapter Twelve
For just an instant, Wanda could hear the sounds of yells and gunfire in front of her. Michael had made it! She raised her hand in the air to signal the women nearest the other guard, then pointed the little pistol at the guard next to her and shot him in the head. She didn't even have to aim much; he was less than three yards away, trudging along with his head bowed to avoid the relentless rain. He fell without a sound.
Peering through sheets of blowing water, she thought she saw the other guard go down. “Here, take this!” she shouted to the woman next to her, thrusting the other pistol into her hand. She slashed through the ropes binding her and appropriated the dead guard's shotgun. Then she ran along the line slashing at the rope that bound the other women together. Some of the women only then realized what was happening. The noise of the storm had obscured the shots.
“Spread out and move forward!” she commanded, hoping the girls would fight. If revenge was a motive, surely they would. “Those with weapons up front, the rest of you follow. Hurry!” She led the way through a tangle of sodden brush, hanging on to vines and tree trunks to avoid being blown off her feet by the wind, and trying to separate sounds of the fight from storm noise. It was almost impossible.
The file of chained blacks had been following the females. The first inkling Jason had that the battle had been joined was the sight of several women moving separately, free of their bonds. He stopped and listened, then made out individual shots over the roar of thunder.
Now! he thought. He blasted the one guard belonging to Burley's faction in the back, and then yelled at the blacks. “Get yourself free. Hurry!"
Preacher Johnson unlocked his chains and then ran down the line freeing others. “Follow Jason,” he told each one as the chains dropped away. “Go after those sorry rednecks and kill the motherfuckers! God can forgive us later!"
He accepted the weapon Jason appropriated from the dead guard and followed him forward. “Don't run off into the woods,” Preacher warned the others as they moved. “There's monsters out there worse than Burley. You gotta fight.” He knew they would, unarmed or not. Anything was better than slavery.
The blinding rain would make it easier than he had ever hoped to get his men in close to Burley and his crew. May God damn that sorry bastard! Ahead
of him, he saw Jason raise his weapon and fire and he followed like an avenging black angel, looking for targets.
Burley was no strategist, but even over the intermittent crash of thunder, he could tell by the ragged volume of fire after Goober was cut down that there wasn't much opposition in front of them. He retreated just far enough to meet the bulk of his force and quickly organized them into a staggered skirmish line. He sent one man back to warn the guards accompanying the blacks and females, then urged his men forward. He hung back near the rear, watching for Jason. When he found him, he intended to kill him on the spot for leading them into this ambush.
Burley was elated that the opposition crumbled quickly, especially as the few men he could keep track of in the storm flushed their foe from concealing brush and saw they were almost all women. Fuck Jason and his society. When this was over, he would have a harem.
Burley could see only individual clashes for the most part. The gale driven rain and heavy undergrowth made it almost impossible to see more than a few yards in any direction. The only way Burley sensed victory was a quick lessening of gunshots. He passed the body of a woman who had been almost decapitated by a shotgun blast to the neck, then another leaning against a tree trunk clutching a torn arm. He kicked her weapon away.
He began yelling for his men to gather around him in a little area partially cleared by the recent fall of a huge oak. In ones and twos, they began gathering as they heard his calls over the raging storm. He began sending some of them back out to round up the rest of his men, not knowing yet that they would meet an opposing force in their rear. He noticed that none of Jason's followers were joining up and began raging anew at his treachery.
Michael killed the first convict he saw with an easy shot to the chest; he saw the next spin and fall, losing his weapon as he went down, but it was all downhill from there. More convicts broke through the brush to either side of him. He fired at one of them, missed, and then his whole right arm went numb as the convict whirled and fired back. The shot hit the action of his rifle and ricocheted, plowing through his bicep like a hot drill bit. He ducked as another bullet cut past his head. He plunged away, trying for concealment. The shot, which had wounded him, left him defenseless except for his sidearm. He made a few yards, then stumbled and fell over a rotted log. At the last minute he managed to draw his pistol and fire up into the chest of the pursuing convict. The convict tripped over the same log as he fell on top of Michael, bubbling blood from his mouth.
