Banshee

by Terry Maggert

  —Bulwark Archival Materials, Access Date 96 A.R.

  10

  Trinity Outpost, August 10, 2074 A.D.

  “He’s awake.” Moss Eilert looked up from his desk to see Delandra standing inside his office. She leaned against his doorway with the insouciance of a perpetual flirt, and Moss had to admit, it was difficult to ignore her obvious charms. Delandra was a lush blonde in her mid-thirties, who still paid exorbitant amounts for makeup, Dallas Cowboys sportswear, and tight pants. Moss looked past her lazy smile and tempting beauty to her sky blue eyes, which radiated keen intelligence and good humor that was impossible to ignore. Delandra was an incorrigible seductress, but she was also the finest doctor that the inland territory had seen since the fall of the Old State. In point of fact, Delandra was even better than the documented physicians Moss read about, because she did more with far less, and often under combat conditions that involved terms like wounded by a demon and poisoned by unknown animal from hell. As far as Moss was concerned, she was worth her weight in medicine, and she proved it month after month.

  “How is he?” Moss rumbled, putting his pen down. Even after the world went to shit, paperwork was still the bane of the military.

  She stepped forward and assumed the stance of a doctor delivering news. “Conscious, but weak. I’ve stabilized him, rehydrated him, and debrided that wound. I’ve never seen anyone survive a claw of that size, let alone one that went completely through his body. I can only assume that the tip was outside his skin when the venom released from the gland.”

  Nearly all of the invading creatures from hell were toxic, and many had secondary glands in each digit that would spasm upon puncturing their prey. The results were usually death in one of two forms; one being instant, and the other being that the wounded wished they were instantly dead. The lingering effects of the poisons unzipped humans at a cellular level, making hemorrhagic fevers seem like a charming derivative of the common cold. “He asked to speak to whoever’s in charge. I didn’t give him your name, but said that could be arranged. While he was unconscious, I stripped him and searched for weapons. Just to be safe.”

  “Did you find any?” Moss knew that it was a dangerous world. Delandra was no fool.

  She winked. “Only the one between his legs, and that ain’t hurting anyone.” She pulled her lips down in a tiny mock frown as Moss guffawed. Her shame was nonexistent, and he loved it.

  “I’ll be over in ten. Find Saavin and tell her I want her there with me.” With a final smile, Delandra left, and the commodore wondered what their visitor would bring. Nothing good, I bet, he mused, and returned to finish his last task before leaving the closeness of his office.

  11

  New Madrid, August 10, 2074 A.D.

  Harriet Fleming was tired. Her hair seemed less chestnut and more gray with each passing week, and it didn’t help that she was a born worrier. She had to be. As the Grange President, she had more than 3000 people in her care. If you considered the outliers, nearly twice that many lived under the defensive umbrella of New Madrid, and none of them could take her seriously if she broke down now. She paused on the dusty street to crack her back, leaning with a groan that made her painfully aware of every one of her forty-six years. She couldn’t—no, wouldn’t, she corrected herself—let up now. New Madrid was coming apart at the seams; she could feel it. There were deep circles under her brown eyes, and a sense of penetrating sadness that followed her like a curse. Many nights, she slept sitting up in a chair at her small home, lonely and missing her sons and husband, all killed during a vicious raid three years earlier. She could still remember the feel of Clay’s hands as he hugged her and the boys. It was a poignant ghost that could bring tears to her eyes at the most inopportune times, but she latched her sadness away like a child’s blanket in a dusty trunk. There would be time for wallowing in the next life, but not here.

  Not now. Kicking dirt as she scuffed her way to the Grange Hall in the center of town, she idly wondered how much bluster that idiot Colvin Watley would bring to bear. She grimaced at the thought of facing his pompous stage craft and oratorical skills. Watley was a big man, but soft, and his gifts were limited to swaying people to do his bidding, but never actually getting his own delicate hands dirtied with anything as common as labor. He fussed with his black hair constantly in a series of little assured pats, even touching the graying sideburns occasionally. His broad, confident face was made handsome by a wide, ready smile and blue eyes that missed nothing. He carried an operatic bearing that was as contrived as his folksy demeanor. Harriet knew he was as dangerous as the creatures that came shrieking out of the ground once a month. He just did it with such panache that no one around him saw the threat. They saw the false concern, the urging to look for “a better way,” as he was fond of spouting, knowing full well that the only options he would present involved him taking over sole control of New Madrid, and the second idea was akin to suicide. At least in the mind of Harriet, and some of the other senior residents.

  Watley advocated something different every few months; the only thing that remained constant with his endless maneuvering was the heretical nature of his plans. His radical concepts of safety were always buttressed by the fact that he would regretfully take command of this entire community. After all, he assured them, he only cared about what was best for everyone. Harriet took another breath to calm herself; she’d managed to renew her disgust for Watley with the smallest memory of his vicious machinations. Sooner or later, I’ll have to treat him like an enemy, she mused. The only difference is he didn’t crawl out of that stinking pit.

  The Grange Hall was the boisterous heart of their lives, and it was packed tonight. Many attendees held glasses of the ubiquitous mint and honey tea that was a fixture in every New Madrid home. The apiaries produced honey at an alarming rate, and mint was used as a cover crop on virtually all rooftop gardens. Most of the citizens agreed, if the hell spawn wiped the town out, only two things were guaranteed to survive: cockroaches and mint. The audience was divided roughly according to their divisions, Harriet noted, picking out the rangy group of herdsmen who clustered near the rear of the building. The electrical engineers huddled together, twenty-five strong, some still wearing safety goggles on their heads. Turkey wranglers and the duck pond crew looked around cheerily from the forward left rows of seats; it was doubtful that anything short of an explosion could ruin their good moods. They tended to be upbeat and thankful to be out of the long, low chicken house that Harriet personally found to be the loudest place on earth. Their leaders, Amber Rutterbach and Emily Fleury, were telling a story that involved hand gestures imitating some sort of mass bird escape. Both of the young women were the leaders of the Bird Squad, tending every manner of feathered creature necessary to feed and clothe the town. Various knots of weavers, recyclers, and woodworkers leaned heads together in low speech, but she was pleased that, for the most part, everyone made eye contact or smiled in her general direction. Even the usually shy master of cattle, Donell Waterman, offered her a cheery grin. His new bride, Cassy, sat next to him, magnificently pregnant and glowing with good humor.

  Harriet slid wordlessly into her chair after giving terse nods to the other council members; some were her friends, some not, but they worked together well as long as Colvin Watley didn’t interfere. Paul Harrah offered a polite nod, then looked back at the notes before him. Harrah was far better with horses than people, but his wizardry at predicting food needs made him invaluable to the council. Nicole Severin smiled neutrally as Harriet passed her to take a seat. The rotund head baker was florid and steady, but reserved. Where her allegiances lay outside of producing great food was anyone’s guess, but Harriet remained hopeful that good sense would prevail in the kitchens as well as the Grange. She silently hoped for a night free from the unceasing snide attacks, but when Watley’s head emerged from the back door to a minor commotion, that hope was shot, along with her prospects for keeping the meeting short. Ever the showman, Colvin made his way past syc
ophants and detractors alike, a smug grin on his face as he settled into the front row. The prime spot had been saved by his stoolie, a pudgy, forgettable blonde named Wesley Yarnell. His close-set brown eyes never left Harriet as she raised her hand to bring the meeting to order. Yarnell was a weasel of the first order, but his ability to procure viable salvage items made his stable of friends considerable. Harriet hated to admit that neither Watley nor Yarnell were worth anything to New Madrid, but their inexplicable abilities always kept them just out of her spotlight. Soon, Harriet thought. One day, I’ll hoist both of you on a pole in front of the opening to hell, and we’ll see who comes to save your slimy asses.

  French didn’t miss any of the emotion that flitted across Harriet’s face. She might have been a cagey poker player, but her disgust for Yarnell and Colvin was palpable if you were paying attention, which was something that French did without thinking. His observational skills were as keen as his ability to fight, but because he was regarded as some sort of charming brute, that aspect of his personality often went unnoticed. That was fine by him. French sat calmly in a chair with no papers or folders in his hands. Let the other citizens wave their conclusions about as the killing moon drew closer; he had no need of such trappings, and the only notebook he owned stayed at his bedside, closed to the world, save for his eyes. French knew exactly what their combat capability was at any given moment. He knew the extent of any injuries, how much ammunition was on hand, and when a train could be expected with additional supplies. He even knew if any of his militia were pregnant and how that could hinder their potential for defense. Babies were an unparalleled cause for joy, and he removed pregnant shooters from the forward positions as soon as he found out. Their future was too important to risk losing two people at one time.

  French nodded politely as the entire Patty-Mac clan filed in their rows. Their owlish, unblinking eyes took in the low hum around them, but largely, the entirety of the family, nearly twenty strong, was silent. The Patty-Mac’s were the finest rifle shots in the entire territory, bar none, and after nearly fifteen years of active defense in key positions, they were a fixture in the militia. The family had sprung into life when two sisters from the eastern mountains of Kentucky brought their name, McCoy, to the ruins of Nashville, where they met and subsequently married two cousins originally from India. The union of the Patel and McCoy families created lots of healthy babies, a desire to see them live to adulthood, and a natural ability with weapons of any type. The family fetishized their use of long rifles until it was simply assumed that each child would, from a young age, take up the trade of hunting and defending their declared home of New Madrid. They were, French mused, quiet, industrious, wryly funny, and utter death with rifles at any range up to a half mile, it seemed. Of his best platoon, no less than nine were Patty-Macs and, if he was being honest, the eleven year old twin girls, Alinya and Jaska, were going to be better than anyone in the entire community once they grew a bit more. French considered himself an excellent shot, but that family took marksmanship as seriously as breathing. Their use as sniper teams had saved more lives than anyone could count. The family functioned as a single unit during each killing moon attack, and nothing escaped their punishing fire.

  It was a full house. There was less than a week until the next dark, moonless night, and preparations were well underway. Stocks of clean bandages and medical supplies were being stationed at each concentric ring that hemmed the scalded sands around Underneath. French had noticed the scent of fresh cut lumber earlier; that meant that the two shooting platforms destroyed last month had been rebuilt. His best guns were positioned there, as well as key fallback positions. In the year since his arrival, French had moved steadily up the ladder of the militia, making reasonable decisions based on sound tactics, rather than a lust for instant reprisal. After seeing his first nasty series of traps decimate the first wave of hellhounds nearly eight months earlier, each subsequent element of his defensive stratagem had been integrated more or less without discussion. He was, quite simply, the best military mind in the community, and Harriet Fleming planned to ride his ability into the ground if need be. They couldn’t afford to hemorrhage lives faster than recruits could be trained, simply because French was a relative newcomer to their town.

  With a clack of her gavel, Harriet brought the meeting to order. Several hundred people descended into that state of murmur that precluded conversation, but was steeped in the emotional temperature of the room. With an attack days away, tensions were high. Expressions ran from curious to worry. Occasional flashes of anger could be seen in the crowd. Just because the end of the world was nigh didn’t mean that neighbors could get along.

  “French? Would you report on our general state of readiness?” Harriet asked before anyone else could speak. She wanted to command this meeting. The last two had been little more than shouting matches, thanks to Colvin Watley’s oblique insults.

  The reluctant man stood, gathered his thoughts, and then turned to face the bulk of the room. His hands were held at his sides in an unconscious gesture of readiness. He took one sharp look at Colvin Watley and spoke. “We’ve had three salvage trains in the past weeks. After doing some trading, we’ve got full stores on reload supplies for the long guns. The miners who are working the collapsed cliffs up the Mississippi River Valley are producing plenty of lead, and we are still trading at a profit with the Colorado group. Their copper and molybdenum supplies don’t appear to be in any danger of running out, but even so, our engineers have traded for an another wire extruder. We can make thirty percent more ammunition, and we’ll have no less than seven months’ worth in reserve at any time. We need about three more weeks to get comfortable for the fall hunting season; you know how we go through rounds taking down whitetail and pronghorn.” Since the Rising, antelope and bison had spread east again, and New Madrid put away a massive store of meat each autumn, by harvesting the herds that moved southwest along the ridges. By late October, every smokehouse would be filled, and families could relax somewhat knowing that starving during the long winter was only a distant possibility. “We’ve got two more suppliers from the Great Lakes and the upper plains on their way.”

  “What about the fuel train?” someone shouted from the back. It was an engineer, but French couldn’t identify the voice.

  “We’re good. I sent word ahead to the new Minot oilers, and they’re anxious to trade. The Addison family oil business grew too big for one boss, so they split into three small refineries. It wasn’t an acrimonious breakup, and they were all trained by the same two Air Force fuel specialists who started the refinery twenty years ago. They assured me in most vigorous terms that they could pump oil out of the ground until the sun burns out.”

  A ripple of laughter spread through the hall; the notoriously foul language of the entire Addison clan was a well-known fact, right down to the young. Their penchant for creative swearing was only shadowed by their love of homemade liquor; they didn’t just refine oil for a living. The most legendary hangover of French’s life came after an evening drinking what the Addison family considered a cherry liqueur. French could have easily used the bottle of clear booze to kill demons and, in retrospect, that’s exactly how he felt the next day.

  “As you might have guessed, gunpowder is still easy to make, but hard to transport. That’s why I’ve asked the Great Lakes gunners to double our order for the next year. Even with some loss due to piracy and weather, we have dry storage that is easily protected. I would prefer that we rely on our own engineers for the supply, but until we find a more reliable source of sulfur, that isn’t going to happen.” French pointed to Bettina Laswell and smiled. “Betty tells me she’s looking into sources out east, and I know if there’s any nearby, she’ll find them.” Bettina smiled grimly. It was a chokepoint that New Madrid had battled for decades, and he meant to eliminate the need for constant exploration and trade of gunpowder components as soon as possible.

  “We’re waiting on Cynthia Pennyroyal’s bunch to sho
w up. She sent a runner ahead to let us know they’ve opened up Louisville,” French said.