Banshee

by Terry Maggert

  A soft gasp went through the crowd. A whole new city being reclaimed meant an influx of goods that were badly needed.

  French grinned. “My sentiments exactly. Her scout told us the entire city was untouched, and she’ll give us first crack at anything she pulls out of there. I sent back a list with the runner, but even if they make excellent time, it might be a month before we see them. Could be three if the city is as dangerous as she seems to think.”

  “What about the guns? Will they bring any guns?” someone shouted from the left.

  “What about tools? We can’t run the mill without new gears, or at least high-grade steel to cut the new parts,” another voice, this one angry, carried from the back.

  French saw the speaker was Curt Moscowitz, an engineer who landed in New Madrid less than a year ago. He’d proven worth his weight in gold, designing a mill that made life a hell of a lot easier for the entire town, but the primitive shafts and gears he was using were wearing out faster than they could be replaced. “Curt, your materials are first on the list after what is always first on the list, guns. I sent drawings and a pretty broad description of what we might use. The scout said they were salvaging an old appliance factory, so I’m fairly certain you’ll have a lot of items to work with.”

  Curt nodded thankfully and sat down, mollified at the thought that he might make progress with his worst problem.

  “Now, about the guns. We traded for more two trains ago. The Patty-Macs”—French indicated the family, who sat stolidly watching the procedure—“already have the new rifles sighted in. We got eleven more 30.06, a pair of Glocks, and three Remington 1100s in twelve gauge. That’s a lotta steel for one train, and before anyone asks, we paid dearly for it, but the weapons are in pristine condition and the ammunition for all three is quite common. We can do our own reloads on all of them, and I secured spare barrels to boot.”

  Here it comes, French thought as Colvin Watley rose to his feet. The buffoon wove his fingers together and rested his hands on a belly that sagged over a tired belt.

  “I know I speak for everyone when I say that acquiring such . . . quality weapons is a real coup for our militia.” Watley’s tone left no doubt about his conclusions, but Harriet let him speak. He’d eventually hang himself once his ego got in the way. “Might we find out exactly what our community has paid for this augmentation to our already robust defense?” He beamed at the room with the patience of a favored grandfather.

  French didn’t hold back, since there was nothing to gain from dancing around the truth. He knew what hornet nest he was about to kick. “I guaranteed one-fifth of a single field from the northeast section, up to ten acres, from now until October, or whenever we pull the last harvest.” Some crops continued to produce heroically until snow fell. Small, productive fields like the one French had just carved apart for materials were the backbone of the entire New Madrid food supply.

  The eruption was instantaneous. Watley wiped his eyes with a practiced gesture while patting the air for calm. Harriet couldn’t interdict his call for silence without appearing petty, so she seethed, while the other four council members let alarm wash over their faces.

  “Did I hear you correctly? Twenty . . . percent . . . until October?” Colvin’s voice dripped with derision. “French, I know you’re somewhat new here, but our growing season, even during a fine year? Well, it ends in October. You’ve just given away a fifth of our canning and drying vegetables from a significant field.” He turned to the crowd, whose murmur was growing into a buzz of locusts. They were just as hungry for a sacrificial lamb, but French stayed silent.

  His patience went unnoticed by the smug Watley, who had dismissed the militiaman as little more than a talented hillbilly. “I only care about this community,” Watley began, “and so I find it might be prudent at this time—”

  “You didn’t let me finish,” French said. His voice was just loud enough to carry.

  “How’s that?” Wesley Yarnell asked. It was the first he’d spoken since entering the Grange. His tone was cautious. Ever the paranoid, he sensed danger that Colvin’s bluster would mute.

  “I said you didn’t let me finish my report. About our trading.”

  Quiet descended on the hall.

  Watley waved a hand magnanimously before Harriet could interject. That time, Amy Delacroix hissed at the grandstanding Watley. Amy was a council member, married, in her mid-thirties, and brooked little idiocy in the name of politics. With two sons and a daughter, she didn’t have the luxury of swanning about while the beasts of hell were scheduled for a monthly shopping trip to restock whatever they used for larders.

  “It isn’t your decision, Colvin, no matter how highly you think of your own position here!” Amy barked.

  There were shouts of assent throughout the hall, and Colvin knew he was in danger of losing whatever edge he’d had.

  “My sincere apology, Councilwoman. I spoke out of turn, and I respectfully yield to Mr. Heavener.” Watley pointedly turned away from Amy Delacroix, who hadn’t missed the implication that control of the floor was his to grant.

  While Colvin stood with a beatific smile on his face, Wesley studied the adversarial council member for a long moment before affixing his gaze on French.

  The second set of doors to the Grange swung slightly outward, and a smiling face poked through. One of French’s best engineers, a stump of a guy known as Ralston, gave the thumbs up gesture and then closed the door behind him.

  French addressed the hall again, this time in a louder voice. “I also gave the salvage team one of our Hecate fifty cals, one hundred rounds, and—”

  The tumult was instantaneous. That was heresy of the first order. People had died in the expedition to St. Louis that procured the .50s, and there were still raw nerves over the entire operation. French had gone too far, and Colvin leapt into the fray

  “You what? On whose authority? Your own?” Colvin boomed, and even Harriet Fleming stayed silent. She couldn’t defend any loss of the irreplaceable big guns. The .50s were the only long rifles capable of stopping the second and third wave beasts that had always been the most lethal. They’d just robbed Peter to pay Paul, and the uproar was deafening. “Do you know how many lives will be lost from your act of stupidity? Madam Chairman, I move to replace this . . . man—”

  “I still wasn’t finished,” French said, and then repeated it twice, louder each time. A ripple of calm eventually overtook the noise, and silence fell when French lifted a single hand high. Something silver flashed, dangling from his index finger. “I also gave away unlimited rations, safe harbor for up to twenty salvagers, and all of the supplies they could carry for five years each time they arrive to trade, up to four times a year.”

  The silence that fell was heavy and ripe with disbelief. There simply had to be another side to this idiocy, said the faces of many of the more seasoned residents. They stayed quiet, and waited for the other shoe to drop. Here and there, they shushed less disciplined members of the community, until the pressure in the room built and Colvin Watley was compelled to shrug helplessly at French, who held the floor without saying a word.

  “I negotiated, as I am charged to do, to the best of my ability. If you want me to step down, I’ll do so immediately, and I’ll even nominate Colvin to take my place. I’m sure you would all be quite comfortable knowing he was in charge of your defenses.”

  Nervous laughter pattered through the crowd. Watley pasted an amiable grin on his face. Wesley Yarnell was febrile with hatred, but French ignored him and went on.

  “I gave up such things for something we need even more than food.” With that cryptic statement, a noise roared from just outside the hall and every head turned in awe. It was a sound not heard for more than six years, when the last of the working farm vehicles had surrendered to the inevitable ravages of time. Both doors flew open at the hands of Ralston and his youngest son. Between them purred a gray and red century-old Ford tractor. The rumble of the small engine caromed off the walls of
the Grange, and the first wisps of exhaust drifted across the noses of every agricultural worker packed into the hall. It was ambrosia to their aching backs, and the cheer that exploded from hundreds of throats was deafening. It took nearly two full minutes for the whooping to die down to a level where conversation was possible.

  Colvin Watley wasn’t done. He raised his hands with a sad smile and finally succeeded in asking French a question that couldn’t be avoided.

  “How many acres are we farming right now?” Watley asked.

  After several catcalls about the softness of Watley’s hands, French shrugged. “Maybe a thousand? I don’t know, Colvin. I get fed because I kill, not because I grow things.”

  Watley nodded sagely. “And how many acres can that single, small tractor hope to work? Don’t get me wrong, son,” he said in a perfect tone of dismissal, “I know you think you’ve just changed our lives, but it would take more than one vehicle to impact a community as large as ours.”

  Yarnell sneered at French. Even Amy Delacroix seemed to be listening.

  There was another growing murmur, and French once again held his hand aloft. “Do you see these?”

  Watley nodded patiently. “Yes, we see the keys, Mr. Heavener. What’s your point?”

  “Can you count them?” Before anyone could speak, French announced, “I didn’t trade away an elite weapon and masses of food for a single tractor. We don’t have any need for a tractor.”

  “We don’t?” Harriet asked, bemused.

  “No, but we can use four.” The remaining engines started up outside, and the cheers broke free again, wild and unfiltered. French shot Watley and Yarnell a look that told them both he was watching every move they made as he jingled the spare keys in a slow, gloating motion that was at odds with his usual quiet demeanor.

  Watley looked stricken. He’d just spent his political capitol on a failed coup and been undressed in front of the entire community. The death knell of his ascent was all around him and, for the first time in recent memory, he had nowhere to hide. Yarnell’s face was nearly dizzy with hate, but he was a sycophant who looked solely to the looming blowhard next to him. Both worked their jaws in silence as the cheers continued to erupt. French began to stride toward the exit, handing the key ring to the outstretched hands of Harriet Fleming. Her wry smile told him she was aware of how badly he’d outplayed the acquisitive Watley, but there was an undertone of danger brought on by this display of cunning. French was no longer a bumpkin; he knew that, but then again, in his mind, he never was the simpleton they assumed him to be. With a final look at Watley and Yarnell, French stepped out into the desultory air, resigning that no matter what, from this point forward, he would never turn his back on those two again.

  12

  Trinity Outpost, August 10, 2074 A.D.

  Delandra made shushing motions as Moss Eilert stomped into the medical bays.

  “Jesus, Moss, do you have to punish the floor? Take it easy, big guy.” Delandra was only half kidding. She was ferociously protective of her area, and more importantly, her patients.

  Suitably reproved, the commodore lightened his step and waved Delandra forward to the curtain that acted as a wall for the recovering visitor. With practiced ease, she drew the gauzy fabric back to reveal an elevated bed, a night stand, and an intravenous fluid bag held aloft on a chrome pole that had once served to sell clothes in a long-forgotten department store. Sunlight flooded the room and the air was still but not stuffy; Delandra kept air circulating with fans and the walls were thick and cool to the touch.

  “Hi, friend. I see you’re back with us?” Moss said to the man who sat relatively alert, if pale and drawn. He looked tall lying down, was painfully thin, and had unremarkable black hair and intelligent brown eyes. Sun damage told of a life on the move, in weather, and his hands were long and thin. A smile of thanks crossed his sunken face, the expression weak but present. Saavin arrived quietly behind Delandra and gave the man a single terse nod. His eyes widened with recognition as he allowed a smile to break loose on his gaunt features.

  “I think I see someone I should be thanking, or would be, if I could only stand up.” His voice was deep, but rusty with disuse.

  Moss waved Saavin forward. “This is your savior, indeed. She . . . well, along with Banshee, they were able to carry you overland and through the air. Got you here just in time to treat that nasty toxin and wound.”

  Saavin dipped her head, acknowledging the praise, but remaining silent.

  “Through the air? How?” The patient looked out the window with curiosity.

  Saavin spoke up. “Cradled in the arms of my dragon, Banshee. He carried you.”

  A long sigh escaped from the man, who looked back out the window again, seeking something known only to him. When he turned back to the commodore, his voice was reverent. “If there are dragons here, then I must be at the right place.”

  On cue, a deep bass hooting penetrated the sanctum of the medical area. It ranged into a groan between pleasure and pain, and then trailed off with a blasted snort and thump.

  “What was that? Dragon?”

  Moss smiled. “That was”—he craned his neck out to identify the beast that had made such a commotion—“Dauntless, being scratched on the back with a rake by his rider Bertline.”

  A robust male voice drifted in, telling the beast to lay still while his talons were examined for cracks. It seemed dragons had need of maintenance, just like any soldier.

  Moss smiled again, all amiability. “There are many dragons here. And soldiers.” He let that dangle, an implied threat, since no one really knew the purpose of this interloper. “And perhaps we could start with your name, and where you’re from?” The last was gentler, less threatening.

  After a soft laugh, the man said, “I was about to say that’s a long story, but knowing how I feel, I think I’ve got the time. My name is Orontes, and I do not know where I was born. I can tell you where I have been, and more importantly, I would explain why I am here.”

  Delandra nodded slightly. “Go on. You can speak freely here, Orontes. We are friends.”

  He nodded gratefully as a ripple of discomfort passed through the muscles of his face. “Sorry, I’m still . . . poisoned?” His tone was uncertain.

  Moss confirmed with a finger pointed at Orontes’ shoulder. “A tooth, or claw, and a damned big one. It was embedded within you when Saavin and Banshee saw you approach. Do you remember how it happened?”

  After a shaky sip of water, Orontes grunted in disgust. “I wish I could forget. It was a creature I’ve not seen before, and I am sorry to report that I am something of an expert on the hunters that stream upward from the guts of the earth. It was a lizard, maybe. Lizard-like, in the very least, and fast. I tried to get my back to the rocks but . . .” His voice trailed off and he coughed slightly. “Suffice it to say, I was well-armed, experienced in combat, and still, it nearly spitted me before I could put a sword in it.”

  “Sword? You had no sword when you arrived,” Moss said.

  “It is in the side of the animal that wounded me. I don’t remember much past getting on my mount and riding west, then south. I hoped my horse would smell water and drag me to safety. I never imagined that I would end up in the one place I hoped to find. Actually,” he amended, “hope had nothing to do with my destination. I was sent.” Orontes leaned back slightly, indicating he was done speaking. Sweat covered his brow.

  Moss silenced everyone with a wave. “By whom?” he asked. His eyes narrowed.

  Orontes answered immediately, sensing the threat he portrayed. “New Madrid, in the Mizzou territory. The commander of their militia sent me east because he knows that their time is short.”

  “New Madrid, you say? Can you show me on a map?” Moss asked.

  Delandra handed him a well-creased map of what had been the central United States.

  The map was unfolded onto Orontes’ bed, where he peered at it with great care. He finally pointed without touching the delicate paper.
“Here.”

  Everyone crowded near, looking at the empty spot on the faded pink section of map. There was nothing, not even a road, but Orontes nodded with absolute conviction when Moss lifted a brow for clarification.

  Delandra said, “Okay . . . that’s the backside of nowhere, and I say this as a lifelong Texan who comes from a family of Texans. There isn’t even a highway. Or a major river.” She looked closer. “I don’t even see a creek.”

  Orontes frowned. “It is isolated, or rather, it was. There is a large creek now, more like a small river; it’s the source of power for the town. There are nearly 3000 people living and working in that place that isn’t really a place.”

  “Why build there?” Saavin asked. “The people work? What do they do?”

  Orontes smiled grimly. “They all have the same job, Saavin. Or, at least they are all a part of the same effort, I should say. There are remarkable farmlands that can support double, perhaps even triple that population, and all within an hour’s walk of the creek. But it is not without a price, and so it would be fair to say that every man, woman, and child in New Madrid is a soldier in a highly-specialized army. You see, New Madrid’s farms are dangerously close to something new that has come into being since the earthquakes and the fall of the world.”

  “What, exactly, are the soldiers of New Madrid fighting? I thought that place was empty?” Delandra asked with some reservation.

  Orontes shook his head sadly. “I wish it were, Delandra. Let me assure you, less than one mile from the outer edges of New Madrid is an opening to hell itself. And every dark night of the moon, the entire township takes up arms to fight against whatever it is that comes howling up from the blackness to rip and tear. Livestock, horses, people. It matters not to those beasts. They are quite beautiful, actually, perfectly designed to bring the fires of hell to the cool green of New Madrid, and they do it in waves, every single month without fail. The militia is quite good—they’ve become experts in stopping the small and medium creatures; even the occasional bruiser who lumbers up from that reeking hole. The bullets find them and rip them to shreds, but not before they kill, or maim. Every single month, do you understand?” Orontes’ eyes were hot with rage. “The hellspawn drag anything they can capture into that blackness, and not once has anyone made it out alive.”