Through Darkest America-Extended Version

by Neal Barrett Jr

  He watched from his window as long as he could, following the winks of gunfire out into the night. Now and then he caught the tail-end of a command, or a traded insult. When his foot hurt too much to stand on anymore he limped back to his corner and curled up on the hard floor.

  Sleep didn't come easily. His foot throbbed something awful. It ought to be getting better, but it wasn't. It was hot to the touch, now, and pounding all by itself, like a small heart. The pain was starting to move right up the back of his leg, past the ankle, and he didn't like that at all. The poison from a bad wound, if it wasn't clean, could go right up through your body. You could lose your whole leg before you knew it. Unless he got some help, that might just hap-pen. Only, where the hell was he going to get any help in here?

  On the edge of pain he wondered how the battle would turn out and whether the Rebels would take the city or not. If they did, then what? Suppose they swept the Loyalists clear out of the west, and then pushed them all the way back east, too, and took over the government?

  To keep his mind off the pain, he tried to list in his head what was good and bad about both sides. He sure couldn't think of much difference. One was about as bad as the other. He'd heard Lathan wanted to make things better for folks, but that didn't mean anything—just saying it. As near as he could see, it was Lathan he wanted to better.

  Things hadn't been too bad, really, before anyone had even heard of Lathan. Most people had enough to eat and clothes on their backs. And the government had been trying to do things. Why, if there hadn't been a war, they might've even gotten to where farmers and ranchers could get horses. When would that happen, now? No matter who won, horses were going to be scarcer than ever.

  He hurt too much to keep up with the list. It didn't make sense, anyway. All he could figure for sure was that people had been better off when there wasn't any fighting going on. And you had to say one thing about the government; they wanted to do things for the country. You couldn't forget there was still Silver Island. And that was something. Maybe it was even one thing worth fighting to keep. As long as you had something like that, you had the hope of something better, anyway.

  Whatever happened, he couldn't forget that. Even thinking about what the government was doing to him right now. Hell, the Rebels would have done the same. And they didn't have any Silver Island for folks to go to, either. It was, truly, the only thing he could think of that was really right with the world. He thanked the Lord that Carolee was there and didn't even have to know anything about this.

  He dozed, finally, thinking about her. Only he saw her now like he remembered her, on a warm, lazy day floating down the canal on the way to the fair at Bluevale. It was a good thing to think about, and for a while his foot didn't hurt anymore.

  Pain brought him up again in the bleak, dull hour of dawn. His eyes were pasted together and his throat was dry. He couldn't stand the smell of himself. He tried to recall when he'd had a bath in clean, hot water.

  There was food again, and a jug of water. He wolfed down the cold bread and meat, and saved most of the water. His foot was worse than ever. The skin was red and swollen and hurt just to touch. He couldn't stand on it at all without near passing out from the pain. Crawling over to the window, he pulled himself up and ran his fingers over the surface of each of the thick wooden bars. They were smooth and slick with age, and there was nothing rough enough to pull loose. For an hour he dug his fingernails into one tiny split in the wood, standing on one foot and prying at the spot until his hands bled. When the piece finally came free it was no more than a splinter, but it would have to do.

  He crawled back to the wall, exhausted, clutching his prize. There was no use putting it off, he decided. It wasn't going to get any easier. Using a little of the water, he cleaned off the top of the ugly wound as best he could, wincing at his own easy touch. Lordee, if it hurt that much just to gentle the thing…

  He knew what was coming, so he stuffed his shirt in his mouth and bit down hard. Then he dug the sharp splinter right in the middle of the fester. He swallowed the pain and ground his teeth into the cloth. Sweat stung his eyes and red and black suns swam before his vision. The ugly yellow poison poured out of the wound and he forced it through the angry red skin until no more would come. Then he washed the whole area clean with the rest of his water and bandaged it as well as he could with a strip from his shirt. When he was finished, he was drained clear down to the bone. His hands trembled and he couldn't hold back the tears any longer.

  Patrols headed out from the city in the afternoon, but they didn't get far. There were more Rebel cookfires on the horizon than a man could count.

  In midafternoon, with the sun behind them, the Rebels attacked in force. They swarmed down on the city like a river in flood, until there was no bare ground beneath them. They shouted as they came, one mighty voice that swept all sound before them.

  In the vanguard was the cavalry with green banners flying and hooves sending thunder over the city. There were more mounts before the wall that day than any man alive had ever seen. Behind them came the foot soldiers armed with swords, clubs, long ugly pikes, and every weapon imaginable. The Loyalists poured over the walls to meet them. When the two armies met, the din and cry was a terrible thing to hear. Howie watched, his foot forgotten for the moment. Nothing could match the pain before his eyes. He felt strangely uneasy, seeing the battle and having no part in it. Men were fighting and dying a few hundred yards away, while he stood at his window and watched. Somehow, it didn't seem right. You ought to be able to die without people watching.

  For a while, the rumor spread about the city that Lathan himself was there, leading his army. But no one could say whether or not this was so.

  Just before sundown the Rebels withdrew, and, less than an hour after that, attacked another side of the city. The battle there raged for nearly an hour. Then the Rebels withdrew to their camps, now bright with nightfires. No one cheered their retreat; everyone knew they had broken off the fight of their own will. The two terrible battles had been little more than probing actions to test the strength of the Loyalists. They would be back again, and soon.

  Howie wished Kari would come to see him again. He hated to admit it, but it was so. There was no way to forget what she did to him. He knew what would happen if she came. She'd start talking nonsense again and he'd get mad and blow his stack. But he wanted her there, anyway.

  His foot didn't feel so bad now and he could rest a little. He tried to stay awake, though, thinking she might come. She hadn't come until late, last time. For the first time in longer than he could remember, he felt a little like himself again. Like he could sit back and think, maybe—without worrying whether Pardo was going to get him into something where he'd get killed; or Klu or Jigger or someone would put a blade in his ribs just for fun.

  He laughed softly at his thoughts. It was sure a funny time to get feeling good, locked up with his foot all swollen and hungry and thirsty half the time. All that would pass, though. A couple of good meals and a week or two off his feet would take care of those problems. He wasn't really too worried about Lewis anymore. Kari wouldn't make up something like that, crazy as she was. Lewis could torture him some more, or kill him—but what'd be the point?

  Lewis and everyone else had plenty on their hands right now. He didn't think they'd be worrying over one prisoner who couldn't help or harm them, one way or the other.

  And if the Rebels broke through… He'd given some thought to that. When it happened—and he figured it would—he sure didn't intend waiting for an invitation to get away. Just how he'd bring that off he couldn't say. But there'd be a chance. And he'd take it.

  And after that? He wouldn't even let himself think about it. He wasn't even sure he knew how. He couldn't remember a time when he'd just done whatever he liked, or gone wherever he wanted to—without someone saying what he had to do.

  When they came for him it was in the early hours of the morning. He didn't even know they were there until they'd jerked
him up off the floor and set him on his feet. The first jolt of pain shot all the way up his leg and set him howling. He tried to pull away and tell them he couldn't walk; that it was all a big mistake, but they wouldn't listen. When he fell they just picked him up and started him off again. Or gave him a quick boot in the ribs to show they meant business. He couldn't go down the stairs so they dragged him most of the way; the bad foot hitting every step until it hit so many he couldn't feel it any more.

  Before they strapped him in the big oak chair they stripped him naked, not bothering to look for buttons, just ripping and tearing until everything was gone. There were two big logs this time and they strapped his ankles to both of them, stretching his legs wide and leaving a big open space in between. His senses were near drowning in pain, but exposing him like that brought him up again quickly. He was suddenly struck by a cold, terrible fear worse than any-thing he could remember.

  He called out again and again, telling them he didn't know anything, that he shouldn't be there. If they'd just listen to him they'd know that. Where was Lewis? All they had to do was ask Lewis. He'd tell them it was all a mistake.

  But they were gone, then, and there was no one in the room to listen. All he could hear was his own heartbeat. All he could feel was the pain coming back into his foot again, and the awful coldness of the room that went all the way to his bones.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  The waiting. That was it, he decided. The waiting was supposed to be the thing. Make him sit there naked and cold with his legs spread out and plenty of time to think about what they were going to do to him. So when they did finally come he'd be begging to tell them what they wanted to know.

  That's what scared him more than anything. Knowing that Lewis had lied about all of it—and maybe Kari, too— just to get him thinking everything was all right again. They'd set up the whole business just for this and he didn't know anything to tell anyone…

  His mind raced. Maybe there was something. Maybe he could make up something! Tell them he did see Pardo hide the guns. That Lewis was right—they were back there at the rise where they'd camped. He had watched Pardo and Kin and Jigger put them there when the troopers attacked. He'd seen the whole thing, but he was too scared to tell them before because he'd figured they'd think he had something to do with it, and that wasn't so.

  Would they believe that? They'd have to! Lordee, there wasn't anything else he could do!

  They wouldn't stop. Not right away. He might as well get used to that. They'd keep it up for a while, just to make sure. But they wouldn't do it too long. It wouldn't be as much. He'd keep telling it over and over and they'd—

  His heart stopped. The door opened behind him. Footsteps on the damp floor. More than one man. Two. Maybe more. The cold swept through him. He shook all over. Lewis, then. And the others. They'd start, now. What would they do first? The other foot? The same one? Oh God, not between his legs please don't let them do that!

  One of the men walked around in front of him. Howie had never seen him before.

  A soldier. Heavy brows, short hair, and a wide mouth. He stood perfectly still, studying Howie carefully. He squatted down and inspected the bottom of his foot. Howie winced, but the man didn't hurt him. He got up, left, then came back with a torch. Howie blinked in the sudden brightness. The soldier stood there another moment, holding the torch high. His face was like stone. Then he put the torch in a holder and went away. Howie heard him say something but couldn't hear what it was.

  "What!" The voice behind him roared. Howie jumped against his bonds.

  "Major Lewis … you responsible for this?"

  "Sir . . .”

  "Just answer, godamn you!" It was a harsh, rasping voice, like a man with something caught in his throat.

  "Sir . . ." Lewis hesitated. "I explained that. We questioned the boy about the guns …"

  "You did more than that, Major."

  "Sir, we had to establish—"

  "You had orders!" the man snapped. "The boy was not to be touched!"

  "Yes, sir. I'd like to point out . . ."

  "Don't you point out nothing to me, Major. What you do is get yourself out of this room. Fast. You hear?"

  The door opened, then closed again. Howie let out a long sigh of relief. He could have hollered out loud. He didn't know who the man was and didn't much care. He'd given Lewis pure hell for what he'd done, that was enough! They'd let him go, now. At least, there wouldn't be any more business with the pincers. Maybe he could…

  The soldier moved around in front of him again. This time the other man was with him. The soldier was helping him, like he couldn't walk well by himself. When they got in front of Howie, the soldier set a little stool down right between Howie's legs and helped the man down on it. The man looked up at him and smiled.

  "Hello, Howie Ryder. It's been a long time, boy."

  Howie stared. A little cry caught in his throat and died there. He knew it was really all over, now. He'd come all the way around again and there was no place else to go. He wasn't even scared anymore. He knew exactly who the soldiers had gone out to meet in their fancy uniforms and why he was there and what was going to happen.

  Jacob just sat there and smiled, with the terrible, ragged thing that wasn't a mouth anymore. His face was crossed with ugly white scars, and there were empty black holes where his eyes ought to be.

  "You know me, then," said Jacob, "that's good. I've been a long time looking, Howie. And I've thought about you. Reckon you've thought some about me, too."

  Jacob waited. His smile faded and his face went dark. "I want to hear you!"

  "I . . .” Howie found his voice. "I don't guess there's nothin' to say."

  Jacob looked pleased. "Dory here says you growed some. I guess you have. Don't sound like a boy anymore." He shook his head thoughtfully. "A lad sure fills out fast 'bout your age. Just springs up like a young tree . . .”

  Jacob stopped. Pain seemed to crawl quietly over his face, making the white scars move like live things. After a moment, the features relaxed again. "Dory remembers how you was, though," he said finally. "Got a good look at you when we was up to your Pa's. Not many seen you then . . . besides me. They was mostly loadin' up wagons down at the trees. You remember all that, boy?"

  Howie swallowed. "I remember it."

  "Lordee," said Jacob, "there's a awful lot I remember about that day, and the ones that come before. I can just sit back sometimes and let things come into my head, and see what color the sky gets at morning, and how a fine column of troopers looks riding up a draw on good horses."

  He savored his thoughts a moment, then leaned toward Howie. "You really growed up, have you? Gettin' to be a man." Jacob's hands searched out blindly and found Howie's legs. Howie shrank back from the touch. Jacob grinned at that. He let his hands slide up Howie's legs and over his thighs and come to rest between them. He squeezed lightly, and Howie's heart stopped. Now, he thought, oh God it's going to be now. . .!

  Then Jacob let him go and leaned back on his stool. "You sure ruined me there," he said soberly. "You tore me up somethin' awful, Howie. I think about havin' a woman, and how it is, and then I think about you …"

  "Godamn you!" Howie blurted. He couldn't stop himself, no matter what. "Just what'd you figure I'd do . . . walk up and . . . and shake your hand or something? After what you done to my mother and Papa!"

  Dory started swiftly forward, one hand whipping down in an open fist. Jacob felt him move and waved him back.

  "Howie . . .” The empty eyes reached out for him and he was sure they could see him, right out of nothing. "I reckon you're kinda scared, ain't you, boy?"

  Howie almost laughed. "Yeah," he admitted, "I kinda am."

  "What you think I'm goin' to do to you?"

  "Just about anything."

  Jacob nodded thoughtfully. "Well, I can see how you might figure. What would you think if I was to tell you I ain't goin' to do nothing at all? What'd you say to that?"

  Howie did laugh this
time. "I ain't that dumb," he said. "I don't figure you come all this way for talkin'."

  "Well," said Jacob, "like I say, I can sure see how you might figure. I'll tell you something, though, and you can believe me or not. Talking's 'bout all I did come for and that's the truth. You done some bad things to me, Howie. But there's no taking them back, and I don't blame you for 'em. I'd have done the same thing if it was me."

  "I . . . don't reckon I'm goin' to believe that," Howie said warily.

  "Don't blame you for that, either," said Jacob. "All I really figure on doing, though, Howie, is telling you what we done to your mother. I think that's something you ought to hear. I want you to know how we stripped her down naked and wired her to that bed. And how every one of them troopers of mine had her. And while we're talking, Dory," he said quietly, "I'd be pleased if you'd get that knife of yours and take out one of this boy's eyes. I don't reckon I got to tell you not to go too fast . . .”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  A lazy sun dappled the forest floor with shifting coins of gold. He stretched and stared up at the dazzling brilliance, then lay back and closed his eyes. He could hear the drone of bees circling the big oak, and smell the cool crushed odor of fern…

  Without opening his eyes he reached over and let his hands slide down Kari's soft nakedness. His fingertips brushed the tips of her breasts, wandered past the flat curve of her belly, and came to rest between her thighs…

  Papa looked down at him, his big shadow covering the sun. "That's wrong, Howie," he said sternly. "I taught you better, boy. The Book says that if a man do consort with the beasts, then he shall become as the beasts…"

  "No, Papa, it's Kari. She's a girl. She ain't meat! Honest!"

  "Howie, I done everything I could for you. I took you into Bluevale and let you see the stuffed nigger and got you a bone-handled knife. And then you go and do a thing like this."