Last Freedom

by Kevin Partner

  "What's the latest on the herd?"

  Someone asked that question, but Hick wasn't listening. How long had it been since he'd eaten fresh meat? That was easy enough to figure out; after all, they'd marked one hundred days since the firestorm just the previous week. He couldn't remember his last carnivorous meal before everything had changed, but it was likely to have been a microwave pasta at home, or maybe a burger at the cafe in town. But it was surely nothing like what he was eating now. He dissolved into the sheer delight of endorphins in overload.

  "Paul?"

  "What?" He tore himself out of a moment that would forever belong to him and the nameless sheep he'd been devouring. Rusty Kaminski was looking across at him with a half amused, half disgusted expression.

  "The herd, what's the news?"

  "Oh," he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Good. We've got twenty-four in the new pasture down by the creek. Half have calves or are pregnant; the other half will be soon enough."

  Rusty chewed on a new potato and his eyes glazed over for a moment. "Man, these are good, Mary."

  "I only cooked them. Elwood and the boys planted and grew the crop."

  Rusty smiled at her, then turned his attention back to Hick, who was trying the potatoes himself. "Two dozen cows ain't gonna feed a town, Paul."

  And in an instant, the bonhomie vanished. "You don't say, Rusty!"

  "Now then, let's all just calm down. I'm sure the sheriff didn't mean nothin' by it," Elwood said, raising his hands, palms outward.

  Hick sighed. "Sorry. But by heaven, it was hard enough to find twenty-four and bring them safely here. While we're concentrating on breeding rather than milk production, we'll probably need a hundred in total before we're self-sufficient."

  "But in the meantime," Elwood said. "At least we've got some milk, butter and cheese. Let's be grateful for that: we've got Paul here to thank. And my Cassie."

  Cassie laughed at that. "All I did was fall down a mine shaft!"

  Hickman was going to correct her when the sound of fists banging on the front door interrupted them all.

  Elwood Miller's face tightened as he pushed back his chair, grabbed a shotgun from the rack and headed for the door, Hickman in his wake.

  Miller nodded to Hickman who undid the latch and pulled. A man stood on the threshold. He wore a long leather coat and a wide-brimmed brown hat that cast his face into shade so that only his stubbly chin was visible. He looked every inch a Wild West bandit. And then he spoke.

  "Mijn God. That smells amazing."

  "Gert!" Hick stepped past the farmer and thrust his hand out, pulling the Dutchman inside.

  Bekmann took off his hat, exposing sweat-drenched hair and a noticeable band across his forehead that separated the pale skin of his scalp from his ruddy lower face. He glanced at Elwood. "Is it okay with you that I come in, Mr. Miller?"

  "Of course," Miller said. "You look half starved. Come eat with us."

  Bekmann resisted as the farmer grabbed his arm. "I welcome the offer, but I am not … what would you say? … fit for polite company."

  "What are you talkin' about?" Hick said. "It's just Rusty, Devon and the others."

  But Miller was nodding. "You want to freshen up before joining the ladies?" he said. "You see, Paul, these Europeans, they're in a whole different league from us country boys."

  Bekmann's face clouded for a moment, but seeing the expression on the farmer's open and honest face for what it was, he smiled and allowed himself to be led toward the stairs. "Thank you. But then we must talk. I have much to tell you. And most of it is bad news."

  Elwood sent Cassie and the two Polish farmhands out once they'd finished their meal, so Gert sat and devoured leftovers while the others made small talk and pretended not to watch.

  Hickman, whose interest in gossiping was minimal, stood impatiently by the kitchen window, looking out on the barns and machinery of the farm. He saw Cassie walking from one building to another, and the green-eyed monster dug its claws into him as she laughed with one of the Poles. He didn't know why he was jealous as he didn't desire her that way—at least that was what he told himself. Perhaps it was as simple as not wanting anyone else to have her either.

  Bekmann laid the knife and fork down on his empty plate and leaned back. "Dank je, mevrouw Miller. That was delicious. We value good food much more when we eat it so rarely, no?"

  Mary Miller smiled as she took his plate away, before returning to the table and sitting down.

  "So, Gert, what's the latest? I was gettin' a little worried," Hick said, coming back to his seat.

  The Dutchman adjusted himself, as if preparing for a reluctant shift from pleasure to business. "I did not say when I would return, but I have been delayed. I visited Springs first."

  "We set up the messenger system you suggested. Motorbike going back and forth between us and them. There's also the regular trade convoys," Devon said.

  Bekmann nodded. "I made sure that Mara was happy to remain in charge of our forces there and paid calls on some of the friends Devon and I made last time we were in Springs. And, as you know, a number of people from Hope chose not to return after the battle, so Springs is fully populated. A tent city has been set up, and they're building new houses. It's good to see the rebirth happening."

  "Any sign of the Sons?" Rusty asked.

  Bekmann's face dropped. "Nothing more than the occasional Land Rover sighted on the highway, but we cannot doubt that they will turn up at some point, unless their revolution falls apart."

  "That was part of your mission, wasn't it?" The sheriff continued. "To find out what's goin' on with them?"

  "Ja. After I left Springs, I headed south and then east so I could come to Ezra from a different direction—the road from Hope must surely be watched." Bekmann shook his head, then gazed down at his hands as they sat on the table. "I did not like what I discovered.

  "I made my way on foot into the outskirts of the town and found a small group there who oppose the Sons. Well, I should say the small group found me. I very nearly did not make it back to give you this report. The leader of the group told me of their standing order to execute anyone who discovered their hiding place as I had."

  "So why didn't they?" Hickman asked, his patience as brittle as thin ice on a winter's morning.

  Bekmann looked directly at them and the corners of his mouth tilted upwards. "Because she knew me. Their leader is Libby Hawkins, the mayor's daughter."

  Hick only noticed his mouth was wide open when he realized how dry it was. He couldn't form any words, he was so astonished. He merely sat there and shook his head until Bekmann took pity on him.

  "I know. The last we heard, she had betrayed us to the Sons by taking Hick here hostage and leaving Cassie to rot in that cave."

  Storm clouds passed across the face of Elwood Miller.

  Bekmann continued, "But it seems it wasn't quite as simple as that. Crawford had threatened to kill her mother if she didn't cooperate, but he didn't release her as he had promised once she delivered you, so she knew she'd been betrayed."

  "I'm glad she knows how it feels," Hickman muttered.

  "Well, since then, she and a small group of other Ezrans have been resisting the occupation by the Sons. They've attacked patrols and supply points, but they've learned to only target the ones who wear black masks—these have been converted fully to the cause. Some of the others have joined the resistance, though the casualty rate is high. Life under the Sons is so oppressive that some will defy them, even at such a risk."

  His eyes swept around the table, looking at each of them in turn as they absorbed the news. And then he dropped the bombshell as his gaze settled on Hickman. "And I regret to tell you that their leader, John Crawford, is not dead."

  Chapter 2: Plot

  Hickman leaped up and jabbed his finger at Bekmann. "He can't be alive; I blew the chopper out of the sky!"

  "But he wasn't in it," Bekmann said. "The voice you heard was being played through the cop
ter's radio. You see, my friend, he is a coward."

  Paul Hickman slumped back into the chair, deflating like a balloon. "The son of a b—"

  "So, he's in charge of Ezra?" Rusty said.

  Bekmann nodded. "Yeah. Came back with his tail between his legs, according to Libby, and reneged on his deal to free her mother. So she formed her band of guerillas and started causing trouble. Libby Hawkins is one reason why they haven't tried again. She has been keeping them pretty busy."

  "I suppose you're going to suggest we help her?"

  "I am. All the while Crawford is trying to deal with her, he's not attacking us."

  Hick scowled. "But she's a two-faced, lying—"

  "—daughter who was trying to save her mother's life."

  "A mother who had threatened to kill her."

  "Folks are strange, but, how do you say it? Blood is thicker than water."

  No one spoke while each explored their own thoughts, the only sounds coming from the birds singing outside and the whistling of the kettle on the range. Hick's mind was exploring the various paths the news of Crawford's survival and Libby Hawkins's resistance might take him down. All of them were dark and desperate.

  As a big black kettle appeared on the table and Mary Miller began to pour instant coffee, filling the room with its rich and bitter aroma, Hick gave in and acknowledged defeat. "Yeah, I guess we'd better help her out. The longer we can keep Crawford from attacking Hope, the better our chance of survival."

  Bekmann nodded. "A wise decision, I think. I would like to volunteer to lead a detachment, and I would appreciate it if Devon would join us."

  Hick glanced across at Devon Myers, and the obvious reluctance in the man's face was enough to decide him. "Sure, sounds like a plan. Sorry to break up your little family, Devon, but it seems you're the ideal man for the job."

  "I have more to report," Bekmann said. "During my travels from Springs to Ezra, I came across other communities trying to come together and defend themselves against bandits. And there are many gangs.

  "Do you know the town of Sherman? That is now in the control of a small band of Sons. It is in a fertile valley beside a lake and marshland. I guess the surviving population to be no more than a hundred, and the Sons have six soldiers there—all but two recruited locally."

  Elwood Miller cleared his throat. "This is all very interestin' I'm sure, but what's it to do with us?"

  "I think what Gert is saying," Devon said, "is that it seems the Sons, as an organization, are made up of a small number of trained, fully indoctrinated soldiers, but that they rely on cooperation from the communities they occupy. They don't have the numbers."

  Bekmann nodded. "Exactly. Imagine the situation. You are in a small community devastated by the firestorm. Most of your friends, family and neighbors are dead and it's dog-eat-dog as you try to find a way to survive. And then two confident men with automatic weapons walk into town and clear out the bandits. You beg them to stay. Would you care about their philosophy? At least to begin with? If you were a fit young man, would you not be tempted by the uniform and assault rifle to sign up?"

  "So that's what happened in Ezra," Hick said. "When I went to Crawford's camp, those soldiers I saw, they were mainly Ezran recruits. Now that explains a lot."

  Rusty Kaminski shook his head. "And so folks are only under their boot cos their neighbors join up with these fanatics."

  "Ja. That is it exactly. And there is good and bad news in this. On the one hand, we know that many of their fighters are untrained and inexperienced. That is good. But on the other hand, it means they can recruit in overwhelming numbers from the people like us who should be opposing them. Friend against friend, family against family. And who will stand firm against them?"

  Again, silence surrounded them until Mary Miller spoke. "Well, I don't know about you, but it seems to me we can't change the world. All we can do is fight back if they show up here again. In the meantime, we're gonna carry on planting our crops and feedin' our beasts because it won't do us any good to beat them off only to die of starvation."

  And so they dispersed. Devon, Lynda, Rusty and Duck shared a car back into town, but Gert pulled Hick to one side as they headed toward the pickup.

  "I didn't want to ask in front of the others, Paul, but have you heard from Sam?"

  "Yeah, though not for a couple weeks. I got a note from her in the last post run. Said she was headin' west, lookin' for somewhere safe to hole up until Jay was properly on his feet again. Or foot. Why d'you ask?"

  Gert pulled at his lip thoughtfully. "Yes, well, perhaps that is what she intends. She had left by the time I arrived in Springs. Her two friends—the older woman and the, um, speciaal girl—they went with her."

  "That don't surprise me none. She got attached to them when they were on the road together."

  "Yes, I understand. But the day after they left, Mara discovered that the armory had been raided and two assault rifles stolen. Sam was the only one with the access and opportunity to take them. Now, why do you think she would do that?"

  Hick shrugged. "I dunno, Gert. You don't even know it was definitely her, so I ain't gonna lose any sleep over it."

  But, as he drove the pickup back toward Hope, with Gert snoozing in the passenger seat and Roger peeking over his shoulder, dark thoughts circulated in Paul Hickman's mind. Her boyfriend had been mutilated by the Sons and she'd come close to being executed herself.

  Sam Hickman was many things, and in most ways she was a vast improvement on her father. To look at, and in her mannerisms, she was just like her mother. Pretty, extroverted and kind.

  But hidden beneath that exterior lurked the evidence of her genetic heritage. Whether either of them liked it or not, half of her DNA came from him. And if there was one principle that was written into his personality at the sub-atomic level it was this: revenge.

  He shuddered as he tried to imagine what she planned to do—if she had definite plans. She wouldn't put Amanda or Margie at risk, so she would certainly begin by finding somewhere safe to hole up for a while. But eventually she would strike. Hickman felt the crippling fear of knowing his daughter was going to put herself in harm's way when his only desire had been to shield her from danger.

  And yet, on the other hand, his heart surged with pride. Woe betide those she took out her vengeance on. They were walking under the sky with a bull’s-eye on their backs and they didn't even know it.

  Hick invited Gert to stay the night at his house, but the Dutchman insisted on a tour of the defenses they'd put in place since he'd gone walkabout. He would see the bridge the following day, he said, so Hick drove him to the newly built checkpoint on the highway to the north of the town.

  The hastily shoved-together construction of old cars had been turned into something a little more permanent by welding them into two solid blocks of metal with a small gap in the middle. A few strong men would push the right-hand wall of cars so it would swing outward like a massive door for when the convoys went back and forth between Springs. When shut, the gap between the two halves was just wide enough for a pickup and they could easily block it.

  Half a dozen men and women manned the checkpoint. Over the past weeks, a steadily increasing flow of people had approached the town from the north seeking shelter. The name of Hope had gotten around and, for now, the guards were ordered to admit these refugees unless they were concerned that the incomers might be ill or in some other way unwelcome. In that case, the guards would call in Rusty to adjudicate.

  So, Hope's population had recovered after the flu outbreak and the loss of many people to the new colony at Springs so that it was approaching its level from before the firestorm. Soon enough, they would have to restrict the numbers, but that was a problem for another day.

  More cars stretched across the terrain on either side of the road behind a ditch that had been dug into the rocky soil. The barricade could be outflanked, but not easily and not by vehicles.

  "We could really use some landmines," Gert said.
"Scatter a hundred to the left and right and no one would dare to try and get around the barricade. Still, it looks pretty effective. Why not mount one of the M-249s here?"

  Hick reversed the pickup and headed back down the road toward the town. "We've only got two of them, and I'd rather have them both protecting the south barricade. That's where they attacked last time and I reckon that'll be where they'll come from again. Especially since your news about Crawford." He spat the name as if it was a sour piece of apple he'd bitten down on. He'd made a promise to kill that lowlife, and he now discovered he'd failed. Still, what did they say about revenge? It was cold.

  He'd ordered a sandbagged checkpoint built at the intersection on Main and another defensive position on the school field where the helicopter had landed when they'd been attacked before. Gert insisted that they pulled up at the school so he could inspect the dugout.

  "Is goed," he said.

  "Always the tone of surprise."

  Bekmann roared with laughter. "I'm sorry. I didn't think of you as a military strategist."

  "Hope's got its share of vets. They were the ones that planned and built this. You'll find that the militia has grown since you left. But I'm glad to hand it back to you. Managing them is like trying to herd weasels. They only really respect other veterans, and they don't think my service counts."

  The Dutchman slapped Hickman on the back. "Well, my friend, I think you have seen more action in the past weeks than most of them did in an entire career. But yes, I will take this burden from your shoulders once I return from my trip to Ezra with Devon. Perhaps my time in the Dutch Special Forces will count in my favor."

  By the time they got back to Hickman's place, he was bone weary, and they sat on the deck in his backyard drinking his precious supply of Budweiser.