by Jordan Ervin
“Is this what you plan for Lukas?” Sūn asked. “To lose every battle so that we may draw him in close?”
“Oh, we will lose the eastern front,” Sigmund began. “I have no doubts about that. Still, we will bolster our forces in the west for reasons I will reveal at a later date. Despite General Mahiri’s new motivation to succeed, I also have no doubts that he will fail to do anything more than slow the Imperium’s advance. Then, once our friend Lukas thinks he has all but won, I will play my best hand. My asset on the inside will strike and I will watch as Lukas’ eyes go wide with horror. Then…he will realize just how much his pride has cost him. And while those around us are too shocked to respond, we will rise and the world will thank us for ridding them of Lukas Chambers.”
Chapter Eleven
The Drip of Rain and the Fall of the Axe
Adam’s gloved hands slid down the wooden handle as he raised his sharp axe high above with a deep breath. The heavy steel paused at the apex of its arc, no more than twelve inches below the three connected waterproof tarps that kept both Adam and the growing pile of split logs dry. He released his breath and swung the axe down quickly. The thick metal plunged through the wood, splitting the smaller log down the middle before burying itself in the oak stump underneath with an audible thud.
Adam paused, huffing and puffing as he looked down at the axe that was now firmly planted in the base of what had once been a monstrous oak. His emotionless gaze lingered on the shallow scars that crisscrossed the stump as he envisioned the blade of his knife rising and plunging into the Imperium officer. It was strange to him how two completely different actions could be so similar in nature. Three and a half weeks ago, when he had killed Livingston, he was simply doing what he needed to do so that he may survive. Now, as he stood quietly underneath the makeshift canopy near the edge of Jack Parker’s homestead, he was simply splitting wood to fuel a fire and endure another day.
So similar, yet worlds apart.
After a day of hard travel in a convoy of old pickups and jeeps, they had arrived at the lakeside homestead. The resident nurses and the one on-site doctor had immediately taken in Marc while Adam and the others ate their first warm meals in what felt like ages. Jack Parker and Alan Bryant, the two former police officers who had been raised up as leaders at the homestead, had been more than welcoming ever since the night they saved Adam from a certain death. However, as Adam settled in it became quite clear that even they saw him as some sort of celebrity—the man who had once bested Lukas Chambers and nearly stopped him from destroying America.
Though their conversations typically avoided the harsh realities of the winter they had all endured, the homestead’s thirty-eight residents had grown more intrigued every day with knowing more about the great and famous Adam Reinhart. They wanted to know the truth of what really happened in the months leading up to the collapse. They wanted to hear the tales of the man they saw as an all-American hero.
Adam, on the other hand, wanted nothing to do with their curiosity.
He didn’t want them to look upon him as some iconic freedom fighter. All Adam saw when he looked at himself in the mirror was a man whose failures constantly demanded the lives of those around him. While none had outright said it yet, Adam could tell even Jack and Alan were starting to look to him for leadership. He didn’t want to encourage them because he didn’t want to lead them. Even when he had taken charge and guided the others to Bryson City, he had felt pushed into leadership—knowing that was their most logical route, even if Gene didn’t believe likewise. The reality was that Adam hated the constant responsibility that came with leadership. He wanted solitude and so very little else. And so day after day Adam disappeared, chopping wood and patrolling alone on the edge of the property. He didn’t want them to look to him for answers because frankly, he couldn’t answer the nagging questions that kept him downcast during the day and awake by night.
Why? Adam would ask himself during those long hours of seclusion. Why are you still fighting? What is this all for? Adam wanted to believe there was more to his fight than a thirst for vengeance, but his anger and hatred had slowly begun to replace the desire to see America live again.
Eventually, Adam shook his head and snapped back to the present—stepping to the side to pick up one of the log halves before setting it back on the stump for further splitting. As he stepped back to swing the axe again, he noticed approaching men out of the corner of his eye. His eyes flickered over to them for a moment before he sighed and refocused his attention on the log.
“What do you think, Red?” Jack Parker said as he walked underneath the edge of the tent, turning to his friend Alan. “You think he’ll cut the entire forest down before summer?”
“I’m thinking one of these years you’re going to stop calling me Red,” Alan replied, shaking his head, little droplets flinging off his hooded coat.
“Keep thinking that all you want,” Jack said with a laugh. “You’ll always be Red in my book.” Jack smiled as he turned to Adam and nodded. “Seriously though, I think we’ll be fine on wood for a while. You keep this up and everyone else might start to think they’re not working hard enough.”
“Just because spring is coming doesn’t mean the cold nights are over.” Adam swung the axe overhead, splitting the smaller log o'er.
Jack paused before looking over at Alan and nodding. The two men approached the stump, now that the axe was safety embedded in the thick oak base. They began gathering the halves and quarters that were strewn about, stacking them in a new pile.
“What do you think the chances are that you could take a break and follow us to the house?” Jack asked.
“Why?” Adam asked distantly, not yet wanting to abandon his isolation on the edge of the farm for the day.
“For a surprise.”
“I’m not much of a fan of surprises anymore,” Adam replied. “Nowadays, they usually begin with bullets flying and my friends dying.”
“How about I guarantee this isn’t that type of surprise,” Jack said. “Besides, it’s my land and I think you’ve downed enough of my view for now.”
Adam glanced back and forth between the two men before he leaned the axe up against the stack of logs.
“You’re the leader here,” Adam said, emphasizing his words on purpose. “Lead the way.”
Adam pulled the hood of his raincoat over his head and joined the other two men on their short walk across the farm. As Jack and Alan continued to banter back and forth, joking about inside stories the way old friends tend to do, Adam squinted underneath the cowl of his hood and surveyed the land.
The homestead was situated on one hundred and twenty acres of rolling pastures, a lake on one side and rolling hills full of trees on the other. A creek full with the early spring runoff snaked its way through the property before emptying into the lake. To Adam’s right, an old stone outbuilding that had once been the bona fide man cave of Jack’s great-grandfather stood under guard a few hundred feet away from the shoreline. They had ripped up the floor when they first arrived and dug as far down as they could in order to convert the building to a cellar. It now stored most of the food they had managed to scrounge up through the winter cold.
The main home, a rather new white farmhouse with a steel roof and a wrap-around porch, served as a sick house for the injured and a group of infants the nurses had watched over since they fled Nashville. The premature babies had been under their care long before the collapse and apparently no one had been willing to leave them behind for the sake of making the journey easier. Jack claimed that despite his initial hopes to flee with only his wife and Alan’s family the day things began to fall apart, he is glad he hadn’t questioned her desire to keep the children. Jack had said more than once that leaving such helpless children behind would have gnawed at him like a starving wolf until the day he died.
Outside the main house and stone storage shed, everyone else shared rooms in one of the three nearby barns or outbuildings that had been converte
d to living quarters. It wasn’t a perfect setup by any means, but it accomplished the task of providing housing and shelter for a group of people trying to survive the sweeping anarchy.
By the time they neared the farmhouse, the cold rain slowed to a soft misting. The front door opened and out walked Doctor Lillian Andrews—the one physician they had present at the homestead. Lillian was nearly as tall as Adam, with dark hair pulled back in a ponytail as she sported her usual button up shirt and jeans. She always had a smile on her face and looked every part the attractive cowgirl, minus a wide-brimmed hat, a horse she had tamed herself, and half a dozen wranglers at arm’s length. You couldn’t tell from looking at her, but she had apparently been one of the most promising new emergency room physicians within the state of Tennessee. For all her achievements, she was quite young and had only been out of her residency for less than seven months when the panic hit. Though Adam was grateful for her help with Marc, he usually tried to avoid lengthy conversations with her.
Their discussions usually revolved around any and all injuries he had sustained over the past year. He had scars on his cheek, back, and leg from his fight in Chicago. Another mostly healed scab born from the butt of a gun that had split his lip two months ago as he awaited execution in the Capitol Building. Not to mention the wounds that were not physical. As much as her desire to help him recover both physically and mentally was authentic, he found himself wanting to do nothing more than forget the scars that marked his body and soul with each passing day.
“Doc,” Jack said with a nod of his head. “How are the babes doing?”
“Just fine, thanks to those great wives you both have in there,” Lillian said with a smile. “Those two women would have sure made a pair of killer doctors.”
“Well, I’m not sure anyone in their right mind would be interested in killer doctors,” Jack said with a grin. “Is he still awake?”
Lillian nodded her head, before looking over at Adam with a pause.
“Is who awake?” Adam asked as they all stared at him silently.
“Marc,” Lillian replied. “He regained consciousness about an hour ago. We moved him to a new room where Lev and William can keep an eye on him. I can take you there now if you’d like.”
Adam looked from Jack to Alan before mounting the steps and following Lillian through the home.
The home was furnished like a typical American farmhouse. Dark wooden floors filled the entirety of the first level while white shelves and rustic furniture dotted each large, well-lit room. They passed through the foyer and mounted the main stairwell—passing by a wall of pictures that were primarily composed of Jack, his wife Leila, and his parents who were absent from the farm, though Jack had yet to speak of them. As Adam, Lillian, Jack, and Alan reached the second floor and approached a door at the end of the hall, Adam’s mind began racing. In the weeks he had waited for Marc to wake, he’d never thought of what he might actually say to the man.
He reached out and gently grabbed Lillian’s arm to halt her.
“Wait,” Adam said, taking a deep breath. “Does he…remember what happened?”
“I think so, though I am not certain,” Lillian replied. “Most of my communications with him have been in regards to his injuries. Why do you ask?”
“Because I’m the one who led them to Bryson City in the first place. I’m the reason he was shot.”
Lillian smiled, pulling her arm away slowly as she did so. “I’m sure that is not an accurate recollection of the facts. Besides, Marc knows the truth.”
“And what is the truth?” Adam replied, glancing to the door.
“That taking a round to the throat was none of your doing,” Lillian answered after a pause. “And I hope you realize that as well.”
“But has he…has he said anything yet about the night he was shot?”
Lillian gazed back at him for a moment before her smile dissolved into a frown.
“Mr. Reinhart, Marc’s vocal cords were irreversibly damaged when they used that chemical compound to stop the bleeding. Though it saved his life, he will never speak again.”
Adam stared back at her blankly, fighting the redness in his cheeks and the lump in his throat. Adam hadn’t known Marc longer than a couple of months and had been perturbed at his constant banter for most of that time. But Adam had begun to grow fond of the Frenchman and his spirited wit. Now, imagining Marc without a voice was like imagining a stained-glass window that had lost its color.
“Do you need a moment?” Lillian asked warmly.
Adam paused before shaking his head. “Does he know?”
“He does,” Lillian said before smiling again. “We’ve been using a small white board to communicate and I can assure you that he has a positive attitude.” Lillian grinned as she shook her head and laughed lightly. “Just because he lost his vocal cords doesn’t mean he lost his voice. Luckily, I studied sign language in college and know enough to begin teaching him the basics. Within a few months, I think he will have a solid foundation.”
Adam smiled superficially and nodded back. Lillian opened the door and led them into the room.
Lev sat in the corner of the long, vaulted room. Both he and William glanced toward the door and frowned almost simultaneously as Adam entered. Adam stared back at them, firming his jaw before shifting his eyes away from the two men. He had almost completely ignored his companions once they had arrived at the homestead. Adam blamed himself for leading them all to Bryson City. While Gene, William, Lev, and Edward had recuperated at the house, Adam had almost immediately gone off on his own—doing anything to keep his mind tired and occupied.
Marc lay on an inclined bed at the far end of the room. Green and white flannel blankets covered him up to his bare chest while a thick bandage encircled his throat. As Adam approached the bed, Marc moved his head to the side where his eyes met Adam’s.
“Marc,” Adam said with a nod, fighting back the tears in his eyes. Marc barely nodded his head in acknowledgment as he picked up the whiteboard and began scribbling. After a moment, he paused—reading over his words—before handing the whiteboard to Adam.
You look like hell.
Adam laughed as he shook his head and handed the small board back to Marc. “I can almost hear your French accent on the whiteboard.”
A grin split Marc’s face as he nodded back.
“Lillian says she’s teaching you sign language,” Adam said. “I think I might also pick it up so we can continue our lively conversations from before.”
Marc scribbled on his board before raising it back up.
First lesson…
He smiled before giving Adam the middle finger, causing the room to fill with quiet laughter.
“How do you feel?” Adam asked, still chuckling.
Marc glanced over at Lillian who smiled back before turning to Adam. “We went over this all before and it’ll be easier for me to rehash that conversation. He’s a bit tired, but he’s still strong for a man that has been in bed for three weeks. Despite my instructions to stay in bed, I found him walking around just before I sent Jack and Alan out to fetch you. Though I’m sure Lev and William would love to sit here and keep Marc company because he’s just so nice to be around, they’re really here to make sure he doesn’t disobey the good doctor’s orders again. Regardless, that chemical pack did its job and stopped the bleeding before it became too problematic. Though he’ll carry quite the scar for the rest of his life, it’s already scabbing over and healing up nicely. He’ll be weaker than normal for another week or two from the loss of blood, but with the right diet and exercise his body can replenish his blood levels rather quickly.”
Marc smiled, glanced down at his whiteboard, and scribbled again before handing it to Adam.
I could stand up and outrun all of your American asses right now.
Adam smiled, handing the whiteboard back. “I didn’t think a trivial thing like taking a bullet to the neck could still the voice of a man like Marc L’ecuyer.”
; Marc looked down at the board again, jotting down a lengthy response before raising it for Adam to read.
I’m not just talk. Still able to fight.
Adam read over Marc’s words, his gaze growing distant once he finished. Eventually he smiled and nodded back.
“I’m sure you are,” Adam said. “If we had only more men like you before all this happened, America might still….”
Marc held up his hand, cutting Adam off before scribbling again. Once he was finished, he handed it to Adam.
She’s not dead so long as we’re alive to fight.
Adam looked at the words blankly before handing the board back.
“I’ll be back to check on you in the next couple of hours,” Adam muttered. “Take care of yourself, Marc.” Adam turned and quickly walked out of the room. He wanted to disappear again. He wanted to re-submerge himself in isolation as he tried to block the past out of his mind. But as much as he wanted to simply forget, he wanted even more to believe Marc could be right.
Don’t listen to him, Adam thought quickly as he began to descend the stairs. America is dead! You’re just one man. What could you possibly do? He leapt to the ground from the front porch, the screen door slamming shut behind him as he pulled the cowl back over his head. As soon as his boots hit the ground, the door’s hinges quickly squealed again as someone from inside followed after him.
“So you’re just going to go back to your pile of wood?” Jack called out, though Adam didn’t turn around. He merely halted, breathing out misty clouds from underneath his hood. A group of nearly fifteen men and women—Gene and Edward among them—approached from the side after returning from the storehouse with supplies for dinner. They slowed quietly, their eyes on Adam as Jack spoke. “It’s alright if you need time to figure it all out. I was just like you five months ago when this all went down and…well, let’s just say I understand.”
“You understand what?” Adam asked defensively as he turned around.
